Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  Hart hesitated.

  Don’t tell me he still has misgivings, thought Valfierno. He couldn’t still be thinking of waiting it out here in Buenos Aires for the consulate to come up with a new passport.

  Careful to keep an expression of complete indifference on his face, Valfierno turned to Mrs. Hart. To the casual observer he was simply acknowledging her with a polite smile, but he held her eyes longer than necessary.

  Mrs. Hart hesitated for just an instant before saying, “Dear, the ship is about to leave.”

  Hart turned to his wife with a sharp look before giving her a grudging nod. She stepped forward and held out the carpetbag. Valfierno motioned to Émile, who handed the passport to Mrs. Hart with one hand as he took the carpetbag with the other. Joshua Hart snatched the passport from his wife and opened it, taking out the papers as Émile checked the contents of the bag.

  “I trust you’ll find them satisfactory,” Valfierno said.

  “Yes,” Hart replied a little warily. “They almost look like the originals…”

  “And this, I believe, is also yours.” Valfierno handed the valise containing the painting to Mrs. Hart.

  “Please, señor,” called out a uniformed officer, “you must board now.”

  With a look to Valfierno, Hart allowed himself to be guided by the officer to the gangplank. Mrs. Hart followed close behind with her mother. She had just started up the walkway when Valfierno stepped forward.

  “Mrs. Hart,” he said, “I believe you may have dropped this.”

  He held out the white glove he had retrieved from the café. She stopped and looked at him, barely glancing at the glove.

  “I believe you are mistaken, señor,” she said smoothly. “The glove is not mine.”

  She smiled politely, her eyes holding his for another moment. Then she turned her attention back to her mother and continued up toward the deck, leaving Valfierno holding her glove.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, the Victorian’s horn sounded a blaring farewell to Buenos Aires as tugboats nudged its massive hull from the dock. Ellen Hart stood with her mother at the railing. Nearby, Joshua Hart commiserated with another well-dressed man about the good fortune they shared in finally leaving such a godforsaken place.

  On shore, Valfierno and Julia watched from the edge of the dock as the ship began its journey up the estuary of the Rio de la Plata to the vast South Atlantic. Émile stood a few steps behind them. Julia pulled out a pocket watch with a flourish and consulted it.

  “Right on time,” she said, holding up the timepiece for Émile’s benefit.

  Immediately, he checked his pocket but, to both his relief and embarrassment, found his own watch exactly where it should be.

  On the deck of the steamship, still in conversation with the other gentleman, Joshua Hart absentmindedly patted his watch pocket. He stopped midsentence, thrust his hand into it, and fished about frantically with his fingers as if somehow he would find his watch hiding in there.

  Nearby, Ellen Hart looked across at Valfierno standing on the receding dock. She resisted the urge to wave good-bye. She watched the man in the white suit until he blended in with the crowd and wondered if he had also been watching her.

  * * *

  On the return trip from the harbor, Valfierno announced to the group that they would celebrate the successful conclusion of their business with a dinner that evening at La Cabaña Las Lilas. Yves rarely went out these days, but Valfierno would do his best to persuade him.

  “Julia,” Valfierno said as they approached the house, “your skills proved invaluable to us. I suspect our fish might just have managed to wriggle off the hook without them.”

  “All in a day’s work,” she said, shrugging it off. “Maybe I’ve even earned a full cut now.” She made a point of looking directly at the carpetbag that Émile held in the hand closest to her. Then she looked up at him and smiled demurely, making him frown and shift the bag to his other hand.

  “Don’t worry,” Valfierno assured her. “I always reward those with useful talents.”

  “Did I mention,” Émile began, a little too loudly, “how close I came to being caught the other night when I retrieved the copy from the museum? A few seconds more and they would have had me.”

  “You must be very brave,” Julia said, playing the ardent admirer to the hilt.

  “I would be out of business without your resourcefulness, Émile,” Valfierno said with appreciative sincerity.

  “Come,” he added as they reached the gate in front of the house. “Let’s deliver the good news to the master painter.”

  Inside, Valfierno went straight through to the courtyard. Émile began to follow but Julia put a hand on his arm, gently restraining him.

  “Would you like this?” she asked, producing Hart’s pocket watch.

  Émile looked at the watch. “No, thank you,” he said tightly. “I have my own.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Face flushing, Émile forced himself to resist the temptation to check his pocket. He was about to say something, but thinking better of it, walked away.

  “But this one is solid gold,” she called after him teasingly.

  * * *

  Crossing the courtyard, Valfierno considered the type of painting he would commission from Yves. A portrait was the most obvious choice, of course, but perhaps it would be best to leave the subject entirely up to the artist. Yes, he would have the freedom to paint whatever he wished.

  Valfierno entered the carriage house studio and saw Yves sitting with his back toward him, contemplating the new, almost-completed copy of La Ninfa Sorprendida.

  “The fruits of our labors, old friend,” said Valfierno, placing the carpetbag on a table. “No more work today. The celebration begins immediately.”

  The old man didn’t respond. He often fell asleep at his easel. Valfierno stepped forward and placed his hand on Yves’s shoulder.

  “I think you’ll want to wake up for this—”

  Yves slumped forward. Before Valfierno could prevent it, the old man rolled from the chair to the floor onto his back.

  Valfierno knelt down. Yves’s face was ashen. His open eyes, their pupils dilated, stared blankly at the ceiling.

  Valfierno put his hand on Yves’s cheek. His skin felt icy cold. He was quite dead.

  Chapter 8

  The ornate mausoleums and marble crypts of the Cementerio de la Recoleta dwarfed the simple headstone that marked the final resting place of Yves Chaudron.

  Valfierno stood alone by the grave site staring at the simple inscription: “Yves Chaudron. June 14, 1834–April 25, 1910. Eternal Rest His Final Reward.”

  Valfierno had just buried the main reason that he had left Paris almost ten years before.

  * * *

  Yves Chaudron had made a foolish mistake. He tried to pass off a copy of an El Greco as the real thing to an English businessman in Paris. Yves was an excellent forger but a very bad con man. The Englishman became suspicious and reported him to the Prefecture of Police.

  Yves came to Valfierno, for whom he occasionally did some work, and asked for help. As it turned out, he arrived at precisely the right time. Valfierno had grown disillusioned with the scene in Paris; the market for creatively obtained works of art had cooled and he had been thinking of making a change for some time. He made a deal with Yves immediately: They would leave France together for the fresh territory of Buenos Aires in Valfierno’s home country of Argentina.

  There would be less scrutiny from the authorities there, and he could dip into the pool of newly minted American millionaires trying to establish their influence in the expanding South American markets. It promised to be an exciting, not to mention lucrative, change of scene. In return for Valfierno’s help, Yves Chaudron agreed to provide his services exclusively.

  Buenos Aires felt like a bit of a backwater after Paris, but he never regretted his decision. Valfierno took frequent trips to the United States to drum up business with the nouveau riche
from Boston to Philadelphia. He eventually amassed an impressive clientele, but since the Wall Street Panic of 1907, customers had been harder to come by. Joshua Hart had weathered the storm better than most, but even he had required months of persuasion before agreeing to come to Buenos Aires.

  * * *

  Now, everything had changed.

  “Good-bye, old friend,” Valfierno said, looking down at the headstone. “If there is a God you can do his portrait, and if there is a heaven you’ll have endless vistas for your paints and brushes.”

  Émile and Julia stood some distance away, observing Valfierno.

  “Didn’t the old man have any family?” she asked.

  “No one,” Émile answered without looking at her.

  “Friends?”

  “The marquis was his only friend.”

  “Sad to die alone,” she said. After a moment, she added, “I wonder who’ll come to my grave when I die.”

  Émile ignored her.

  “Perhaps you will,” she added with a flirtatious smile.

  “Oh, I’ll come, all right,” he said, walking away. “I might even do a little dance.”

  “Wonderful,” she called after him. “In that case, I’ll leave instructions to be buried at sea!”

  * * *

  That night, Valfierno sat in the carriage house studio, a glass of Malbec in his hand, an almost empty bottle on the floor next to him. Two candles cast circles of light in the darkness, illuminating the haphazard gallery of canvases, Yves’s life’s work. Valfierno had placed one of Yves’s original canvases—an outdoor café scene, frantic with life—on the easel. The copy of La Ninfa Sorprendida lay faceup on the floor. It looked finished, but Valfierno knew that it probably wasn’t. Not that it mattered now.

  Despite the clutter, there was a palpable emptiness to the space. The magnificent art was still here, but the artist was gone; the heart of the room had grown silent.

  “I just thought I’d check up on you,” Émile said from the doorway. Valfierno said nothing. “Are you going to stay up all night?”

  Valfierno kept his eyes on the canvas. “What will you leave behind, Émile?” he asked quietly.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” the young man replied.

  “At the end of your life,” Valfierno clarified, “what will you leave behind?”

  Silence hung in the air for a moment before Émile finally spoke. “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Valfierno mused. “To the one leaving this world, perhaps nothing, but to the ones left behind…” Valfierno shrugged.

  “The trick then,” Émile began, almost talking to himself, “is not to have anyone to leave behind.”

  “My young friend,” Valfierno said with a sigh, “of all the things you can learn from me, that shouldn’t be one of them.”

  “You should go to bed,” Émile urged. “The sun will be up soon.”

  And with that, Émile withdrew and clattered up the stairs to his room above the carriage house.

  Valfierno lifted the glass to his lips and emptied it. He considered refilling it but changed his mind. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled out Ellen Hart’s white glove. He felt the silky texture between his fingers before lifting it to his nose. The faintest hint of fragrance evoked the whisper of a memory that lay tantalizingly beyond his reach, or perhaps it was only the scent of the flowering trumpet trees drifting in on the warm night air.

  He lowered his hand and looked around the empty room. “You were right, old friend,” he said to the darkness. “Without the heart, it’s only paint and canvas.”

  * * *

  By the time the candles melted down to petals of wax dripping onto the tabletop, and the promise of dawn washed the room in pale gray light, Valfierno had made his decision.

  Chapter 9

  Émile stood on the dock, well back from the edge, restlessly shuffling his feet.

  “Relax,” Valfierno said. “This won’t be your first sea voyage. Look at it as a grand adventure.”

  “I’m fine,” Émile insisted a little too strongly. “I just don’t know why we have to leave on such short notice, that’s all.”

  “Once a decision is made,” Valfierno said, “there is no point in delay. We need a new collaborator; it’s as simple as that. And Paris is where we shall find him.”

  Émile apprehensively scanned the crowd.

  “What do you keep looking for?” Valfierno asked.

  “Nothing,” Émile replied. “I’d better go and see what those porters are doing with our luggage.”

  The young man threaded his way back through the crowd. Yes, Valfierno thought, their master forger was dead. Now they had to return to Paris to find another one. That was reason enough, of course, but there was something else. The seed of a plan had begun to take root in his mind, a scheme that, if it succeeded, could change everything.

  “She’s here,” Émile called out, suddenly reemerging from the crowd and pointing back up the dock. His words came as a dire warning. “I told you she’d follow us.”

  His thoughts interrupted, Valfierno turned to see Julia break through the crowd behind Émile. He was not surprised.

  When he had first announced his plan to move the operation back to Paris, she had been thrilled. He had pointed out to her, however, that she could not possibly come with them. She had pleaded, first to Valfierno, then to Émile, to be included in their plans. Valfierno listened to her arguments but remained firm, reminding her that she had enough money now to do what she wanted, even return to the United States. He had arranged for her to get a new passport, though she wouldn’t have it for another month. The house was to be let to the family of a local businessman, but Julia would be able to live there until they moved in. The housekeeper, Maria, was staying on and could keep an eye on her.

  Finally, Julia had given up and retreated to her room. She hadn’t emerged even when Valfierno and Émile left this morning. Valfierno was a little surprised that she had capitulated so easily. Apparently, she hadn’t.

  “I’m coming with you,” she announced as she drew to a halt in front of him. “Nothing you can say will stop me.” Valfierno thought he detected genuine fear behind her eyes despite her show of bravado.

  “There’s nothing I need to say or do to stop you,” he said. “For one thing, you have no ticket and the ship is completely booked. For another thing, you don’t have a passport. And by the time you finally get one, you will see the wisdom in all of this.”

  In truth, there had been no available berths on the steamship for some time, but Valfierno had been so eager to implement his plan immediately that he had used his considerable influence and paid a huge premium to obtain passage for himself and Émile.

  “But why don’t you want me to come with you?” she asked, unable to keep the petulance out of her voice.

  “My dear, it’s simply not possible. Émile and I are returning to France. It is his native home and my chosen one. We’re not coming back.”

  “But you told me yourself how useful I am.”

  “Yes, and you have been paid very well for your skills.”

  “Émile,” she said, appealing to the young man, “don’t you want me to come with you?”

  Though he tried not to look at her, his eyes met hers for a brief instant before he quickly turned to Valfierno.

  “We have to get on board.” He started for the gangplank.

  “Don’t worry, mi querida,” Valfierno said, leaning forward and gently kissing Julia’s forehead. “If anyone can take care of herself, it’s you. Buena suerte.”

  * * *

  Julia watched the two men walk up the gangplank. She wanted to call out but knew there was nothing more she could say. Frantically, she looked around the crowded dock as if somehow it held the answer to her problem. Returning her gaze to the ship, she caught Émile staring down at her from the railing before he looked away and drew back, disappearing onto the deck.

  A sudden commotion drew her attention. A well-dres
sed young woman hurried along the dock waving frantically and screaming, “Wait! Wait!”

  Two local men dripping with sweat kept pace on either side, both loaded down with suitcases and hatboxes. Clearly this woman had cut her departure time too close and had almost missed the sailing.

  Julia didn’t hesitate. As the hysterical woman dashed by her, she stepped out into her path.

  Chapter 10

  The steamship slid effortlessly across the mirrorlike surface of the ocean, the sun blazing like a beacon ahead. Émile had spent most of the trip in his cabin, but on the morning of the final day, only hours before they were to dock in Le Havre, Valfierno convinced him to come up on deck to enjoy the perfect weather.

  “I don’t suppose you remember much of Paris,” Valfierno said. “You were only a boy when we left.”

  “I remember the smell mostly,” Émile said, grimacing at the thought. “And the streets. And how cold it could get at night. And how hungry I was all the time.”

  Valfierno looked at Émile standing back from the railing, marveling at how much he had changed since those days. He was tall now, though still a bit gangly with the awkwardness of youth. His facial features, taken separately, were unimpressive: his eyebrows too thick, his eyes a little too deeply set, his nose and ears too pronounced, his mouth too wide to fit comfortably between his cheeks, all ending in an elongated chin that made his face too long. But somehow the combination of all these elements made for an appealing, even handsome face. If he would only smile once in a while, Valfierno thought, that would make all the difference. And he was clean, of course, and well groomed, unlike the street urchin he used to be, as black with dirt as a chimney sweep.

  Like Buenos Aires, the streets of Paris were pitifully full of such boys, begging, stealing, marauding in packs, eternally harassing, and in turn harassed by the local authorities. One did one’s best to avoid them, to ignore them whenever possible, but they remained an omnipresent feature of the city. The worst thing you could do was to look them in the eye, especially if you felt any sympathy toward the creatures. Once they got a whiff of pity, they would swarm around you like a flock of hungry seagulls, their little hands reaching up for coins or, worse, burrowing into your pockets for anything they could find. But Émile had been different. Émile had saved his life.