The Art Thief: A Novel

by Noah Charney

  It looked as though no lights were on at the foot of the stairs. Van Der Mier stared down, as if at the edge of a precipice. Perhaps a dim light below, but she saw no movement. She checked her phone once more. Nothing. She stepped down.

  As her eye level descended, the gauzy fog of the sparsely lit basement sifted into view. There seemed to be but one fluorescent light, which flickered menacingly, creating the illusion of a mist in the cellar below. The wooden stairs creaked, precarious, under Van Der Mier’s heel. When she was low enough to see what was in the cellar, she nearly fell over.

  At the foot of the stairs, Van Der Mier slipped and barely caught herself. Through the sputtering fluorescence she saw, bathed in the dim, aquatic light, an enormous roaring bear. Its teeth and black gums bared, clawed arms open wide, it towered up, head against the ceiling. It was stuffed, of course. Van Der Mier managed a nervous laugh.

  Well, that’s a bear, she thought. Her eyes adjusted to the middling light, and she saw a feast of horrors before her.

  The booth at the foot of the stair looked like a Victorian nightmare natural history museum. All manner of taxidermied creatures, in horrible unnatural poses, lurked in the pall. A stuffed leopard, the skeleton of a baboon, a series of shrunken dried monkey heads on a table, a skeletal bird on a perch inside a birdcage, a human skull, the whole skin of a crocodile, giant shark teeth, a long snakeskin, a tray of impaled butterflies.

  That’s ghastly, thought Elizabeth. Then she noticed that every frightening creature had a price tag attached to it. Who would want to buy any of this? Like the set of a Vincent Price picture. But I have found a bear.

  “Careful of the step, luv.” The sound of a voice nearly made her fall again. She turned to see a toothless, gray old woman, sitting on a milk crate, in the cast of a shadow. She wore a ratty blue wool sweater, and a patchwork skirt that barely covered her bony, bent knees.

  Jesus, thought Van Der Mier. She looks like she should be mixed among the dead animals. Then she heard a voice from above.

  “Hey, honey, I’ve found more stalls! Come and take a look. Wow!”

  An American accent screeched down from the stair top. It was soon followed by a pale-legged man in khaki shorts and a T-shirt that flowed down his thighs, cinched in by a purple hip pack. He wore a neon-green baseball cap with a mesh back, that was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle above a balding pate. Sunglasses swung from a yellow string around his neck. His face beamed with glee.

  “Well, darn, if it isn’t dark down here. What the heck happened to your lights…oh, my sugar jets!” He leapt back in surprise when he saw the bear growling at the foot of the stairs. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. Ginny, there’s a bear down here!”

  “What’s that, Ted?” An airy sparrow voice leaned down the stairs, followed by a wildly overweight woman in a flowered blouse that was several notches too tight. “Ooh. I see.” She tried to step daintily off of the wooden stairs and slipped. “Oh, my.” She was sizing up the bear, or perhaps vice versa.

  “Look over here, Ginny. There are some paintings. This one looks real good.” They drifted toward the old woman’s stall. She smiled up at them from her milk crate.

  “Sorry about the light, dears. It’s been flicking about all day, and there’ll be no one to change it ’til Monday. I think I’m the only one who’s opened up today. I see you all like Herbert. That’s what we call the bear. Jim Boylan runs that booth, but he’s not come in today. Herbert’s been with us for over a year now. Can’t seem to find him a home.”

  “Well, we’d take him, sure enough, ma’am,” said Ted, “only he wouldn’t fit in my suitcase.” He and Ginny started giggling in brazen tones. “Hey, Ginny, look at this one…”

  Van Der Mier tore her eyes away from the canopy of horrors and walked past the other cellar stalls. There were only four of them. The owners had clearly drawn the short straw in the selection pool. The basement felt blue and submarine, as she scanned the stock of each booth. They were all paintings down here, except for the stuffed monsters behind her. Van Der Mier did not want to look upon them again, but could barely resist. She shivered and walked on.

  A host of nondescript amateur oil paintings in bombastic frames hung on the stall walls. Could the Malevich be hidden inside one of these booths? Rolled up in a corner? God, she thought, I hope it wasn’t rolled tightly. I’m going to have them killed if that painting cracked. Three booths yielded no immediate answers, and Van Der Mier turned to the old woman’s stall, where the Americans were giddily fondling artworks.

  As she turned, Elizabeth thought that she saw the old woman staring at her. But when she looked down, the sorry toothless creature who sat all bony on the milk crate was talking with the Americans, her back to Van Der Mier.

  “I like that one, Ted. It’d go well in our kitchen.”

  “Nah,” replied Ted. “It’s just all white and clumpy. Heck, I could do that for you, with the stuff I got in the garage.”

  “I know, but it matches our walls. I read that you’re supposed to match the art to the wall color, or something.”

  “I’ll paint you one when we get back.”

  “Okeydoke.” They waddled away from the stall, and slowly back up the stairs, which groaned under Ginny’s heft.

  When they had gone, Elizabeth felt the palpable quiet, amidst the dark hum of the single fluorescent, and the silent breathing smile of the old woman. Then she registered what the Americans had been saying.

  She moved to the center of the old woman’s booth. It consisted of three sides of a white square cage, on which hung countless gold-framed paintings of all sizes. In the middle, on a stretcher, but the only one unframed, was a painting that was white on white.

  Van Der Mier reached out and lifted it off its hanger. She looked at the edges of the canvas, where it had been stapled to the wooden stretcher. The staples gleamed. She saw that the canvas was unevenly taut, with a small ripple along the bottom left. As if it had been affixed to the stretcher in a hurry, and recently. Then she looked at the painting.

  That’s it, she thought. That’s it.

  “Ya like it, luv?” The old woman glared up at Van Der Mier, one eye squintier than the other.

  “Ma’am. My name is Elizabeth Van Der Mier, and I am the director of the National Gallery of Modern Art, here in London. This painting belonged to the gallery and was misplaced. I’m here to retrieve it. Can you tell me who gave it to you?”

  The old woman looked suspiciously at her. “I can’t say. My husband runs the business most of the time, and he must’ve got it during the week, as it’s new. Ya like it?”

  “Yes, but…is your husband…no, doesn’t matter. Thanks.” She turned to leave, painting in hand.

  “Excuse me, miss. That’s ten pounds.”

  “What?”

  “The painting you’re walking off with. It costs ten quid. Cash only.”

  “But you don’t seem to understand. This is the property of the National…”

  “Look, luv. I don’t give a flying monkey’s arse if it’s from King Tut’s tomb. That sticker on the side has got a ten on it, and that means that my Roddy wants ten quid for it. If you want it, then you’re welcome, but…” She held out her up-cupped palm. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “You’ve got to be kidding…” Van Der Mier mumbled to herself. She looked at the painting, looked at the old woman, then thought about the stairs. She put down the painting and reached for her wallet, cursing under her breath.

  Elizabeth opened her Bottega Veneta wallet and flipped through her bills. Oh shit, she thought. Then she looked hopelessly at the old woman.

  “Look,” she said. “I can’t believe it myself, but I only have a fiver on me. If you just…”

  “I’m not that nice, luv. Look, I can see you drive a hard bargain. I’ll give it to you for nine.”

  “Nine? But I just told you, I only have…”

  “Like we all haven’t heard that one before. Come now, nine’s a good price. That’s a bloody bi
g painting for nine quid, and if Roddy knew, well…”

  Elizabeth stopped listening, as she rifled through her wallet, checking the coin purse, then the credit card slots.

  Nothing.

  She thrust her hands down tight-fitted pockets. Her right front, left front, right back, left back. She felt something there.

  She pulled out a scrap of paper. On it was written “Pick up dry cleaning 2:30.” She threw the paper down, and reached back in. There was something else. She opened her fist.

  It held another five-pound note.

  She looked skyward, mouthed a thank-you, and looked back down, hard, at the old woman on her crate.

  “Here,” she snapped, thrusting the two fivers into the wrinkled, waiting hands. She picked up the painting and turned.

  “Don’t you want your pound change, then?”

  “No, I don’t fucking want my pound change!”

  “Thank you, then. Have a nice day.”

  Van Der Mier quickly looked back over her shoulder. The old woman was neatly folding the two fives, quietly humming to herself beneath her patchy white hair. No way, thought Elizabeth. She walked out of the cellar.

  Once outside again, Van Der Mier flipped open her phone. Service, at last. There were three new messages. She knew whom they were from. She dialed.

  “Ah, Inspector, it’s me. Yes, I know. I went indoors and lost my service. You wouldn’t believe…yes, I have it. Looks unhurt. It’s been rolled and newly stapled to a fresh stretcher. But I think it’s okay. Call Conservation, and see if the woman from the Malevich Society, Geneviève Delacloche, has arrived. I’m coming straight back.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Elizabeth Van Der Mier, Harry Wickenden, Geneviève Delacloche, and the museum’s chief conservator stood in the Conservation Room of the National Gallery of Modern Art, trying not to recall that this was the painting’s second visit. The two guards posted outside the room hoped to ensure that it would leave only on more appropriate grounds.

  The painting sat on an oversize easel. Wickenden thought that it looked smug. Delacloche considered that it exuded an air of relief, or perhaps it was she who did. The conservator, Barney, couldn’t wait to get his hands on it, as it had slipped through them merely a few days before. Elizabeth looked concerned but tried to mask her disquiet.

  “I think we can get started,” said Van Der Mier, who did not know what to do with her hands. She turned to Delacloche. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Delacloche, under these…less than ideal circumstances. You can understand why we prefer to keep the museum staff out of this for the time being…in case, well, in case anyone is involved. So we’ve had to look outside for expert advice. We appreciate your help and expertise. You come very highly recommended.”

  “I’m happy to help, if I can,” she replied.

  “Can’t wait, myself,” said Barney, approaching the canvas. “Don’t see any obvious damage.”

  “Do you suppose there’d be fingerprints on the stretcher?” Elizabeth asked.

  “We can check,” said Wickenden, “but these blokes have been too smooth to leave fingerprints now.”

  “Right. And that creepy old woman probably got her paws all over it. That was monumentally bizarre.”

  “Did the woman know where her husband had acquired the painting?” asked Delacloche.

  “Nothing useful like that, I’m afraid.”

  “It couldn’t be…”

  “She didn’t look like the art thief type. She didn’t look like the breathing type, either. You should have seen her. All bones and kneecaps…what’s the matter, Ms. Delacloche?”

  “It’s just…I…it doesn’t look right.”

  “What do you mean?” Elizabeth seemed worried.

  “What do you mean?” Wickenden seemed worried.

  “Huh?” Barney didn’t hear.

  “I mean, it just…it looks good, but I…something’s wrong.”

  “Can you be more descriptive?” Elizabeth perspired.

  “It’s just a vibe you get…I’m getting,” Delacloche continued. “It looks like the original, but…”

  “It’s white,” Wickenden spit, “of course it looks the same!”

  Barney stood up. “There’s a reason that I have all of these brilliant, expensive gadgets. Let’s play.” He crossed to the door marked SCIENCE & TECHNOLOGY and entered. The sound of rummaging followed.

  Delacloche continued. “The one at auction looked authentic, as if it were a different painting by Malevich from the same White on White series. But it was not the one Christie’s had photographed in the catalogue. But strange that I should never have seen it before. I’ve seen every extant Malevich. So the one at auction must have either been a newly discovered White on White original, one not listed in any literature, or an excellent fake.”

  Elizabeth’s mind was elsewhere. Wickenden tried to read it. The first hint of concern about the authenticity of this piece set her imagination in motion, and led it to places she’d preferred to deny the privilege of possibility. What made her so certain that this was the original painting? The painting had been stolen before it could even be checked properly by Barney and his team.

  Van Der Mier would not recognize an original from a copy herself. Not a Malevich. She had her degree in twentieth-century American painting. If it were a Pollock or a Close or a Fish, then perhaps she’d have the visceral reaction.

  There was a term for someone with this almost preternatural sense for authenticity. Almost. The extreme knowledge of a specific artist’s style and canon, known as “connoisseurship,” had been taught widely, but these days it was a rare commodity. It was this rarity that, in Elizabeth’s belief, had led to its veneration. Those who did not understand that intimate degree of knowledge possessed by traditional scholars, mistook connoisseurship for divination. Those who could identify authentic works at a glance were popularly referred to as “divies,” for their apparent powers.

  But Elizabeth, never one to fall back upon a New Age, mystical explanation, knew better. Perhaps the last bastion of taught connoisseurship was her postgraduate alma mater, the Courtauld Institute. Their method of teaching reminded her of a story she’d once been told.

  In ancient China, a youth was apprenticed to a master jade smith. The master’s jade jewelry was coveted, and he was considered the greatest artisan of his time. The apprentice was thrilled to have been taken under this master’s wing, and he eagerly anticipated his first day of learning the art.

  On the first day, the master approached the youth.

  “Put out your hands,” he said sternly.

  The youth obeyed. Into his hands, the master placed a small piece of jade. It was beautiful, smooth and green, like coral beneath the sea.

  “Now,” said the master, “I want you to examine this piece of jade very carefully. It is real. It should be taken in with all senses. I will come to get you at the end of the day.”

  The youth was disappointed at his assignment but approached it with intensity. He rolled the jade in his fingers, looked at it from all sides, listened to the sound of his fingernail against it, even smelled and tasted it.

  At the end of the day, the master returned. He saw that the boy had been diligent, and he congratulated him.

  The next morning, the youth was eager for his next assignment. But when the master approached him, he handed the boy a different piece of jade.

  “I want you to examine this new piece of jade very carefully. I will come and get you at the end of the day.”

  “But…” The boy tried to protest, but was silenced by a hard stare.

  “If you wish to learn from me, my son,” said the master sternly, “then you must do exactly as I say. Follow my instructions, and you will succeed me as the greatest jeweler in the land.” The boy obeyed.

  For one year, every morning the boy was given a different piece of jade and was left alone to examine it all day long. Though frustrated, the boy was still honored to be apprenticed to such a master, and he deeply wanted to
learn his art. So he did not complain, and did as he was told, diligently inspecting each new piece of jade.

  One morning, the master approached the youth and placed a new piece of jade into his outstretched hands. As the master turned around to return to work, the boy spoke.

  “But, Master,” he said, “this piece of jade…it’s not real.”

  “Ah,” said the master. “Now you are ready to begin.”

  Elizabeth had heard that story at her matriculation to Courtauld, and it had stuck with her ever since. It embodied the culture, that had become a cult, of connoisseurship. True connoisseurs knew an infinite amount about something minutely specific. Connoisseurs, like Geneviève Delacloche, were a dying breed.

  Barney had been dancing his way around the canvas for some minutes, before he turned around. “You’re right. There’s something wrong. The paint’s not old enough.”

  “What do you mean?” Elizabeth snapped out of her reverie. “It’s not 1918?”

  “Try a few days.”

  “Are you kidding me!?” Wickenden was not pleased. Unlike Delacloche and Van Der Mier, he had suspected nothing.

  “I don’t think it’s even pure oil paint. Something else mixed in. I’ll have to run tests to say anything more, but…”

  “Are you kidding me!?” Elizabeth was at a loss.

  ”…but I think that we should take an X ray. It’ll take some time, but we have the facilities here, so…”

  “Do it. Do it now, Barney.” Elizabeth Van Der Mier stood very still.

  Wickenden tried to read her eyes. Somehow, she had known. Or had she? It was easy to impose prescience, in retrospect. But this was too much to bear. If this was not real, then she had lost not only the museum’s money, but a fortune from Lord Harkness, which he’d been kind enough to provide out of his own goodness and pocket. And all for the recovery of a fake. But the question remained: was what the museum had bought at auction fake all along, or had it been swapped for a fake during the ransom? Wickenden nodded to himself.

  “Ms. Delacloche?” Elizabeth repeated, awakening her from a stupor. “You say that you were at the auction. The painting I bid on…was it…”