Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  Madame Charneau covered her mouth, stifling a sharp intake of air. Julia’s face lit up with excitement.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” she blurted out, turning to Émile. “That’s the one you said no one would ever buy.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Émile insisted. “Besides, it’s a solid wooden panel, not to mention the fact that it’s in a shadow box. How will we be able to authenticate the copy if the potential buyer can’t make his mark on the back?”

  “You’re right,” said Valfierno. “We can’t very well sell an unmarked copy when the original is still hanging on the wall of the gallery. So we will have to make sure the original is not hanging on the wall of the gallery.”

  “And how do you expect us to do that?” asked Émile.

  “Steal it, of course!” exclaimed Julia.

  “Steal La Joconde from the Louvre?” Émile was no longer able to remain calm. “It’s impossible!”

  “Difficult, certainly,” Valfierno allowed, “but impossible? Well, we won’t know until we try.”

  Madame Charneau spoke for the first time. “But Marquis, even if we were able to steal it, all France would be up in arms. We’d never get it out of Paris.”

  “We won’t have to. It will stay here in the city.”

  “It would be like trying to handle a red-hot coal!” she said. “No Frenchman would even dare to touch it!”

  “I was actually thinking more along the lines of finding a rich American client.”

  “They’ll search every bag, every case, every box leaving the country,” said Émile.

  A small girl ran by crying out with delight as she tugged on the box-shaped kite trailing above her. Valfierno watched her for a moment before responding.

  “Of course they’ll search everything,” he said. “But only after the theft.”

  “Oh, of course,” Émile began with a facetious flair. “Why didn’t I think of that? We’ll ship La Joconde to America before we actually steal it!”

  “That is exactly what I am suggesting.”

  Before Émile could say another word, a sudden wind whipped up from the river, billowing the tablecloth and stinging their faces with sand from the pathways. “I also suggest,” said Valfierno, “that we repair to Señor Diego’s studio across the river.”

  * * *

  Diego rented a cluttered basement studio in the Latin Quarter on rue Serpente, a narrow street just off boulevard Saint-Michel. The location, though far removed from the artist enclave of Montmartre, suited him. Though he was only steps away from a bustling café scene, he could work in relative peace and solitude. He also found that being an artist in an area not known for artists not only shielded him from unwanted influences but made him more interesting to the local café girls. As a bonus, the proximity to the vendors’ stalls along the riverbank provided him with at least the possibility of earning enough money to pay the higher rent.

  Piles of books, stacks of canvases, assortments of brushes, paints, and rags littered the floor. An open door revealed a large closet also littered with supplies. A sleeping cot piled with rumpled blankets was jammed into one corner, a zinc tub in another. Next to the tub, a pot of artificial flowers sat on a wooden stool.

  Madame Charneau, Émile, and Julia sat together on a pair of rustic benches like students in a class. Valfierno stood before them playing instructor; Diego, smoking a Gauloise, perched on a stool off to one side. Between Valfierno and Diego stood an easel supporting a blank wooden panel. The panel was the exact dimensions of La Joconde, seventy-seven by fifty-three centimeters.

  “Señor Diego will create a perfect copy,” Valfierno began. “The copy will be shipped to America before the theft has occurred. No one will think twice about it. It will simply be one copy among hundreds that are exported every day. Following the theft, it will be delivered to its new owner.”

  “What about the real one?” asked Julia.

  “After an appropriate amount of time, it will be returned to the museum. As Madame Charneau pointed out, the authorities will leave no stone unturned while it is missing.”

  “And the American?” asked Madame Charneau.

  “I will tell him that it is only a matter of time before the museum replaces it with the copy they have been saving for just such an eventuality, announcing to a world hungry for news that the masterpiece has been miraculously recovered. Besides, who would our American tell even if he had his suspicions? The police?”

  “Are we sure,” Émile asked, “that Señor Diego is capable of making a copy that will pass for the original?”

  Everyone turned to Diego, who glared at Émile as he slowly removed the Gauloise from between his lips and snorted a stream of blue smoke through his nostrils.

  “I am the only man in France capable of doing that job,” he said in a low, threatening tone. “The important question is: Are you capable of stealing the genuine article from the museum in the first place?”

  “I’m the only man in France capable of doing that job,” Émile retorted.

  The men glared at each other like two tomcats claiming the same alleyway.

  “Well,” said Valfierno in his most conciliatory tone, “then we are fortunate indeed to have two such capable individuals at our disposal: Señor Diego and Émile, who, by the way, will have to do the job without any assistance from me.”

  “Where will you be?” asked Julia.

  “Unfortunately, my name would rank high on a list of possible suspects of such a crime. It is essential that my alibi be unassailable, and being three thousand miles away at the time of the deed should fit the bill very nicely. And remember, stealing La Joconde is only half the job. Finding a customer who is willing to pay the price commensurate with the object in question will be just as difficult.”

  “I’ll do my part,” said Émile.

  “I know you will,” said Valfierno, “but for something like this you will need help.”

  “He has it,” Julia said. “Me.”

  “Oh, we’ll need your help all right,” Valfierno said, “on the outside. You’ll be working with Madame Charneau. For this job, we’ll have to find someone on the inside, someone with intimate knowledge of the museum’s inner workings.”

  “My brother Jacques has done some work in the Louvre,” said Madame Charneau eagerly. “He worked on their boilers. He would be ideal.”

  “He would be ideal,” Valfierno agreed, “if he weren’t currently residing in prison.”

  “This is true,” allowed Madame Charneau. For the others’ benefit she added, “He rigged a bank boiler to explode and tried to make off with the safe in the confusion. Unfortunately, it was heavier than he bargained for, and he made it only as far as the front door before dropping it on his foot.”

  “Émile,” said Valfierno, “spend some time in the workingmen’s cafés in the Saint-Martin district. Keep your ears open and see what you can pick up.”

  “You know,” began Julia, staring at the panel on the easel, “it’s a funny thing.”

  “Yes?” asked Valfierno, turning to her.

  “Well, if you think about it, if the original has been stolen, and you’re only selling a copy, why settle for just one? Why not sell a dozen copies while you’re at it?”

  Émile snorted derisively.

  Julia frowned at him.

  “Interesting idea,” said Valfierno, considering, “but not very practical. For one thing, creating that many forgeries would take too long. For another, finding that many customers would be all but impossible; the logistics required would be far too complex.”

  Émile returned Julia’s look with a satisfied smirk.

  “On the other hand,” Valfierno continued, carefully measuring out his words, “six copies might be just about right.”

  Chapter 16

  Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin resounded with the tinkling bells of bicycles. Few workingmen could afford one of these relatively new modes of transportation, but they were increasingly popular among the bourgeoisie who sought out l
ocal color in the area’s smoke-filled cafés. Tables of rough-hewn men in worn caps and berets crowded the pavements. Filles de joie, heavily made up and smoking cigarettes, sat drinking, flirting, and commiserating with the men. Hordes of feral cats rubbed against a forest of legs, begging for a few tossed scraps.

  Émile wished that Valfierno had not insisted that Julia accompany him. He knew this area well. As a child of the streets, he had spent much time here relying on the kindness of men with little money of their own to spare. In a way, he thought, there had been little difference between him and the four-legged creatures snaking around their legs. Valfierno had asked him to keep his eyes and ears open and that was what he was doing. Julia was a complication. She fit right in with her easy manner and friendly smile, but he flinched every time she bumped into someone. He imagined her collecting souvenirs from these men and feared their wrath should they catch her in the act.

  “What are we supposed to be looking for?” she asked as they pushed their way into a crowded café. “Why did you pick this place?”

  “Don’t ask so many questions,” he said right before a drunken, burly man collided with them both.

  “Hey! Look where you’re going,” Julia protested, but the man just grunted and stumbled by them.

  “Watch what you say,” Émile warned. “The last thing we want is trouble.”

  “Here,” said Julia, producing some franc notes from the man’s wallet. “At least buy me a drink.”

  Émile was about to scold her when he saw them.

  The two men sat at a corner table, both of them slumped over glasses of absinthe, as if they were searching in the emerald-green liquid for some part of their souls that had been irretrievably lost.

  “Let me do the talking,” Émile said.

  “What? Who is it?” Julia asked, but he was already threading his way through the crowd and ignored her.

  “Bon soir, monsieurs,” Émile said when he reached the table. “Mind if we sit here?” Julia recognized the men as soon as they looked up. They were the two maintenance workers from the Louvre, the ones who had been fired for dropping the shadow box.

  “As a matter of fact,” said the one with the hawklike face, “we do.”

  His companion immediately lost interest and returned his attention to his glass of absinthe.

  “I know who you are,” said Émile.

  The man drew back and eyed him suspiciously. “Is that so?”

  “You’re the two men who were fired from the museum the other day. We saw everything.”

  “And what if we are?”

  “Well,” Julia said, “it was a disgrace the way they treated you.”

  Seeing her opportunity, she sat down in a chair opposite the men. Émile gave her a sharp look before she pulled him into another chair beside her.

  “And who are you?” the man asked, his tone suspicious but softening slightly.

  Julia opened her mouth to speak, but Émile took the lead. “My name is Émile.” He extended his hand in greeting. “We’re pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The man made no response. Émile withdrew his hand.

  “And this is…” He hesitated, drawing a blank.

  “I’m his sister.”

  Émile gave her a puzzled grimace before turning back to the man. “My sister,” he said, without much conviction.

  The other man looked up from his glass. His eyes were unfocused and watery, and his head bobbed around like a harbor buoy as he tried to focus on Julia. “Your sister?” he said. “She doesn’t sound very French.”

  Émile looked at Julia, challenging her to come up with something.

  “Because,” Julia said with a smug little smile aimed at Émile, “after our parents divorced, our mother took me to America to live with relatives. It was very sad. I was just a little girl at the time.”

  This seemed to satisfy the man, and he returned his attention to his absinthe.

  “My name is Vincenzo,” the hawk-faced man finally said. “Vincenzo Peruggia. But just call me Peruggia. And this is Brique.”

  “Just call me Brique,” the other man said, not even looking up.

  “Can I buy you both a drink?” Émile asked.

  “Why not,” said Peruggia.

  “Julia,” Émile said, holding his palm out to her, “let me see that money, there’s a dear.”

  Julia gave him a look but did as he requested.

  Émile ordered a bottle of red wine. After a few drinks, Brique seemed to fall asleep, his face cradled on his folded arms, but Peruggia became talkative. He told them he had come to Paris in search of employment and worked at a number of menial jobs before hiring on at the museum.

  “Imagine,” he continued, as much to himself as to Émile and Julia, “a true Italian patriot working in the heart of the country that spawned my homeland’s greatest enemy.”

  “And who would that be?” asked Julia.

  “Napoleon, of course,” he replied, turning to her with his eyes blazing. “Who else would it be?”

  “Of course.” Then, after glancing at Émile, she added with all innocence, “Which one?”

  “Which one?” Peruggia pounded the table with a fist. “The devil himself, of course. Bonaparte.”

  “Oh, right,” said Julia, trying to recover. “Bonaparte. I thought perhaps you meant the other one.”

  “She really doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Émile said as he kicked Julia’s leg beneath the table.

  “Then I will enlighten her,” Peruggia began. “His armies pillaged the land of my birth, raping and burning as they went, and he personally plundered our greatest treasures for his own enrichment, the same treasures that hang on the walls of the museum where I worked for those dogs.”

  “Even La Joconde herself,” Émile added, egging him on.

  The remark seemed to hit Peruggia particularly hard. He raised his glass and drained it in one long gulp. Brique started snoring loudly.

  “Yes, even La Gioconda,” Peruggia said, making a point of using the Italian name, “the greatest treasure of all, displayed to the world as if a Frenchman had painted it.”

  “It’s outrageous,” Julia said, looking to Émile for agreement.

  “It’s criminal, there’s no other word for it,” Émile agreed as he refilled Peruggia’s glass.

  But the steam was already seeping out of Peruggia’s rant. “Yes,” he said, slowly nodding his head, “criminal.”

  He raised his glass again and started to drink. This was the moment.

  “There’s something you should know, my friend,” Émile began.

  Peruggia lowered his glass and fixed Émile with an intense stare. “And what is that?”

  Émile leaned closer and spoke in a hushed voice. “There are people in this world, in this city, who can no more tolerate injustice than you.”

  Peruggia grunted to show that he didn’t believe this for a minute.

  “I’m serious,” Émile said. “There are people who feel as strongly about this as you do.”

  “Go on,” Peruggia said guardedly.

  Émile glanced furtively around the crowded room, quickly catching Julia’s eye to share a moment of triumph.

  “Not here,” he said. “There’s someone I want you to meet first.”

  Chapter 17

  “Make no mistake, signore,” Peruggia said, “I would not do this for money alone.”

  “Of course not, my friend,” said Valfierno. “I perfectly understand your motivations. You are a patriot first and foremost. That is obvious.”

  The two men strolled on the embankment running alongside the gray-green river beneath the quai du Louvre. The first time Émile had introduced them, Valfierno had been a little wary of the brooding Italian. Usually, he could size up anyone with a glance, but the intensity in the Italian’s eyes made him difficult to read at first. Peruggia carried himself hunched over like a hunted man trying to be inconspicuous, an innocent victim from a country that had once been cruelly subjugate
d by the monster, Napoleon. Once he understood the nature of Peruggia’s obsession with events that occurred a century ago, his idée fixe, it had been easy for Valfierno to focus the man’s anger and frustration on the object of his rage: the Louvre and his former bosses. From there, it had been a direct path to the idea that the only way to restore justice in the world, as Peruggia saw it, was to repatriate La Joconde itself.

  “To return my country’s greatest treasure to its rightful place,” Peruggia said as they walked beneath the curved iron latticework of the Pont Solférino, “to deliver it from the bloodstained hands of that tyrant Napoleon—that would be the greatest honor I could ever achieve.”

  The man would make a perfect revolutionary, thought Valfierno. The single-minded conviction of the righteousness of his cause was a powerful motivator. And Valfierno had discerned very quickly Peruggia’s penchant for obsessing over details, especially when he believed that the plan was entirely of his own making.

  “Let’s go through the whole thing again,” Valfierno said, drawing him in. “And don’t leave out the smallest detail.”

  Peruggia animatedly described his plan once more as they continued past a flotilla of flatboats tied to the sloping bank. Busy washerwomen hung up clothes on the laundry barges, their children tethered by leashes to keep them from toppling overboard. One large scow offered an open-air pool ringed by long wooden sheds where one might procure a private cabinet and a bath for twenty centimes.

  Valfierno listened intently to the Italian, occasionally interrupting him with questions and comments, gently guiding him away from the parts of the scheme that were less than inspired and toward the parts that made more practical sense. Indeed, the first time he had heard the plan, Valfierno thought it was too naïve to work, but then he began to see that its power lay in its simplicity.

  “With any luck,” Peruggia said as he finished, “the painting won’t even be missed until the following day.”

  “You’ll need another accomplice besides Émile,” Valfierno said. “Your companion, this Brique fellow, can he be trusted?”

  “Yes, but it would be best if we didn’t tell him anything until the day comes. He works better when he doesn’t have time to think about what he’s doing. If he’s paid well enough, he’ll do as he’s told.”