Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  “That must be difficult to copy,” she said.

  “One has to do more than just copy. One has to understand. To feel. To inhabit the creator’s mind. To re-create the work of a genius, one must be a genius.”

  From a corner of the room, Émile let out an audible groan.

  “Of course,” Diego continued, casting a disparaging look at Émile, “when all is said and done, there are certain techniques one must master. For example, there is what the Italians call sfumato, the layering of dark to light, the blending of many colors to blur any sharp lines.” To demonstrate, he removed the panel from the easel and replaced it with a large paper pad. Picking up a brush and paint palette, he quickly applied a series of delicate brushstrokes to a blank page. “If it’s done correctly, the brushstrokes disappear. It is a way to capture the uncharted depths of a woman’s smile, of a woman’s heart.” Again he gave her a penetrating look that seemed to reach inside her in a way that was both pleasant and unpleasant at the same time.

  “Most of these are copies.” Émile indicated the various panels strewn about the room. “Don’t you have any original work?”

  Diego shrugged and lit another Gauloise. “Of course, but not here. I keep them elsewhere so they don’t remind me of where I’ve been. Here I seek something new, something revolutionary. I try my hand at many things. Portraits, for instance. In fact”—he turned back to Julia—“perhaps the young lady would care to sit for me sometime.”

  “Why on earth would you want to paint me?” Julia asked, pretending not to be flattered.

  “There is no greater inspiration than a beautiful woman.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that would be a masterpiece,” Émile said to no one in particular. “Come on,” he added, turning to Julia, “it’s time to go. We’ll leave the master to his work.”

  “I’m staying,” Julia said obstinately.

  “Suit yourself.” Émile snatched up his coat and disappeared up the stairs.

  Diego placed the Gauloise between his lips and squinted at Julia through the curling smoke. She allowed herself to enjoy her little triumph for a few seconds but quickly began to wither beneath his gaze.

  “He’s such a child,” Julia said, averting her eyes from Diego back to the painting.

  “You find him annoying, don’t you?”

  “At times.”

  “And what about me? How do you find me?”

  Julia felt a wave of heat flush across her face. She hoped that Diego would not notice.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, struggling to sound casual. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it.”

  Diego let out a laugh. “I don’t suppose you have,” he said lightly. “But perhaps you should.”

  “I think perhaps I should be going.” She gathered up her things. “Madame Charneau doesn’t like me to be late for supper.”

  “We certainly wouldn’t want you to be late for your supper,” Diego said as he applied some abstract flourishes to the paper.

  “I’ll bid you a good evening, then,” she said as she hurried up the stairs to the street.

  “If you must,” Diego said without looking up from his impromptu painting. “Bon soir, mademoiselle.”

  He raised his brush hand to add something to the pad but changed his mind and instead threw the brush down in disgust. Ripping the sheet from the pad and crumpling it up, he threw it across the studio.

  “Bon soir.”

  Chapter 19

  Even though Valfierno had visited the houses of some of the richest men in the United States, he never failed to be awed by Windcrest, Joshua Hart’s personal kingdom. Staring out the window of the taxi that had brought him from the train station, he could easily imagine that he was entering the private domain of the royal head of some obscure European principality.

  Valfierno had disembarked from RMS Mauretania two weeks earlier and checked into the Plaza Hotel across from Central Park. Though he would not be spending much time there, he always used the French Renaissance chateau-style building as his home base in New York.

  The morning following his arrival, he had steamed out of Grand Central Station and traveled north along the Hudson River en route to his first destination. From the Van Cortlandt Manor in Croton to Lyndhurst in Tarrytown, the Hudson was studded with the mansions and palaces of America’s captains of industry. The opulence of these structures made it easy to forget that they were built upon the backs of thousands of men, women, and children who labored long hours in harsh conditions for little reward.

  In a few days of travel, he had visited many of his most valued clients to tempt them with his tantalizing offer. For the most part, his hosts had welcomed him with eager anticipation. As he made his way north, his reception at each stop became an almost predictable routine. First there would be the requisite brandy and cigars served in imposing libraries or on vast verandas overlooking the wide river with its majestic backdrop of the Catskill Mountains rising above the distant haze. Then he would be taken to the secret gallery. This room, off-limits to all but a select few, displayed the artwork the master of the house had obtained by less than honest means. Valfierno always picked out one or two pieces to comment on specifically, often pieces that he himself had provided. And then, finally, it would be down to business as his host inquired about the reason for Valfierno’s visit. When Valfierno revealed the name of the painting in question, he was always met first with incredulity until greed and avarice ultimately raised their ugly heads in triumph.

  In only a few days along the Hudson, he had been able to successfully conclude agreements for three of the planned six copies. The price he demanded varied depending on the size of his patron’s holdings, but it was always extravagant and never less than three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Yes, the price was ridiculously high, but when would there again be an opportunity to acquire for one’s collection the ultimate manifestation of human creativity? It had taken him years to cultivate the confidence of these men, and now the time had come to extract the full value of that trust.

  In the weeks following his Hudson River journey, he continued to travel extensively; he found one client on the North Shore of Long Island—the fabled Gold Coast—and one in Chicago. He probably could have found at least two in the great city on the lake, but instead, for his final client, he had made a special trip, traveling by train up the Connecticut coast to the fabled and opulent mansions of Newport. Riding from the station in a cab, Valfierno took note of the many so-called cottages lining the waterfront, each one more ostentatious than the last. If these were cottages, he thought, then the Mona Lisa was a Saturday Evening Post illustration.

  He handed his taxi driver a ten-dollar bill and told him to wait. A brisk sea breeze animated the great swaths of flowers and reeds in the front gardens. Wide marble steps led up to an arched portico. Before he even reached the massive oak front doors, they swept open as if by magic.

  Hart’s butler, Carter, greeted Valfierno with practiced deference. “Marquis,” he intoned, “welcome to Windcrest. Mr. Hart is expecting you.”

  Carter led Valfierno into a vast marbled foyer adorned with paintings and sculptures. He recognized a genuine if lesser Klimt, but for the most part the works were not particularly distinguished. Carter walked past the wide central staircase to a small doorway where he gestured for Valfierno to enter.

  Valfierno walked into a large library and immediately stopped. Mrs. Hart stood in the center of the room, wearing a light summer frock, her hands clasped in front of her. It was the first time he had ever seen her with her hair down and—though he had certainly not forgotten her—it had been sometimes difficult to conjure up the image of her face. To see it again so suddenly was both a pleasant surprise and a disconcerting jolt.

  “Marquis,” she said, approaching him, “what a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  “I assure you, madame,” he began, faltering slightly with an unexpected shortness of breath, “that the pleasure is all mine.”

&nb
sp; Valfierno detected a slight blush when she nodded her head in acknowledgment.

  “And it would be greater still,” he continued, “if you would call me Edward.”

  Her only response to this was a slight but genuine smile. “Please,” she said, “my husband is expecting you.”

  As she led him through the library, Valfierno sensed a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward the windows and saw her mother seated in a padded chair, focused intently on her hands as she knitted something from a ball of green yarn.

  “Madame,” Valfierno said in salutation, but she continued her knitting without acknowledging him.

  “He’s in his study,” Mrs. Hart said with a kindly smile.

  She entered a narrow hallway at the end of the room. Valfierno followed, captivated by the way she walked. Her feet landed softly, almost directly in front of each other, her hips swaying fluidly and gracefully with each stride. There was not a wasted motion and he imagined that she probably had no idea how pleasing she was to observe.

  She led him into a low-ceilinged, oak-paneled study, its windows shuttered against the afternoon sun. Thin shards of penetrating light served only to accentuate the gloom. Joshua Hart was sitting at a massive oak desk. Standing next to Hart was a large man of about forty. His head was shaved bald, and he wore an expensive dark suit tightly tailored to his muscular frame.

  “Well, the marquis de Valfierno,” Hart said dramatically as he put down a pen and swiveled in his chair. “And how is the mayor of Buenos Aires?”

  Amused by his little joke, he looked up at the other man for a reaction. The man obliged with the faintest of requisite smiles.

  “I’m well, thank you,” Valfierno replied, bowing his head slightly, “but currently I’m residing in Paris.”

  “I don’t imagine you’re much more than a councilman there, eh?” Hart quipped.

  “No more than an appreciative tourist really,” Valfierno said with a sideways glance at Mrs. Hart in an attempt to include her in the conversation.

  “I’m forgetting my manners,” said Hart, rising from his chair. “This is my new associate, Mr. Taggart. Mr. Taggart is recently retired from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. He now works exclusively for me. There’s been labor unrest of late, and I have felt in need of a little protection.”

  “Mr. Taggart,” Valfierno said, acknowledging the man with a slight tilt of his head.

  Taggart fixed Valfierno with an icy appraising stare before slowly nodding in response. Valfierno thought that the man’s steel-gray eyes and shining naked head gave him the look of a gladiator, transported from a distant time and place and looking quite out of sync in modern clothing.

  “And where, pray tell, is your lovely niece?” Hart asked, sitting back down.

  “Much as she would have liked to have accompanied me, she is attending school in Paris, studying art.”

  “Pity.” Hart selected a cigar from a silver box. “You must tell her that if she’s ever in the States, she should drop by to say hello.” Hart looked at his wife for the first time since she had entered the room before adding, “To study my collection, of course.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Hart said, “if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen…”

  Valfierno turned and bowed slightly as she left the room.

  “Have a seat,” Hart said, indicating a plush leather chair. “You’ve traveled a long way. I think perhaps some brandy is in order.”

  Valfierno sat down as Taggart moved to a side table and poured brandy from a decanter into two crystal glasses.

  “You know,” Hart continued, “it’s a funny thing about that forged passport you gave me. As soon as I got back to the States, I got a new one, of course, but try as I might, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two. The one you provided even had the correct entry stamp, date and all.”

  Taggart handed each of the men a glass.

  “I use only the most skilled people,” Valfierno said, taking the drink. “The work they do is always of the highest order.”

  Hart made a grudging sound of acknowledgment before raising his glass and downing the dark red liquid in one swig.

  As Valfierno took a sip from his glass, he caught the eye of Taggart. The man was staring at him.

  “So, Mr. Hart,” Valfierno said, eager to change the subject, “how are you enjoying your recent acquisition?”

  “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

  * * *

  When Hart flicked on the light switch in his underground gallery, Valfierno’s eyes were immediately drawn to the centerpiece of the collection, Manet’s La Ninfa Sorprendida.

  “Magnificent,” Valfierno said, spreading his hands wide for emphasis. “This has always been my favorite Manet. Such depth, such emotion. Truly a masterpiece.”

  “It ought to be for the price I paid,” Hart said.

  Valfierno turned to see Taggart standing by the door. The big man was staring straight at him, his face a blank mask.

  “How about the copy?” Hart continued. “You know, the one that was put up in its place in the museum?”

  “It’s serving its purpose,” Valfierno replied. “I believe they had to lower the lights somewhat to complete the effect.”

  “Is that so,” Hart said, turning his eyes back to the painting. “No need to do that here, of course.”

  He studied the painting for a moment before turning back to Valfierno, suddenly all business. “Well, let me get to the point, Marquis. I agreed to see you out of courtesy and, I will admit, in hopes of seeing your delightful niece again, but I’m afraid that you’ve come all the way here for nothing. I have all that I ever desired here within these walls. A man has to know when enough is enough, don’t you think?”

  Valfierno began to pace slowly around the room. “You have a tidy collection, I’ll grant you. The Spanish, the British, the Dutch are all well represented. You have your French masterpiece now, of course, but”—he hesitated as if slowly forming his thoughts—“the Italians are a little underrepresented, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Don’t even try,” Hart warned amiably. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

  “I had hoped you would say that,” Valfierno said with a display of relief. “I have another patron to visit, and in truth, I had promised him first right of refusal concerning the object in question. I came here only as a courtesy. You’ll make the man I refer to very happy indeed.” As if to drive home the point, Valfierno pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. “Ah, my train. I have a taxi waiting outside. If I leave now, I’ll just make it in time.”

  “Not that it matters,” Hart said, trying to sound disinterested, “but who exactly are you going to see?”

  “Oh, I never discuss one patron with another.”

  “Come, come,” Hart said, “surely you owe me that much.”

  Valfierno hesitated, as if considering. Then, after giving Taggart a sideways glance, he walked up to Hart, leaned forward, and whispered the name in his ear.

  Hart’s eyes widened. “That old pirate! He could buy half the paintings in the British Museum and his collection still wouldn’t hold a candle to mine!”

  “That’s true,” Valfierno allowed, “and will remain true. Until, of course, he takes possession of the object in question.”

  Agitated, Hart stalked around the room, demonstrating with a sweeping arm.

  “Nonsense! He couldn’t match my collection in a million years. Look at these. Manet, Constable, Murillo, even a Rembrandt! What does he think he’s going to get? The Mona Lisa?”

  The look on Valfierno’s face coupled with a slight canting of his head spoke volumes.

  Hart’s smug expression dissolved instantly.

  “Holy Mother of Christ!”

  * * *

  Back in his study, Joshua Hart paced the room, frantically sucking on a cigar.

  “And this time,” he said, his excitement raising the pitch of his voice, “none of this ‘copy in the museum’ horseshi
t. I want to see every goddamn newspaper in the world splashed with news of the robbery. Do we understand each other?”

  Valfierno sat in the plush leather chair successfully hiding his own excitement. He regarded an unlit cigar that Hart had forced upon him.

  “We understand each other perfectly, Señor Hart.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “It can’t be rushed, of course. There is much careful planning involved. Say, six months?”

  “And you’re positive you can pull this off?”

  “I’m staking my life on it. To fail in such an endeavor would be fatal. The best I could hope for would be to spend the rest of my life rotting on Devil’s Island.”

  “Failure is one thing,” said Hart. “I can accept that. After all, it costs me nothing; I pay only on delivery. But if I suspected that you were in any way trying to make a fool of me…” He paused for effect.

  Valfierno smiled casually. “I can assure you, señor—”

  “Mr. Taggart,” Hart said, cutting him off, then pausing as he walked behind the chair that Valfierno sat in, “please tell us, in the course of your work, how many men have you killed?”

  Taggart sat on a wooden chair in a dark corner of the room. At first he didn’t answer, but then he leaned forward into a sharp shaft of sunlight. “Depending on how you count,” he said, considering, “eleven or twelve.”

  Hart flicked his cigar ash into a silver ashtray embedded into a small wooden table. “Am I being too subtle for you, Marquis?”

  “Too subtle?” Valfierno said, slipping his cigar into his inside jacket pocket and pushing himself to his feet. “Hardly.”

  “Excellent,” said Hart. “Then we have a deal. And, with luck, you may still be able to make your train.”