The Da Vinci Deception

by Thomas Swan

  Again he started away, then turned back. “There is one thing more I must not forget to say. You and your men are owed our thanks for the splendid work that’s been done. The great treasures in this library will be enjoyed by many more generations. You have indeed made a valuable contribution to our country’s great heritage.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Streeter,” Tony said earnestly. He was happy to see the old scholar finally return to his work and ask no further questions about cut hands and telltale accents. The apprehension he felt when he entered the library at five minutes past noon had not lessened, and while he was not looking forward to a confrontation with the police, he preferred they begin their investigation while he was diligently working and involved in the rhythm of his job and the engineer’s role he had learned to play so well. Shortly after 1:00 P.M. his hopes were realized.

  Streeter answered a rap on the door and admitted a police sergeant and a well-dressed man who walked through the reception room and on to the First Gallery. Neither man spoke until they had made a complete sweep of all the rooms and found that Streeter and the bearded man were the only occupants. The well-dressed man spoke to Streeter.

  “I am Superintendent Deats of the Windsor police and this is Sergeant Pelkinton. We’re making inquiries into an accident that involved a member of the library staff. Perhaps you might first tell us your name.”

  Deats spoke slowly and quietly. Tony continued with his report, not looking up but able to hear the conversation across the room.

  “My heavens. Nothing too bad, I hope. Who has had an accident, Superintendent?”

  “Miss Evans.”

  “Oh, dear Sarah. Sarah the smiler, I call her. Is it serious?”

  “She was in the library yesterday?”

  “Indeed. I believe she was here when I left last evening.”

  “When was that?”

  “My usual time. Five-forty. I meet friends at Boar’s Tavern and I try to be there promptly at six o’clock.”

  “Were there others here when you left?”

  “Yes. I believe one or two. Mr. Hewlitt, to whom we owe our gratitude for the splendid new air-control system, was still hard at work. He’s the gentleman over there.”

  “And after leaving the library, did you see Miss Evans again during the evening?”

  “Not at Boar’s Tavern,” Streeter said with a smile. “We don’t encourage the ladies to come there in the evening. It’s all but a men’s club nowadays.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Streeter. If we have further questions, we’ll contact you.”

  “But you haven’t told me what happened. What kind of an accident did Sarah have?”

  “Automobile.”

  “Was she hurt badly?”

  Deats did not reply. Tony was aware that the detective was walking toward him. He sized up Deats as a professional who knew how to ask questions and knew when to answer questions fired at him.

  “Mr. Hewlitt, my name is Deats, Windsor police. May I ask a few questions?”

  Tony looked up as if he had only at that moment become aware that Deats and his sergeant were in the library. He stood, his right hand in his pocket. “Of course. How can I help?”

  “One of the employees of the library, a Sarah Evans, was involved in an automobile accident last night. Mr. Streeter has stated that you and Miss Evans were in the library when he left at 5:40. Were there any others here at that time?”

  “I don’t recall that there were.”

  “You are sure of that?”

  “Sarah went on before I did, then I phoned the security guard after completing my work. He checked all the rooms before locking.”

  “What time was that?” Deats took his tape recorder from his pocket and turned it on.

  “Sometime after six, I believe.”

  “And did you see Sarah Evans after you left the library?”

  Deats had asked the big question, the one Tony hoped might end further police questions and speculation.

  “Superintendent, I’m not on staff in the library. I’m employed by Heldwicke Air-Control Systems and the installation is near completion.” He forced a weak laugh. “It’s no jolly fun winding up one of these things, weekend work and all that rot.” Then with a very concerned expression, he asked, “What has happened to Miss Evans?”

  “She was killed.”

  “How horrible. How very, very horrible.” Tony slumped into the chair and stared at the papers in front of him. “I knew her only slightly but she seemed such a pleasant person.”

  “Please answer my question. Did you see Miss Evans after you left the library?”

  Tony looked up, his face expressionless. Slowly he shook his head and answered softly, “No. No, I last saw her when she said good night and left the library.”

  “Quite so. Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Hewlitt. We may contact you for further questioning.”

  Tony remained motionless until Deats and the sergeant were out of the library. Streeter had edged closer and heard the inspector’s final comments.

  “What a dreadful thing, Mr. Hewlitt.”

  “Yes. I suddenly feel bloody awful, not much like working.”

  Streeter did not reply. He returned to his table and stood silently over his work for several minutes. Then he gathered and stacked his books and notes, disappeared briefly, then returned with a coat and hat and called out, “Good afternoon, Mr. Hewlitt.”

  “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Streeter.”

  The wide doors closed and Tony waited an endless minute before locking it. This time he explored every room and corner, taking no chance that he was not alone. In the Documents Room before the Leonardo cabinet he paused again, then swiftly returned the original drawing.

  It was nearly three o’clock when he returned to his desk. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, then call security. Rereading his report, he was pleased to discover it was complete and businesslike. Heldwicke had no cause to suspect his duplicity; he had performed well.

  A guard Tony did not recognize answered his request to inspect and lock the library. Anxious to complete his one remaining chore, he hurried to his car and drove onto the service road. Familiar faces at the security station waved him to a halt, then asked that he leave his car.

  “Hey, Mr. Hewlitt. You’ve heard of the terrible accident. Seems that pretty girl was on police assignment and we’ve got instructions to check all the vehicles leaving the grounds. Of course it’s just procedural. Only take a minute.”

  They made a cursory search of the old station wagon. Any of the items Tony had hidden on the other side of Windsor would have prompted questions.

  “You’re okay, Mr. Hewlitt. Sorry for the delay but orders is orders.”

  Tony slipped behind the wheel and with a friendly wave drove off. “Ruddy damned good luck!” he exclaimed to himself. He headed the car into Windsor and continued south on Kings Road to the turnoff where he retrieved the bundle containing Sarah’s papers. Instead of returning through Windsor, he chose a different route to the city, through Old Windsor and Staines. It would add fifteen minutes to the drive but it avoided Datchet Road with its deadly sharp turn.

  Chapter 8

  Three hours after Tony placed Leonardo’s drawing of the skulls in his hands, Stiehl completed his initial assessment of the drawing he created during the summer. The list of his big and little mistakes was a long one, and he discovered that even in a simple drawing, Leonardo left dozens of “fingerprints.” But the distinguishing marks were not necessarily bold strokes of the pen or flourishes of shaded lines, but his avoidance of elaboration. As he studied Leonardo’s drawing his attention was on the direction of the lines. His text was Bernard Berenson’s The Drawings of the Florentine Painters: “Leonardo’s stroke was invariably from left to right, with the rare exception of shaded areas where he used a counterstroke.” And so Stiehl used every test the brilliant art historian applied to his appraisal of drawings ascribed to Leonardo. Stiehl was confident of his technical skills, but as Berenson had decre
ed, it was the spirit and quality of the drawing that determined authenticity.

  His own spirit had been crushed when Jonas returned from dinner and announced that the Leonardo must be returned to the library the following morning. Stiehl’s anger was white-hot. He argued that a single night with the drawing was too little time, that he was no longer responsible for delivering a perfect copy. They argued. Stiehl demanded to know why the drawing must be returned so quickly. “For six months I’ve prepared for the two days I would have Leonardo’s drawing, now you give me twelve hours. What started as impractical is now impossible.” “Anything but,” Jonas replied, then continued in an unctuous manner. “You have not disappointed me. Your skills are greater than I imagined. Obviously I must deal with an unexpected problem and we cannot take the risk that they may discover one of their Leonardos is missing.”

  “They chose this weekend to run an inventory on drawings of skulls?” Stiehl said sarcastically. “There’s more to it.”

  “I’ll decide what’s a risk and what isn’t,” Jonas replied in a stern voice. “You’ll have the drawing until nine tomorrow morning.”

  Stiehl knew to argue would be fruitless. He returned to the board and continued his microscopic examination of Leonardo’s two dissected skulls. Because he must surrender the drawings in a matter of hours, he made certain his photographs accurately duplicated the original. Then he recreated the tiny folds and tears, and the minute stains or stray blobs of ink that had fallen from Leonardo’s quill. All were painstaking efforts. And his efforts would be repeated exactly when he had the proper ink and pens and centuries-old paper. He continued through the night, pausing only for coffee. After four hours of intensive work he stopped for a tension-relieving shower.

  At nine o’clock Jonas took the precious drawing and slipped it into the thin metal case. He leaned down to examine the progress Stiehl made during the night. The familiar “O” formed on his lips. “Excellent, Curtis. Excellent indeed.”

  Stiehl’s anger gave way to an intense desire to prove he could recreate Leonardo’s masterful style using his photographs and the twelve hours he had had with the genuine drawing. He ordered a breakfast but barely touched the food. Then he turned his attention to Leonardo’s difficult handwriting and the task of copying nine lines of commentary. Jonas urged him to stop but he stubbornly pressed on.

  By late Saturday night he could no longer focus sore eyes, and a throbbing headache intensified. Numbed by nearly twenty-four hours of continuous bending over the board, he struggled to bed, where he instantly fell into a deep sleep, as if shot through with a powerful drug.

  Early Sunday morning the great bells from Westminster Abbey pealed out to join others from nearby churches. He dressed and walked along Pall Mall, then Marlborough Road to St. James Park. Beyond the park he could make out the Houses of Parliament and he began walking toward them, now suddenly aware that he had left the hotel grounds for the first time in several days. It was as if he were walking away from the penitentiary again, but now he was in a London park, the grass greener than any he could remember. He stopped to take in the broad vista. In another direction was Buckingham Palace at the west end of the park beyond the Victoria Memorial.

  For a half hour he walked along the paths in the park until the thought of food turned his direction back to the hotel. He stopped for a copy of the Sunday Times on his way to the dining room. As he sliced away the last bit of meat from a chop, and before settling comfortably to sip fresh coffee, he felt the presence of Jonas Kalem behind him.

  “Good morning, Curtis.” The big man leaned his hands on Stiehl’s shoulders. He meant it as a friendly gesture but Stiehl pulled away. Jonas waved a waiter to the table and ordered a mountain of food. Stiehl’s edginess returned and he was in no mood for conversation or the sight of Jonas wolfing down a breakfast banquet.

  “Have you recovered from your pique, Curtis? You mustn’t let a minor change of plan be so upsetting.”

  “Minor? We move heaven and hell to equip a world-class art studio complete with a state-of-the-art photo lab so that after I’ve knocked myself out for six months preparing for the big bang, I’ll have the original Leonardo for enough time to duplicate it in every detail. But we had, as you put it, a minor change of plan and I had twelve nighttime hours to perform my magic. I’m good for a little magic, but no miracles. It’s all bullshit. Pure unadulterated bullshit.”

  Jonas did not reply, choosing to wait for Stiehl’s steaming anger to dissipate. A bowl of fruit disappeared seconds after it was set in front of him.

  Stiehl continued, “Tony brought us the drawing without a hitch and then, without reason, I must give it up. It makes no sense that one drawing in a collection of thousands had to go back into the obscurity of a vault that only a few scholars and Prince Charlie are allowed to visit. I’m sure they are at this very moment anxiously anticipating the chance to marvel over the beauty of those two goddamned skulls.”

  “While that might seem unlikely, it is possible. We must not take any risks.”

  “Come off it, Tony’s not putting the drawing back to please the prince or a few itinerant art scholars. I don’t know why he’s returning it but I have a strong hunch it’s not for a very good reason.” Though Jonas had attacked the meal with his usual gusto, it was obvious to Stiehl that the big man’s morning was not going smoothly.

  “There have been unexpected developments and for now that will end all discussion about the drawing. We must learn to adjust to change. You had the Leonardo for twelve hours, and had that been the original plan, you would be totally satisfied.”

  “But that was not the original plan,” Stiehl retorted. “Maybe I can adjust to a change of plans. But I want to know why the change.” He was staring directly at the squinting eyes behind the thick glasses. “Tell me why that damned drawing had to go back. Tell me about the unexpected.”

  Jonas turned to face Stiehl squarely, and as he did the great size of the man seemed to magnify and grow ominous. “You will be told what I choose to tell you.” There was anger in his voice. “You will make no demands.”

  Stiehl knew there was little reason to pursue the argument and remained silent as Jonas continued to eat a glutton’s breakfast. When the last of the dishes had been removed and fresh coffee was brought to the table, Jonas began conversing in his familiar rich, deep voice. He spoke softly, mindful that they were not alone in the dining room.

  “You have taken samples of the ink and the paper. That fact, more than any other, has been the most critical reason for having the original drawing in our possession.”

  “But without the original I can’t make an accurate copy.”

  “There’s no need for a copy. You’ve proved beyond question that given the time, you could pull it off. But now we can duplicate the inks and the paper. Your training is at an end and now you can begin the most important task of creating the missing Leonardos.”

  “Just like that!” Stiehl snapped his fingers.

  “Yes, just like that. Perhaps you remember our conversation on the first day you visited my office. I touched only briefly on the lost Leonardos. It’s a fascinating story.”

  Stiehl was in no mood for one of Jonas’s art lectures, but he was a captive audience and was soon swept away by the charm and majesty of the twisted tale of Leonardo’s thousands of manuscript pages, of their passing from hand to hand, of how some were mysteriously lost then rediscovered, of how others simply disappeared. Jonas told the story masterfully and Stiehl became an attentive listener.

  “The trail began in 1519 when Leonardo died while in the service of Francis I. The French monarch had provided the aging artist with a comfortable villa and servants in Amboise on the Loire River. All of the manuscript pages were willed to Leonardo’s legally adopted heir, Francesco Melzi. Melzi’s son Orazio inherited the pages from his father, and it has been assumed that Orazio sold the manuscripts, gave them as gifts, bartered some, or accidentally destroyed others. Kings, dukes, lawyers, artists, and th
ieves all played a part in the unrecorded dispersal of the priceless pages. Had Orazio known of their potential value, it is possible there would be a different story to tell.

  “If Orazio Melzi sold or gave everything away, then the missing pages could be anywhere. But perhaps not all of the manuscript pages passed out of Melzi’s hands. I took the advice of no less than Leonardo himself, who wrote, ‘Everything loses strength the more it separates itself from its origin.’ Where is the origin of the Leonardo manuscripts? First it was in Amboise where he died. Where next?” Jonas paused and looked inquisitively at Stiehl.

  Stiehl was surprised that he answered the question immediately. “With Melzi.”

  “Exactly. Not Orazio the son, but Francesco, who had become the devoted friend and assistant to Leonardo and who very likely sought to preserve the master’s works.”

  For the moment Stiehl was content to put aside his angry frustration and allow Jonas to unravel his story.

  “And after nearly five centuries, Giorgio Burri enters the scene. Giorgio, the retired professor of art history at the University of Milan, perfectly suited to research the Melzi family records. Giorgio, who has also been an outspoken critic of the Venetian experts and who has openly pooh-poohed their outdated theories of the lost manuscripts. His retirement from the university was nudged up because of his contentious statements. But to his credit he has equally strong support from the younger scholars. You must realize, Stiehl, how sanctimoniously art historians have acted over the years. They’re a clubby lot and detest challenge. They react by digging in their heels deeper.”

  Stiehl made a mental note to remember that the old guard were clubby and stubborn. “When will I meet Giorgio?”

  “Soon. It is vital that you and Giorgio work closely together but that time is not now.” Jonas found a sweet roll and finished it off.

  “When Giorgio lost the backing of the university, I offered mine. For a year he poked about the Melzi family homes near Vaprio d’Adda and Cascio. He learned how the old Melzi estate had been picked clean but he also discovered that the family owned a smaller estate near Bellagio. It was there that Giorgio discovered a wardrobe chest. Beneath the old clothes and hidden in a compartment at the bottom of the crate he found an amazing collection of Francesco Melzi’s personal records and other notebooks.