Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  Peruggia nodded to the others and led them down the stairs. After a number of winding turns they came to another door.

  “This is the door to the courtyard,” said Peruggia.

  He grabbed the handle and tried to turn it. As expected, it was locked.

  Peruggia turned to Émile. “The key.”

  Émile removed a shiny new brass key from his pocket and placed it into the lock. For a moment he had trouble getting it in.

  “Hurry,” said Julia.

  He tried again and this time the key slipped in all the way. He turned it. It moved only a fraction before stopping dead. Émile added more force, but no matter how hard he tried, the key would not turn in the lock.

  Peruggia and Julia stood frozen, staring at him.

  “It’s a little stiff,” Émile said, straining to turn the key. It still wouldn’t budge.

  “I thought you said you tried it before,” said Julia.

  “I never said I tried it.” Émile frantically jiggled the key. “I wanted to, but there were always too many people around.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Julia groaned.

  “It’s an exact copy.” Émile put all his might behind it this time. “It should work.”

  Still nothing.

  “Maybe you took the wrong key,” Émile said to Julia.

  “No,” said Peruggia, “the large keys the guards carry should work on all outside doors.”

  An edge of panic crept into Émile’s voice. “Then maybe they’ve changed the lock.”

  “We need to get that door open now,” said Julia.

  Peruggia pointed to the valise that Julia was holding. “Hand me that.”

  He snapped open the valise and removed a large screwdriver. Pushing Émile aside, he knelt down and began to unscrew the door handle plate.

  “I’m telling you,” said Émile, “there must be something wrong with the lock. The key should have worked.”

  “Listen,” Julia whispered, placing a hand on Peruggia’s shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

  They all froze. Julia looked from Émile to Peruggia as the cold grip of fear clutched her heart.

  A clatter of footsteps floated up from the stairwell. Someone was coming.

  Chapter 25

  “Hurry,” Émile whispered frantically.

  Peruggia continued to work the screwdriver. “I’ve almost got it,” he said.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  “What do we do now?” asked Julia, her voice choked with desperation.

  “Santa María!” Peruggia cursed as the doorknob came loose and clattered to the floor. At the same moment, a man turned the corner, stepped up onto the landing, and stopped dead in his tracks.

  He was in his sixties with thinning gray hair and a large white handlebar mustache. Taking in the scene through rheumy, bulging eyes, he resembled nothing so much as a Rembrandt portrait come to life. His stained blouse and large plumber’s wrench clutched in one hand revealed his profession.

  No one moved or spoke. The plumber looked down at the exposed lock mechanism and sighed.

  “You’d think they would have fixed this door by now,” he said with a resigned weariness. “Do you have a pair of pliers?”

  Exchanging glances with the others, Peruggia took a pair of pliers from his valise and offered it to him. The plumber put down his wrench, took the pliers, and clamped them onto the mechanism. With his other hand, he produced a key from a pocket of his blouse and inserted it into the lock. He worked both the pliers and the key until he heard a distinct and satisfying click. Then he pushed the door ajar, letting in a sharp beam of outside light.

  “Better leave it open,” the old plumber said as he handed the pliers back to Peruggia, “in case anyone else needs to go through.”

  And with a weary shake of his head, he replaced the key in his pocket, picked up his wrench, and continued up the stairs.

  The three watched him disappear around a corner before turning to look at each other.

  “Well,” Julia said, stepping through the door past the two men, “after me.”

  “That was a bit of luck,” said Émile, following her out.

  Peruggia only grunted his agreement as he trailed Émile into a small, open courtyard ringed with thick, tall bushes. At one end of the courtyard, a long arched passageway led out to the street. Through this small arcade they could see the quai du Louvre and the Pont du Carrousel spanning the Seine.

  “This courtyard is not accessible to the main areas of the museum so it’s always unguarded,” said Peruggia.

  “Is that so,” said Julia. “Then who’s that?”

  Julia nodded in the direction of the passageway. Peruggia and Émile turned in time to see a uniformed guard step out of a small glass-enclosed kiosk set into the wall halfway up the arcade. They retreated behind the bushes as the guard stretched his arms and shoulders before disappearing back inside.

  “We’ll never get past him,” said Émile.

  “This is something new,” added Peruggia, “and really bad luck for us.”

  “Then it’s time we started making our own luck,” said Julia. She removed her cap, pulled her workman’s blouse up and over her head, and stepped out of her rough pants. Handing the clothes to Émile, she straightened her skirt and shook out her hair.

  “Get my jacket and hat out.”

  Peruggia removed the articles from the valise and she put them on, adjusting them as best she could.

  “Give me five minutes,” she said.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Émile.

  “Keep your eyes on me and you’ll find out at the same time that I do.”

  She edged along the wall to the archway and slowly poked her head around the corner for a view of the guard’s kiosk and the street beyond. He stood inside, hunched over a tall desk with his back to her. Turning briefly to look at Peruggia and Émile, she took a deep breath. Then she carefully stepped out from behind the wall, making a point of facing into the courtyard with her back toward the passageway and the street. Looking over her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the kiosk, she began to tiptoe slowly backward.

  Émile and Peruggia exchanged puzzled looks. “What does she think she’s doing?” Émile whispered.

  Peruggia shrugged and shook his head.

  With measured steps, Julia moved steadily in reverse, straining her neck to keep the back of the guard’s head in sight. If only he would remain like that a little longer. Only a few more steps to go.

  The man shifted his position. Julia stopped, holding her breath, but he did not turn. She waited a few seconds before she resumed walking backward. After five or six more steps, she was almost level with the kiosk when her foot landed on a large pebble, causing it to scrape across the cobblestones beneath her feet. A split second before the guard turned, she turned her head to face forward and reversed direction so that now she was walking normally from the street into the courtyard.

  “Mademoiselle,” the guard said with surprise, “I didn’t see you come in. You can’t enter through here.”

  “Oh,” said Julia, her eyes wide with innocence. “Isn’t this the entrance to the museum?”

  “No, it most certainly is not,” he replied, stepping out of his kiosk, “and besides, the museum is closed today.”

  The guard was perhaps forty and sported a trim pencil-thin mustache. His tight-fitting uniform, shiny with age, had probably fitted him perfectly ten years ago.

  “Oh, but I had so hoped to see all the pretty paintings,” she cooed.

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” the guard said, “but you must come back tomorrow and use one of the main entrances.”

  “Oh, but I’m here now,” she said, pouting. “Are you sure you can’t bend the rules a little … just for me?”

  “It’s … out of the question,” the man said, his officious façade cracking a little. “The museum is closed.”

  “What a pity,” she said in resignation. “And, on top of that, I think I’m lost.”r />
  “You are at the Louvre Museum, mademoiselle, as you must know.”

  He tugged at his tunic in a vain attempt to appear more authoritative.

  “Of course. But I was supposed to visit a friend afterward on rue de Chartres, and I have no idea where it is.”

  The guard suddenly brightened. “Ah, now there I can help you. I have a map.”

  “A map,” Julia repeated like an excited child. “What luck that you happened to be here. And with a map no less!”

  “Of course,” he said, beaming. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  The kiosk was small, barely large enough for two people. The guard went in first. As Julia stepped in to follow him, she glanced back into the courtyard. Peruggia was watching her, his head sticking out slightly from behind a bush. With a small gesture of her hand, she beckoned him on.

  “Now let’s see, rue de Chartres,” said the guard, unfolding a map onto the narrow shelf that served as his desk. “I must admit, I’m not familiar with it.”

  “Oh, it’s very small,” Julia said. “Perhaps it’s not even on your map.”

  “No,” he said with great confidence, “if it’s in Paris, it will be on the map.”

  As the guard squinted at the unfolded map, Julia stole a look behind her. Peruggia and Émile were slowly and silently tiptoeing up the arcade toward the street. She carefully shifted her position slightly to help block them from the guard’s view as they came abreast of the kiosk.

  “You are so kind, monsieur,” Julia said in a lilting voice.

  “De rien, mademoiselle. Now, if I could only find your street…”

  Julia glanced backward again. Peruggia and Émile were almost level with the door of the kiosk but in a matter of seconds would be in a position where it would be almost impossible for the guard not to see them.

  Julia looked around the tiny area. She thrust her arm in front of the guard’s downturned face and pointed to the back wall. “What’s that?”

  “Eh?” the guard said, his view of the passageway blocked by Julia’s outstretched arm.

  “That. On the wall.”

  The guard turned to look. Julia’s finger pointed to a sheet of paper pinned to a vertical wooden support. Scribbled on it was a list of names and times.

  “Why, that’s our schedule, mademoiselle, with the names of all the guards and their times of duty.”

  “Which one is you?” Julia asked, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

  “That’s me there,” the guard said, proudly pointing. “Alfred Bellew. Seven in the morning till twelve.”

  “How exciting,” Julia exclaimed, glancing backward in time to see Émile and Peruggia walk through the far entrance into the street.

  “Indeed,” said the guard, a little unsure how to react. “But the map … we still have to find your street.”

  Julia looked down and randomly picked out a street name near the museum.

  “Oh, but I am being too silly,” she pronounced. “It is rue Bonaparte, not rue de Chartres.”

  “But that is right here.” The guard indicated a spot on the map. “Just cross the Pont du Carrousel and turn left. The street will be the second one on your right. You can’t miss it.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, monsieur,” Julia purred as she stepped from the kiosk and backed away toward the street. “You are so kind, and may I say, very handsome as well.”

  This had the desired effect of flustering the man even more. “Well, you may say it, of course, but you are the one who is kind, as well as quite enchanting, if I may be so bold.”

  “I believe you are trying to charm me, monsieur,” Julia said with a flirtatious smile and a disapproving wag of her finger. “And, if that is so, then you are succeeding.”

  By now she had reached the street, the guard following behind her like a smitten puppy dog.

  “Perhaps, when I return tomorrow to see the paintings,” she added, “I may come and pay you a visit.”

  “I would be delighted, mademoiselle,” he said. “In fact, come to this gate and I’ll get you in without having to pay.”

  She started down the street and glanced back at him. “I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

  “I’ll be expecting you,” he called out.

  With a final flourish, she threw him a kiss. The man watched her for a moment as she crossed the street onto the Pont du Carrousel. Then he let out a heavy sigh before reluctantly returning to his post.

  Walking briskly across the bridge, Julia scanned the throng of people walking along the quai Voltaire, but there was no sign of Émile and Peruggia. No doubt Peruggia was hurrying on ahead to meet Madame Charneau, who was waiting for them in Valfierno’s motorcar on rue des Saints-Pères. Émile would stay with him, knowing it was imperative to keep him in sight now that he had the painting.

  Reaching the Left Bank, she passed a street artist hawking a number of crudely rendered paintings.

  “Special today,” the man said, holding out a pathetic copy of La Joconde. “Only fifteen francs for the lady!”

  “No, thank you, monsieur,” Julia said, hurrying past him. “I already have one.”

  Chapter 26

  Madame Charneau had barely opened the door to her house in the cour de Rohan when Peruggia pushed past her into the foyer. He removed the panel from beneath his blouse and bounded up the stairs, hugging it tightly to his chest. The others entered the house in time to hear the door to his room close behind him.

  “What’s gotten into him?” Émile said quietly. “He hasn’t said a word since we left the museum.”

  “I thought we’d have more time to make the switch,” said Madame Charneau.

  “Where did you put the copy?” Émile asked Julia.

  “In the attic,” she replied. “We’re going to have to work fast.”

  Julia led Émile up the stairs. On the first floor, they stopped at Peruggia’s room. Émile nodded to Julia, who knocked on the door. After a moment, the door swung open a few inches and Peruggia peered out.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  Julia thought she detected an element of suspicion in his tone.

  “To come in,” Émile said as cheerfully as he could.

  “Why?”

  “To celebrate, of course,” Julia chimed in.

  Peruggia hesitated for a moment before pulling the door open to let them in. He immediately went to an open trunk that had been pulled out from beneath his bed. The painting lay on the mattress faceup. Peruggia knelt down, lifted the panel, and placed it into the trunk.

  “We should think of a safe place to hide it,” Julia suggested.

  “Perhaps we should store it in the attic,” said Émile, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

  Peruggia said nothing. He covered the panel with some folded shirts, closed the lid, and locked it with a key.

  “It will be safe here,” he said, sliding the trunk back under the bed. He rose and slipped the key into his jacket pocket. “I’m not going to leave this room. I’ll take my meals in here.”

  “That’s hardly necessary,” said Émile. “I really think the attic—”

  But Peruggia stopped him with a stony look. “I told the marquis I would wait, and I will. But not forever. The next time I leave this room, it will be to return La Gioconda to its rightful home.”

  “Of course, but…” Émile began before Julia cut him off.

  “I’m sure with Signore Peruggia watching over it, it will be perfectly safe,” she said with a pointed look to Émile. “After all, without him, it would still be hanging in the museum. We are all grateful indeed.” And then, without warning, she turned and threw her arms around Peruggia, catching him by surprise with a tight hug.

  “Well, I think we all must be tired,” she said, drawing back, collecting Émile, and retreating to the door. “Perhaps we should postpone our celebration for another time. Thank you for all you’ve done, signore.”

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Per
uggia sat down on the bed. Still wearing his shoes, he swung his legs up and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

  * * *

  Émile pulled Julia away from the door and whispered frantically, “Now what?”

  Julia opened the palm of her hand, revealing Peruggia’s trunk key. Émile smiled.

  “I’ll have to return it to him when I bring up his meal,” she said, “so be quick. And make sure you do it right this time.”

  “Don’t worry,” Émile said with confidence. “This one will be my masterpiece.”

  Part IV

  A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!

  —Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part I

  Chapter 27

  For Louis Beroud, Tuesdays never varied. He prided himself on being first in line when the Louvre opened its doors, and he always spent the day seated in front of this masterpiece or that trying to emulate the brushstrokes of the artist. This morning, however, he was delayed by an issue with his landlady. She was going to raise the rent on the first of the following month. This was an announcement with potentially catastrophic implications.

  Monsieur Beroud designed his life to be as predictable as a mathematical equation. Ten years ago a distant uncle had died and left him a modest inheritance. It was enough to free him from the normal constraints of steady employment and allow him to indulge himself in his favorite pastime, painting. This did not, however, come without sacrifice on his part. His endowment would last only if he lived under the most spartan conditions. He rented a one-room garret in the Montparnasse district, assembled his wardrobe from only six articles of clothing, and dined solely on soup, bread, cheese, and the cheapest of cheap red wine. These economies bought him time to spend his days wandering about Paris painting whatever took his fancy. Tuesdays were always spent at the Louvre. Though his talents were minimal, his regard for them was prodigious, and this was enough for Monsieur Beroud.

  Taking the time to remind his landlady that he had been a loyal tenant for eight years and had no intention of paying more than he already did caused him to arrive at the museum ten minutes after the doors had opened. By the time he reached the supply closet in La Salle Duchâtel, a line had already formed and he was forced to wait for the artists who had arrived earlier to gather their tools before he could collect his. Under the watchful eye of a museum guard, the group of eight or nine men gathered up their easels, paints, and brushes from the closet. When Beroud’s turn finally came, he saw one man whose name he had forgotten still rooting about in the supplies.