by Noah Charney
“Now the row below.”
“5, 10, 11, 8…. 5 plus 10 is 15, plus 11 is 26, plus 8 is 34.”
“And the next.”
“9, 6, 7, 12…. 9 plus 6 plus 7 plus 12 is…34.”
Lesgourges shook his head once more. “It’s about how you look. Now the vertical rows.”
Bizot counted in whispers. “They all add up to 34.”
“It’s so obvious, once you stop staring and start looking. I think we’re on to something.”
Bizot could not believe his mind. The solution was so simple. He had been thinking too much. He pinched shut his eyes, to reclaim objectivity. While they were closed, an idea came to him.
“Wait a moment.” Bizot’s gaze fixed on the engraving. “The rows and columns of four numbers all add up to 34…But look at the numbers that are in clusters of four. Like at the bottom left. 9, 6, 15, 4. It also adds up to 34. Look, there’s another one. Right in the middle: 10, 11, 6, 7. 34. The sum of any four contiguous numbers is 34. We’ve discovered our number.”
“The only problem,” began Lesgourges, “not to deflate…is that the combination we’re looking for requires seven numbers.”
“Merde,” Bizot considered.
“Is it possible,” began Lesgourges, exceedingly slowly, “that a further clue is in the passage from the Bible? A clue that we didn’t realize was a clue, but might make sense now?”
Bizot flipped through his notebook. “There must be…I mean, thirty-four…but seven numbers…here we are. We’ve been given three biblical quotations. There was the one written next to the safe, that sounds the most promising. I thought it was just meant to mock us, but maybe…here it is: Psalms, chapter 71, verse 15. ‘My mouth shall shew forth thy righteousness and thy salvation all the day; for I know not the numbers thereof.’ Wait, could it be the chapter and verse numbers of each quotation?”
“No. The Cobb-Hauptmann safe dial only has numbers zero through fifty, so Psalms, chapter 71, won’t work.” Lesgourges stuck his finger back in his ear. “That passage doesn’t sound like it will help us.”
“Malheureusement. The next passage was the indicator of this engraving. Isaiah 44:13: ‘The carpenter stretcheth out his rule; he marketh it out with a line; he fitteth it with planes, and he marketh it out with the compass, and maketh it after the figure of a man, according to the beauty of a man; that it may remain in the house.’”
“That was just meant to bring us here. Doesn’t sound promising, either.”
Bizot flipped back farther in his notebook. “The first quotation, the one we began with, was 2 Chronicles 34:7: ‘And when he had broken down the altars and the groves, and had beaten the graven images into powder, and cut down all the idols throughout the land of Israel, he returned to Jerusalem.’ That doesn’t…”
Lesgourges grabbed Bizot’s arm. “Hold on, Jean.”
“What?”
“What did you say were the chapter and verse?”
Bizot glanced at his notebook. “Uh, chapter thirty-four, verse seven.”
Lesgourges met his eyes. “Thirty-four: seven.”
Bizot’s mind opened. “You have got to be pulling my…”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“We’ve got to try it,” Bizot snapped shut his notebook.
“But if we get it wrong, won’t the alarm go off?”
“Come on, Lesgourges, you froggy genius!”
They dashed downstairs, retrieving the other officers as they went.
Jean-Jacques Bizot, Jean-Paul Lesgourges, and five officers stood nervously in a preposterous-looking clump beneath a tapestry, on the first floor of the Galerie Sallenave. The false wall yawned wide and confronted them with the big silver safe.
“If you get it wrong twice,” cautioned Lesgourges, “the alarm will go off.”
“We only need to get it right once,” reasoned Bizot, disguising the crack in his voice. The safe seemed to stare out at them. Bizot reached his fat fingers toward it.
“Inspector Bizot, are you sure about this?” asked an officer.
Bizot withdrew his hand. “Sure, I’m sure. I’m pretty sure. I…”
”…Now I’m certain.” Lesgourges interrupted, an ever-broadening grin spread across his long face.
“Et alors?”
Lesgourges swung his head from side to side. “Just look at the monogram on the safe.”
All eyes turned to it. In thick silver script: Cobb-Hauptmann.
“Now,” resumed Lesgourges, short of breath, “what was written on the wall of the Malevich Society?”
Bizot linked eyes with him, and smiled. “CH347…I cannot believe it.”
“Cobb-Hauptmann, CH, and the combination: thirty-four dialed seven times,” Lesgourges exhaled. “The thieves gave us the safe name, and the combination to open it, while they were stealing the painting.”
“Those flaming assholes.” Bizot spun back to the safe and flashed a broad smile. His gloved fingers seized the dial. With satisfying incremental ticks, he turned the dial to the first of seven thirty-fours.
CHAPTER 30
The next morning, the Conservation Room was crowded with bystanders whose nerves were frayed to varying degrees. Harry Wickenden was Earl Grey teabag-eyed, his mustache unusually droopy. He had neglected to tie his left shoelace, which, while dragging along the ground, had acquired new acquaintances, in the form of leaf fragments, white fuzz, and a long black hair. He did not notice any of this, however, nor would he have cared. His mind was ticking, more like a bomb than a clock, sifting through the silt of information he’d acquired during the case.
None of it had prepared him for this confrontation with a freshly stolen Caravaggio painting. He’d immediately telephoned the first person of whom he’d thought, as he knew that the Carabinieri were on the hunt for the painting. Gabriel Coffin. Coffin had contacted the Carabinieri man on the case, someone called Risotto, or something, who had then telephoned Wickenden. Ariosto, that was it. Ariosto said he trusted Coffin to represent the Carabinieri in London. They’d only send over their own men if the authenticity was verified.
It was good, strange fortune for the Carabinieri, Ariosto had said in thickly accented English. He’d had no luck on the search within Italy and, frankly, his hands were full with the recent disappearance of a Giacometti statuette from a Roman town house, and Benvenuto Cellini’s famous gold salt cellar, which was thought to be in Italy, after its theft from Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum. Ariosto was happy to have the Caravaggio recovered, and he didn’t seem to desire an explanation for how it ended up in the National Gallery of Modern Art, in London, buried beneath a newly bought fake Malevich White on White that had been stolen from the museum and ransomed back.
He didn’t even inquire as to whether the painting had been deemed original by a scholar. That was the first question in Harry’s mind, when he heard that it was found beneath a fake Malevich. Who’s to say that the Caravaggio wasn’t fake, as well? Maybe they’d stumbled on the honors project of a very talented arts student with an inordinate amount of time on his hands. The lesson that Harry had gleaned from this case thus far was never to believe his eyes. Which reminded him of his meeting next Thursday with Dr. Mixter, his optometrist. Which reminded him of his appointment with his chiropodist on the twentieth. Harry shook his head.
This Caravaggio certainly looked real, as far as he could tell, which was not far. It looked to be by the same hand as the pieces he’d seen when his wife dragged him to the National Gallery, in Trafalgar Square. He’d looked up the artist last night, after all the commotion.
Yes, Harry considered, that looks like a Caravaggio to me. But what the hell do I know?
“Think it’s the real deal, Dr. Coffin?” Harry asked. Gabriel Coffin stood in the room beside him.
Coffin was looking across the room, at Professor Simon Barrow. The professor was dressed in a brown, olive, and red-checked hunting jacket, and black trousers, which made him looked exceedingly top-heavy. Barrow was sweating profusely. His white
hair matted at the back of his neck, and he kept both hands rigidly thrust into trouser pockets.
“It’s good,” replied Coffin. “But I prefer to yield to our expert, Professor Barrow, here.”
Also in the room, along with Wickenden, Coffin, and Barrow, stood Elizabeth Van Der Mier. Coffin’s eyes rested on her as he tried to read her thoughts. She could not decide whether she preferred to sit or stand. She preferred neither, and would rather have flung herself out the window, it seemed. MUSEUM DIRECTOR AUTO-DEFENESTRATED, Coffin imagined the headline the next day, smiling. That probably sounded preferable to her than facing the board of trustees, for the second emergency meeting within the same week.
Van Der Mier’s conversation the night before with Geneviève Delacloche suggested what she’d feared. If Delacloche had suspected that the painting they’d bought from Christie’s was a fake all along, then it must have been, mustn’t it? That would explain why a Caravaggio was found beneath it.
But then the Malevich Society painting had gone missing in Paris. It didn’t seem like there was a connection with this Caravaggio. This couldn’t be the Malevich Society painting. Of course not. Delacloche would have recognized it. The missing Malevich Society White on White painting had been confirmed authentic long ago. But it was too much for coincidence. Delacloche didn’t have any better suggestions about what was going on, but her information thickened the plot and, for some reason, made Van Der Mier feel better. Victims seek company.
“How,” Wickenden whispered, “did Lord Harkers take the news?”
Elizabeth snapped out of her thoughts. “Lord Harkness was extremely polite on the phone,” she replied. “He exhibited an aristocratic restraint that I’d hoped for, but not expected. I imagined him thrusting pins into his thigh, while he calmly listened over the telephone. Or, more likely, thrusting pins into a doll shaped like me. In my experience, Inspector, aristocrats are no kinder nor more understanding than others, they were just better at disguising what they really think.”
Wickenden had already spoken with Barney. The scuttlebutt that perpetually circulated within the Conservation Department had been misleading, it seemed. The in-house conservators had said that they had heard from the conservators at the Tate Britain, that they’d heard from the department at the Wallace Collection museum, that Lord Harkness was hard up for cash and in danger of losing his ancestral home. Apparently not, although now he might be, having forked over £6.3 million with nothing to show for it but Van Der Mier’s profuse apologies. It was this tradition of gossip within conservation departments that led to their baptism as conversation departments. Wickenden knew whom to ask. But mustn’t always trust what you hear, he reminded himself. And now, it seemed, he could not believe his eyes, either.
Barrow mopped his neck with a purple paisley bandanna, which he returned to his breast pocket only to withdraw again. He leaned in toward the painting, now leaned back.
Thanks to the efforts of the conservators, and the easily removed chemical composition of the top layer of paint, the entire canvas was now exposed. No trace of the fake Malevich remained to mask the dark, brooding tones of the Caravaggio, a feast of chiaroscuro, light emerging from darkness. It drew all eyes: Van Der Mier’s, Wickenden’s, Barney’s, Coffin’s. They waited on Barrow’s words.
Coffin stood, silent. In many ways, he thought, it was the opposite of the Malevich. An all-white painting is light on top of light, without any hint of shadow or darkness.
“The dimensions are 140 by 94 centimeters. That’s 12.4 by 20 centimeters smaller than the listed dimensions of Caravaggio, but I see evidence that the canvas was cut down,” Coffin said.
“Why would they do that?” Van Der Mier asked.
“It’s too coincidental to try to smuggle a painting of the exact dimensions of one recently stolen,” replied Coffin. “It’s common practice to trim down stolen paintings. Unfortunately, sometimes the trimming eliminates integral portions of the artwork. It’s lucky, in this case, that the periphery of this Caravaggio Annunciation did not contain any figures. Just more of the black backdrop. But you can see, the edge is creeping dangerously close to Mary’s right shoulder.”
“Does,” began Wickenden slowly, “that mean that the fake Malevich was painted over this Caravaggio, in order to smuggle it out of Italy?”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“That’s brilliant, Harry,” said Coffin.
“Makes sense. Just logic. I mean, that’s how I’d smuggle it out of the country. If I gave a damn about owning art.”
“Well, it’s a good thing that you don’t, Inspector, or else the world’s supply of Caravaggios would disappear.” Elizabeth was suddenly impressed.
“Would you like some water, Professor Barrow?” Coffin looked at the red-faced Simon, still huffing in front of the Caravaggio.
“No, no, I’m fine,” he dismissed, his glance darting away. “And, it’s real. It’s the original. I’m sure.”
“Then, we’ll call the Carabinieri and let them know.” Took the professor long enough, thought Wickenden. He looked at Elizabeth. She didn’t quite know what to say, he imagined. This was good news for the church in Rome, and for the Carabinieri, but Van Der Mier mustn’t really give a damn, given her situation. Harry was struggling to conceive of how this was related to the stolen Malevich. And if this fake, with the Caravaggio underneath, was the same painting sold through Christie’s, then why hadn’t Christie’s noticed what had been so evident to the museum’s experts?
“May I go?” asked Barrow, haltingly. “Yes,” replied Van Der Mier, “of course. Thank you for coming.” Barrow abruptly took leave. Coffin, smiling, watched him pass out of sight.
“You know,” complained Elizabeth, “I thought that we were narrowing things down, answering the pool of questions asked. But, coupled with my conversation with Ms. Delacloche, we’ve got a flood of new questions. I don’t even know where to start.”
“How about, what is the stolen Caravaggio doing under our stolen Malevich?”
“Too right, Dr. Coffin,” agreed Wickenden. “What are you thinking now, Ms. Van Der Mier?”
“I’m just trying to sort it all out. I can’t get over thinking that this is not the painting that we bought from Christie’s. Ms. Delacloche and I’d have noticed if there was something wrong with it at the auction. I mean…oh, I don’t know. If it got switched, then, was it switched between the time I saw it at the auction, and when it was delivered to the museum? Or did the ransomers switch it on us?”
“Which would mean that they’re more than just ransomers. They’re forgers, as well,” Coffin thought aloud.
“But why would the forgery be painted over an original stolen Caravaggio?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think, either they’re totally inept or we’ve fallen into some larger-scale plan. It’s got to be one of the two because, in this case, only coincidence falls between,” replied Wickenden.
“Did anything come out of your conversation with Ms. Delacloche, Inspector Wickenden?” Elizabeth inquired. “She told me that she’d speak to you, as well.”
“She tried to be helpful, but she doesn’t know much of anything. It sounds like the French detective working on her problem, the painting gone missing from her Society, hasn’t had any luck, either. Inspector Beezo, or something. She also said that he doesn’t speak any English, so I think a meeting with him would be akin to bashing my head against a brick wall.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.” Elizabeth sighed.
“Not to worry, ma’am. I’ll leave no stone right-side up.”
“That’s not much more encouraging.” She sighed again.
The next morning, two officers of the Carabinieri arrived at the museum. They were briefed by Coffin, Wickenden, and Van Der Mier about the events transpired. They left in an armored car with the Caravaggio painting.
Later in the week, the Caravaggio was rehung above the altar of Santa Giuliana in Trastevere. This time it was bolted to the wall, clothed by a she
et of nonreflective, bulletproof alarm glass. Most of the parishioners had not noticed that it had been gone.
“I cannot help but think, Gabriel, that you had something to do with this.” Claudio Ariosto rolled his Italian over the phone line, from his spartan Roman office.
“I wish that I could take credit for it, Claudio.” Coffin was on his mobile phone, in front of the cheese section of the Harrods Food Hall. “Stinking Bishop please, half a kilo.”
“Che hai detto?”
“Sorry, Claudio, I was addressing the cheesemonger. You’ve caught me food shopping, when you called. I was following several leads, one through Vallombroso and two of my own, but this, well, I couldn’t have dreamt it up. Just dumb luck that an old friend, Harry Wickenden, was assigned to the case and allowed me to follow his investigation.”
“It’s quite something. And, although I must admit that I’m curious, I don’t care how it happened. I would love to know, but I recognize a godsend and, as you English say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. If you…”
”…Of course, Claudio. If I find out anything further about this, I’ll let you know. But I’d guess that it will remain a mystery.”
“As long as I can add it to my ‘solved’ pile, and report to Colonel Pastore that it is all sorted out, that’s all that I can ask.”
Coffin paid and turned away from the glassed-in avalanche of cheeses, green Harrods bag in hand. “I must ask, Claudio. On behalf of Vallombroso…”
”…I’ve already spoken to Turin. Although it was not her actions that led to the return of the painting…”
”…as far as you know.”
”…as far as I know. You’re being coy, Gabriel.”
“I can’t compromise my contacts, but…”
”…In any event, she has been cleared and is now free, but she is on probation for the remainder of the sentence. We…”
”…I know the fine print, Claudio. That’s good news. I appreciate your help.”
“She appreciates it, I’m sure. Well, I’ll leave you to your cheese, Gabriel. Ciao, e grazie.”