Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  It was at this moment that Peruggia saw the museum director, Monsieur Montand, courting the favor of a haughty-looking older couple at the foot of the main staircase of the Denon wing. They had all been aware of the possibility of coming into contact with Montand but had decided—taking into account the vast size of the Louvre—that it was a risk worth taking.

  Unfortunately, they had no way of knowing that on Sundays the director made a point of hobnobbing with the society types who tended to visit following their morning church services.

  Peruggia pulled down the brim of his cap and guided Émile and Julia past the director and up the broad staircase leading to the headless Winged Victory of Samothrace. Reaching the imposing statue, they turned right into a narrow gallery lit by open windows overlooking the Cour du Sphinx, a large interior courtyard. As they continued past an exhibit of Egyptian photographs in the small La Salle Duchâtel, Peruggia nodded his head to draw their attention briefly to a pair of large closet doors set into the wall.

  They emerged into the Salon Carré, brilliantly lit by the skylights in the arched, rococo ceiling. The crowd jockeying for position in front of La Joconde—secure in her shadow box—was large even for a Sunday. Men tugged at their collars in the warm room while the women cooled themselves with fluted lace fans. A variation of the same sentence, “I didn’t realize it was so small,” was repeated in a myriad of languages. The three fell in behind the mass of people.

  “I could make a fortune in this crowd,” Julia whispered to Émile.

  He gave her a threatening look.

  “This is precisely why they don’t allow any copying on Sundays,” said Peruggia, peering over the backs of the crowd. “For one thing, there’s nowhere for an artist to sit.”

  “At least it’s easy to blend in,” commented Julia.

  The Italian checked his watch. “Almost closing time,” he said and motioned for the others to follow him.

  Peruggia led them back in the direction from which they came, but instead of turning into La Salle Duchâtel, he continued past it into the vast Galerie d’Apollon. Here they dallied beneath the ornate arched ceiling adorned with an array of panels paying homage to Louis XIV, the Sun King, until the last patron had exited. When the sound of footsteps died away, Peruggia nodded to the others and they retraced their steps into La Salle Duchâtel.

  “Here it is.” Peruggia indicated the double closet doors he had pointed out earlier. Below them on the ground floor, chiming bells announced closing time.

  Peruggia pulled open one of the supply closet doors. Holding it open, he looked around the gallery as Émile and Julia slipped inside. Satisfied they had not been seen, Peruggia followed them in, pulling the door closed behind him.

  The interior of the supply closet was pitch-black.

  “Let’s hope that device of yours works,” Julia said in a half whisper.

  “It’ll work,” Émile said, removing a metal cylinder from his pocket. “At least I hope it will.”

  Émile slid a switch forward on the cylinder. Instantly, a beam of light shot from his Ever-Ready electric hand torch.

  “There, you see? It works.”

  “But will it keep working?” Julia asked.

  “Of course it will,” Émile replied with some irritation, “it’s American. They’re very good at this sort of thing.”

  “I brought candles just in case,” Peruggia added.

  The museum allowed students and copyists to store their paraphernalia in the closet, which was the size of a small bedchamber. Boxes, easels, paint supplies, and canvases took up most of the space.

  “Where are we supposed to sleep?” Julia asked as Peruggia and Émile lowered themselves onto the floor.

  “Anywhere you can,” Peruggia answered.

  “You’re the one who wanted to come,” Émile reminded her.

  “Well, move your feet, you’re taking up half the closet,” Julia retorted, trying to lower herself into a comfortable position. “I still don’t understand why we can’t just wait a few hours and take the painting tonight.”

  “The floors creak,” Peruggia said. “The guards who patrol at night would hear us.”

  Julia gave Émile’s foot a kick. “You have to move your legs.”

  “Be quiet,” Peruggia snapped. “Listen.”

  Everyone held their breath. From the hallway outside came the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “The light!” Peruggia hissed.

  Émile fumbled for a moment before finding the switch and sliding it off, plunging them once again into what should have been complete darkness. However, a narrow vertical slit of light penetrated the room. One of the closet doors had swung open slightly.

  The footsteps stopped and the door creaked slowly open. Silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor was the form of a man wearing a guard’s kepi. He stood motionless, peering into the gloom.

  It was at this moment that Julia’s feet—which she had drawn up close to her body—suddenly slipped forward, making a scraping sound. The guard drew back in alarm. An instant later, a small animal scurried out of the door over the guard’s feet. Emitting an oath, the guard drew back and slammed the door shut. The footsteps rapidly receded down the hallway until the only noise in the room was the sound of their own breathing.

  “What was that?” Julia said in a tense whisper.

  “A rat,” Peruggia said.

  “You’re not afraid of rats, are you?” asked Émile.

  “Not with you to protect me.”

  “He was more afraid of us,” said Peruggia.

  “There’s another one,” said Julia suddenly.

  Émile jumped as he felt the thing scampering up his arm. With a muffled gasp, he fumbled for the switch on his electric torch. He slid it on and saw Julia’s fingers skittering up toward his shoulder.

  “Stop being such an idiot,” Émile growled. “You’ll give us away.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

  “If you’re finished playing games,” said Peruggia, “we need to get some sleep. We have much to do tomorrow.”

  They tried to maneuver themselves into comfortable positions, but it proved next to impossible. Julia settled into a cramped, almost fetal arrangement, grimacing as she inhaled the musty, humid air. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 24

  The match flared in the darkness, releasing a small cloud of sulfurous fumes. Peruggia held it up, and the weak halo of light revealed Émile curled up fast asleep, his head in Julia’s lap. Julia groaned slightly and shifted her body but resisted waking. Peruggia transferred the flame to a candle and pulled out his watch. After checking the time, he kicked Émile’s foot.

  “Wake up.”

  Émile didn’t stir, but Julia’s eyes opened, first one and then the other as she adjusted to the candlelight and reoriented herself. She looked down and saw Émile’s head in her lap. Smiling, she began to gently stroke his hair.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she purred with exaggerated familiarity.

  Émile shifted in search of a more comfortable position. His eyes flickered open, peered into the folds of Julia’s dress, and closed again.

  “Comfy?” she asked.

  Émile grunted. Then his eyes shot wide open. Suddenly very much awake, he jerked up to a sitting position.

  “What…” he stammered, “what was I … I didn’t realize…”

  “That’s all right,” said Julia with a grin. “At least you’re not a rat.”

  “You should have pushed me away.”

  “But you looked so peaceful,” she said with a mocking lilt to her voice, “just like a little baby.”

  “We need to get started,” said Peruggia.

  Peruggia removed half a baguette and a small flask of wine from his valise, which they quickly shared. Then they started removing their jackets as Peruggia produced three bundles of clothing. Julia immediately began to unbutton her shirt. Still a little dazed, Émile found himself staring at her.

 
“Maybe you should switch on your flashlight,” she said lightly. “You’ll have a better view.”

  Even in the dim light, she could see the mortified look on Émile’s face as he quickly turned away. “As if I would even be interested.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Peruggia, “these tunics will cover everything.”

  “It’s just as well,” Julia said, making a face at Émile as she rebuttoned her shirt.

  The two men pulled rough trousers over their own before donning the long white blouses and workmen’s caps that comprised the uniform of a museum maintenance man. Julia had to bunch up her skirt when she pulled on her pants. Luckily, the bulge around her waist was covered by the oversized blouse, which went down almost to her knees.

  “How do I look?” she asked, gathering her hair up beneath her cap.

  “Fine,” Peruggia answered.

  “Just try to keep your mouth shut,” Émile added pointedly. “Even though I know how difficult that is for you.”

  “Someone got up on the wrong side of the floor,” Julia commented.

  Peruggia stuffed their jackets along with the hat Julia had been wearing into his valise. “We’re ready. Make sure you’ve left nothing behind.”

  Satisfied, Peruggia kneeled at the door and listened. He nodded to the others and snuffed out the candle.

  Peruggia slowly eased the door open. The closet filled with the pale early morning light that seeped through the windows overlooking the Cour du Sphinx.

  “We have five minutes before the museum doors open,” he said quietly.

  Émile and Julia rose and followed Peruggia into La Salle Duchâtel. While their eyes adjusted to the daylight, they gingerly stretched their limbs in an attempt to work out the cramps left by the long, uncomfortable night. Peruggia checked Émile’s outfit, then Julia’s. Her blouse was large and her cap a bit too big for her head, but he nodded his satisfaction.

  “Émile is right,” Peruggia said. “Best to let us do all the talking. Are you both ready?”

  Julia and Émile looked at each other, then nodded their heads in assent.

  “Good,” said Peruggia. “It won’t be long now.”

  * * *

  Behind one of the museum’s smaller arched entrances on the quai du Louvre, François Picquet checked his pocket watch. It was almost time. He smoothed out his newly pressed suit. As head maintenance supervisor, he no longer had to wear a white blouse, and he looked forward to the day when he could afford a new suit. The one he wore was not exactly shabby, but it was dangerously close to becoming so.

  At precisely seven o’clock, he threw open the doors of the gate. Immediately, a small army of white-bloused workmen and drably bundled charwomen sorted themselves into a ragged line. The men came in first, each touching his cap or beret as his name was checked off against the list that Picquet held in his hands. The women followed, lifting their long skirts as they shuffled by. It was a particularly large group today as was always the case on the first Monday of the month.

  Outside, a guard addressed two very disappointed tourists. “I’m sorry,” he said officiously, “but the museum is always closed on Mondays.”

  * * *

  Upstairs on the first floor, Peruggia had positioned himself, Émile, and Julia at various places around the large landing presided over by the Winged Victory. He waited until a group of maintenance workers flowed up the wide staircase before nodding to the others. As the workers reached the main landing and began filtering off to the left and to the right, Peruggia and Émile stepped out and blended in with them. When Julia emerged from behind a statue, however, she collided with a large man balancing a length of pipe over his shoulder. The man uttered a muffled oath as she staggered backward.

  Julia regained her balance and forced herself to keep her face turned away from him. “Look where you’re going, you big oaf!” she said, keeping her voice as husky and low as she possibly could.

  The man spat out another epithet and continued on. Émile looked back and, with a terse jerk of his head, signaled her to keep up with them. The three walked back through La Salle Duchâtel, turned into the Salon Carré and up to La Joconde as maintenance workers continued to stream in behind them. For a moment, they stood silently before the painting, their gazes fixed on the lady’s penetrating yet evasive eyes.

  “Now what?” Julia whispered.

  “Now,” Peruggia said slowly and deliberately, without taking his eyes off the painting, “we take it off the wall.”

  Julia turned to him.

  “That’s it?” she said. “That’s your plan? Just take it off the wall?”

  Peruggia slowly turned his head and gave her a hard look. Then he looked at Émile and spoke in a low, warning tone. “And try not to drop it.”

  Julia looked around apprehensively as Peruggia put his valise down and he and Émile took positions on either side of the shadow box. Taking hold of the frame, the two men began to lift it from the wall.

  Émile grimaced. “I didn’t know it would be this heavy.”

  “I told you,” Peruggia said. “The shadow box alone weighs almost forty kilos.”

  Émile shook his head. “It’s not coming off.”

  “We have to lift together.”

  “Be careful,” Julia added.

  Émile gave her a look. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “Are you ready?” asked Peruggia. “I’ll count to three.”

  “You mean one, two, three, and then heave, or one—”

  But Peruggia had already begun his count. “One, two, three!”

  Together they lifted the shadow box off its pegs. Émile, however, had not prepared himself properly for the weight and he stumbled and faltered, trying desperately to maintain his grip. Julia stepped quickly forward and reached out to support the box, keeping it from slipping from his hands.

  “Put it down,” Peruggia said, and the three of them gently lowered it to the floor. Julia looked to Émile, but his eyes caught hers for only an instant.

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  Peruggia looked around. There were four other people in the room, all charwomen, two mopping the floor, and two cleaning the glass on other shadow boxes. None of them seemed particularly interested in the fact that the three of them had just removed the Louvre’s most celebrated painting from the wall.

  “Ready?” Peruggia asked.

  Émile nodded and the two men knelt down, renewed their grip on each end of the shadow box, and lifted it off the floor. Adjusting their grip to balance the weight between them, they shuffled down the gallery like a pair of furniture movers, Peruggia walking backward. Julia picked up Peruggia’s valise and followed. It took only a few steps to reach the end of the Salon Carré and the entrance to the Grande Galerie. However, before they could pass through, Picquet, the maintenance supervisor, suddenly stepped around the corner into their path.

  “What is this?” Picquet demanded. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Knowing he would be recognized, Peruggia could only lower his head and look down at the floor. Émile opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  “Well?”

  Julia took a step forward. “We’re taking it to the photographers’ studio,” she said in a raspy voice.

  The pause that followed seemed to stretch out forever.

  Picquet finally spoke. “Again? Don’t they have enough photographs already?”

  Julia shrugged. “I just do what I’m told.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Picquet asked. “One of the new boys?”

  “Just started today,” Julia answered.

  Picquet looked her up and down and then turned to the others.

  “All right.” He stepped aside. “Go ahead.” As they shuffled past him, Picquet added, “But tell them down there to let me know in advance the next time.”

  Once inside the Grande Galerie, the trio turned immediately to their right into a long, narrow gallery known as Salle des Sept-Mètres. Immediately to their righ
t was a double door with ACCÈS INTERDIT stenciled across it. Julia pulled one of the doors open and the two men carried the box onto a small landing above a stairwell leading downward. With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, Julia followed them in, closing the door behind her.

  “That was close,” Émile said as he and Peruggia lowered the shadow box to the ground.

  “I couldn’t speak,” said Peruggia. “He might have recognized my voice.”

  “And what was your excuse?” Julia asked Émile pointedly. “Cat get your tongue?”

  “We have work to do,” Peruggia said before Émile could respond.

  Peruggia knelt and removed some tools from his valise.

  “How much time do we have?” asked Julia.

  “With good luck, the whole morning,” Peruggia replied as he worked a slender crowbar into a join on the shadow box.

  “And what if someone decides to pay a visit to the photographers’ studio?” asked Émile with a glance at Julia.

  “That,” Peruggia began, trying to pry the back cover off the box, “would be more along the lines of bad luck.”

  “It’s all I could think of,” said Julia. “I remembered what Diego said about his friend.”

  “You did well,” said Peruggia as a nail popped out of the back cover and clinked to the floor. “Put your hand in there and pull,” he directed Émile.

  Émile placed his fingers in the widening gap between the rear cover and the box frame and tugged. With a creak, the cover came loose, revealing the back of the framed panel. Julia took note of the crucifixlike repair as Peruggia eased it from the box. He produced a small screwdriver and removed four small screws that attached metal straps to short wooden strips glued to the back of the panel, freeing it from its frame. He turned the panel over and stared at it for a moment. Then he looked up at Émile and Julia with an expression of quiet satisfaction.

  “Now it looks even smaller,” observed Julia.

  “Which is good for us,” said Peruggia.

  Émile stacked the discarded frame and the remains of the shadow box against the wall in a dark corner of the landing. Peruggia stood and slipped the panel beneath his long white blouse. On close examination, a rectangular outline could be discerned, but the painting would be well concealed from the casual observer.