Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  “I’m not entirely without means. The simple fact of the matter is that I wouldn’t know the first thing about … escaping, running away, for that’s what it would be. And for that I would need your help.”

  She averted her eyes as she lifted her glass and took another sip of wine.

  Valfierno felt a deluge of conflicting emotions. Was this what he wanted to hear above all else? Was the rush of excitement he felt telling him to embrace this turn of events with all his heart? Or was this a warning sign, an emotional alarm cautioning him to not get involved in a situation that could only be fraught with unforeseen complications?

  “Ellen,” he finally began, surprised that he had difficulty forming his thoughts, “much as I would like to help you in some way, I simply couldn’t afford to draw so much undue attention to myself. You must be able to understand that.”

  She nodded, accepting the obvious logic in his statement. Valfierno could sense how difficult this was for her; bravado did not come easily to this woman. She took another sip of wine as if trying to build up her courage.

  “Edward,” she began slowly, deliberately, “there is much I know about you, and I am sure that much of what I know would be of great interest to the police, to the authorities.” The words came out hesitantly; there was not a hint of threat in her voice.

  “This is true,” Valfierno responded calmly, “but you’d never be able to say anything without implicating your own husband’s role in the crime.”

  “And you really think that would deter me?”

  Valfierno let out a sigh. “You surprise me,” he said with an air of gentle indignation. “I have perhaps pictured you as many things, but never as a blackmailer.”

  She let out a small, ironic chuckle. “Neither have I. Perhaps I picked it up from my exposure to some of my husband’s dealings. And even, perhaps, from you.”

  “Now, you’re not going to accuse me of turning you into a cynic, are you?” Valfierno smiled. “As I recall, the little plan to coerce your husband to consummate the deal we had in Buenos Aires was your idea.”

  “Or at least you allowed me to think it was,” she said.

  “Well, I don’t know about that, but—”

  “If I may be frank again,” she continued, “even though you and I have met only a few times, I had imagined—perhaps even hoped—that you were not unsympathetic to my situation.”

  “I can assure you I am very sympathetic, but what you’re suggesting—”

  “And furthermore,” she continued, nervously averting her eyes, “that you might even welcome the opportunity to help me.”

  Valfierno said nothing. He lifted his glass, gently swirling the dark red liquid. He had learned long ago how to hide the doubt, turmoil, even fear that were unavoidable in his line of work. And though that carefully crafted façade had developed some fine cracks in the past few months, he was still sure of one thing: A man cannot control how he feels about the world, but he can always control the actions he takes in response to them.

  “I see,” she said. “Your silence is answer enough, which leaves me no choice other than to promise to take more drastic measures to force your assistance in this matter.”

  Valfierno looked at her. She could be bluffing, of course, but somehow he didn’t think so. He had dealt with threats—if this indeed was a threat—many times before. He had always found it best to treat them as nothing more than welcome challenges.

  “Ellen,” he began, trying to sound like a kindly professor enlightening a naïve student, “you say that you think you know a lot about me, but I wonder if you really do. I have done things in my life that are, at the very least, regrettable. I have been threatened—if I may use so strong a word—before, but I can assure you that those threats have never had their desired effect. I have always done—without hesitation—that which was necessary to counter such attempts at coercion. I will not bore you with the details of these episodes, but I suggest that there are two questions you must ask yourself at this moment. First, in order to protect myself, how do you know that I have never gone to the extreme, even to the point of, shall we say, eliminating all threats against me? And second, and more to the point, if that is the case, how do you know that I would not do the same again?”

  His words did not have the effect he had hoped for.

  “I believe that there is also something you do not understand,” Ellen said coolly. “Even death holds no fear for me. On the contrary, I would much prefer it to returning to life with my husband.”

  She lifted her glass and drained it. And Valfierno knew that—for the moment at least—she had won.

  Chapter 31

  Four days later, the telephone rang in the study of Joshua Hart’s Newport mansion. Hart picked up the black candlestick base, removed the receiver from its cradle, and put it to his ear. His voice was brusque and impatient.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Taggart.”

  “Yes, yes, what have you discovered?”

  “I made some inquiries of the staff of the gentleman in question.”

  Shortly after taking possession of the Mona Lisa, Hart was nagged by a vague suspicion that something was not as it should be. At first he had been elated in the knowledge that he now owned the ultimate masterpiece; at last his collection was complete. No other man on earth could match it.

  But he kept going back in his mind to the issue of the passport. He had once again compared the forged document to the replacement. Other than the signs of age on the forgery, the two were truly identical in every aspect. This meant one of two things: Either Valfierno’s accomplices were capable of making flawless copies—even going so far as to artificially age the documents—or somehow the man had managed to steal his actual passport and pass it off as a forged copy. If it had been the latter, well, business is business; he himself had resorted to underhanded means many times to reach a position of power over his rivals when it came to negotiations.

  But if it had been the former, if Valfierno did have resources capable of creating perfect forgeries, why would he stop at passports?

  Hart began to examine his collection piece by piece. Most of the works of art had been procured by the persuasive Argentinean gentleman. Valfierno had always been quick to explain that museums had high-quality reproductions they could put up at a moment’s notice, but why, out of all the works that Valfierno had obtained, had there never been a single report of a theft until now? Could it be because Hart had insisted that there had to be absolute proof this time that the Mona Lisa had indeed been stolen?

  Plagued by misgivings, Hart had put Taggart to work. He remembered the name of the potential client Valfierno whispered into his ear on his previous visit—a well-known and powerful business rival. That would be a good place to start, and if anyone could root out information, it would be Taggart.

  “I found one of his houseboys willing to part with information for pocket change,” Taggart reported. “Shortly before delivering the package to you, Valfierno visited the gentleman in question with a package of similar dimensions. He left not long after with a full carpetbag.”

  Hart began breathing heavily. “What exactly did he deliver?”

  “The houseboy saw it briefly. I showed him the photograph. It was the same one Valfierno delivered to you.”

  Hart’s hands gripped the base and the receiver of the phone so tightly that his arms began to shake. So it was true. Valfierno had tricked him. He had made two copies, even more, for all he knew. How many of the damn things did Valfierno sell?

  Taggart broke the silence. “That’s not all. You asked me to check up on Mrs. Hart.”

  Hart was only half listening, his mind consumed with thoughts of Valfierno and how he had let the man make a fool of him.

  “I found out,” Taggart continued, “that she had traveled to New York by train to stay with a relative.”

  Hart tried to focus on what Taggart was saying.

  “New York?” said Hart. “But she wasn’t supposed to lea
ve Philadelphia.”

  “I made some inquiries,” said Taggart, “and discovered that she booked passage on the steamship Prinz Joachim. It sailed three days ago for Le Havre.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Taggart paused before speaking. “When she boarded the ship she was in the company of a certain foreign gentleman.”

  A crackle of electricity snaked through the line.

  “Valfierno…” Hart said, the name hissing out of him as if his lungs had been punctured. The silence on the other end of the line was all the confirmation he needed.

  “Mr. Taggart,” Hart said, his voice tightly controlled.

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to stay where you are. You will be hearing from me shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hart replaced the receiver and slowly put the phone down onto the desktop.

  * * *

  Joshua Hart walked quickly through his subterranean gallery, his shoulders stooped, his eyes fixed on the floor to avoid looking at his collection arrayed on the walls. Everything had changed; his suspicions had taken hold and formed a thick mass of dread like a rock in his stomach. He strode past the Mona Lisa to the small door at the rear of the gallery. Producing the key, he unlocked the door and walked in, flicking on a light. The room was small, nine feet by twelve, empty except for three things: a stool, an easel, and a round table with a small ornately carved box on it. A framed blank canvas rested on the easel.

  Hart stood motionless for a moment before lowering himself onto the stool. He stared at the empty canvas for a full minute. Then he turned his attention to the box, lifting the hinged lid. It contained a row of paint tubes and a collection of brushes of various sizes. A child-size artist’s palette fit neatly into the lid. He gingerly took out a fine-tipped brush. He contemplated it for a moment, rolling it in his fingers. Then he removed the kidney-shaped palette, stained and spotted with old, dried splotches of paint. He ran his thumb over the thumbhole, sized for a child and too small for him.

  Joshua Hart sat frozen for a moment before carefully replacing the palette and brush in the box and closing the lid. He stared at the blank canvas for a few moments. Then, with a sudden violent sweep of his arm, he knocked over the small table, scattering the contents of the box across the floor. He stood abruptly and left the room, walking directly to his latest acquisition. He reached up and removed it from its pegs. The Mona Lisa. Priceless. The most magnificent possession any man could hope to claim as his own, a treasure that had persevered through the centuries while mere mortals hurried to the conclusion of their brief, meaningless lives. And now it was his. No man would ever lay eyes on it again. He and he alone stood at the center of its universe.

  And, at that moment, he had absolutely no doubt that it was a fake. The seed of that doubt—so tiny that he had given it only a fleeting thought—had taken root and flowered into a terrible realization: He had been taken in, had been made a complete fool of, by a man who had now spirited away his wife.

  He looked at the woman in the painting, at her faintly condescending smile, those slightly hooded eyes, distant and mocking. She looked directly at him, smug and sure of herself. He put the panel on the floor, leaning it at an angle against the wall. Calmly and mechanically, he raised one leg and, with all his might, thrust his foot into the woman’s face. A crack snaked at an angle through one eye and across her pursed lips. Struggling to maintain his balance, he drew back his foot and thrust it forward one more time, shattering and splintering the panel where her face had been.

  * * *

  A short while later, Joshua Hart sat exhausted and wet with perspiration in his study, the base of the phone in one hand, the earpiece in the other.

  “Yes, Mr. Hart,” came Taggart’s voice.

  “We are going to find them,” Hart said slowly and deliberately. “And when we do, after we have recovered my money … are you listening, Mr. Taggart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to see to it that, for his sins, this man, Valfierno, will suffer and die. Can you do that for me, Mr. Taggart?”

  There was a brief silence before Taggart replied. “Yes, Mr. Hart. I can do that.”

  Chapter 32

  “Your head is drooping,” Diego said. “Keep it steady. Can’t you just look straight ahead?”

  He sat on a stool in his basement studio on rue Serpente, one leg slightly raised, his foot resting on a crate on the floor next to him.

  Across from him, on the other side of his easel, Julia Conway sat perched on another stool. Except for the long woolen scarf that wrapped around her neck and draped down her back, she was naked.

  Julia raised her head, the nagging neck pain reminding her that she had been sitting for almost two hours now. She had never posed for a painting before. She had always imagined it would be easy work. After all, you just sat there doing nothing. But now her back was aching, her bottom was sore, her legs were numb, and she was getting restless, not to mention cold.

  At first she had balked at taking her clothes off, but Diego had shown no interest in painting her any other way. He hadn’t seemed suggestive or flirtatious about it; indeed, clinical and disinterested would best describe his manner. He had flirted with her before, but as soon as she had agreed to sit for him, his demeanor had changed. He was all business, or perhaps all art would be a better way to put it.

  Not that she was particularly attracted to him. He was a bit too intense for her liking and, though his stocky physique and penetrating eyes lent him a certain animal presence, he really wasn’t her type at all. Still, she felt vaguely insulted that he seemed more interested in his art than in her.

  So why, she wondered, had she agreed to pose for him in the first place? The most obvious answer was boredom. She had been living for months at Madame Charneau’s house and, though she had spent some time walking around the city and sightseeing, her strolls had mainly served to tempt her to ply her trade in the ubiquitous crowds of tourists.

  She had been particularly amused by the seedy Pigalle Quarter, which she had visited by way of a series of tram cars after being warned off by Madame Charneau. Having had a lot of contact with prostitutes during her stint in Charleston, she instantly recognized the character of the streets leading into the place Pigalle. Indeed, within minutes of stepping off the tram, she had not only been solicited for sex by a very attractive young woman but also importuned twice to join the ranks of the poor grisettes newly arrived from the provinces and currently earning their living as filles de joie.

  She had eventually found her way up through the narrow warren of streets to the foot of the butte Montmartre leading up to the Basilica of Sacré-Coeur, the Roman Catholic cathedral that resembled nothing so much as a Muslim mosque. She had ridden the funicular railway to the top and prided herself on easily recognizing the small army of pickpockets preying on the tourists. The highlight had been when a young man accidentally tripped in front of her, smearing her dress with syrup from the babas au rhum he held in his hand. He had barely begun his profuse apologies before she spun around and smacked his accomplice in the face with the same handbag he had been about to snatch. She had particularly enjoyed berating the two failed thieves for the amusement of the tourists.

  She had been tempted to demonstrate to these amateurs how it was really done. The problem was that she had promised Valfierno to resist the urge, and she felt obliged to honor that pledge.

  Up to a point, anyway.

  Riding the funicular down from the basilica, she found herself sitting behind a large German tourist complaining loudly to his poor wife about something or other and disturbing the entire car. As the passengers filed out at the bottom of the hill, she fell in behind him and relieved him of his wallet. The man deserved it, she reasoned, and she had to stay in practice. Still, in deference to her promise to Valfierno, moments after stepping off the car, she tossed the wallet into the violin case of a young boy sawing gamely away at his instrument for tourist coins.


  She had amused herself by observing the different techniques used at the various attractions around the city. Pickpockets who worked the crowds waiting to ascend the Arc du Triomphe, for instance, tended to pose as well-heeled boulevardiers who distracted young couples with charming conversation while an accomplice relieved the gentleman of his wallet; those working the hordes milling about the legs of the Eiffel Tower seemed to be adept at surreptitiously flinging pigeon shit onto fancy frock coats and kindly offering to wipe it off while a cohort lightened the gentleman’s load; the busy sidewalks of Saint-Germain featured groups of young boys, two of whom would stage a fight while the others worked the gathering crowd of spectators. All very entertaining, but her inability to participate made Julia lose interest, and before she knew it she had wearied of the many diversions of Paris.

  “Aren’t you done yet?” she asked Diego petulantly. “When can I see it?”

  “Impatience is art’s greatest enemy,” he replied in an annoyed monotone. “Would you hurry the blossoming of a rose?”

  “Well, this rose is starting to wilt.”

  She had been staring at his zinc tub the whole time. “Do you really bathe in that filthy thing?” she asked with a disdainful grimace.

  “On occasion.”

  The man was hardly paying any attention to her. It seemed impossible to get a rise out of him.

  “And why do you have artificial flowers anyway?” she said, referring to the arrangement in the pot sitting on a stool next to the tub. “Can’t you afford real ones?”

  “I like the colors better,” he answered in a quiet, distracted tone.

  “Anyway,” she persisted, “my ass is sore.”

  * * *

  Diego smiled. He had been, at that very moment, trying to do justice to that particularly pleasing part of her anatomy. But his smile faded. It was not going well at all and he wasn’t sure why. It was a perfectly acceptable—if unfinished—work of art, he thought. It did justice to a very attractive subject; there was nothing wrong with it at all. And then he realized what the problem was: There was nothing wrong with the painting. It was like hundreds of others he had done in the past few years. His colleagues—whose regard for his work had changed from initial suspicion and even animosity to an annoyingly passive acceptance—would regard it as just another addition to his growing body of work. This was not the reason he had isolated himself from the world he knew in order to break new ground.