Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  “No, Inspector,” the young man persisted. “This one is a former employee of the Louvre.”

  Carnot looked up.

  “Come in. Tell me.”

  The gendarme walked in, delighted that his news had struck a nerve.

  “I was there when the telegram came in. It was put into a pile with all the other leads, but I remembered the name. Last year there was a fight in one of the cafés in the Saint-Martin district. The man who started the fight was an Italian named Peruggia, and I remembered that he was employed as a maintenance worker at the Louvre.”

  “Most observant,” said Carnot. “Good work … what was your name again?”

  “Brousard, Inspector,” the young man said, a little deflated.

  “Of course, Brousard,” Carnot quickly said.

  “I was thinking,” Brousard continued, “that perhaps you should send someone to interview the man, I mean before the information reaches the commissioner.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Carnot. “In fact”—he rose briskly to his feet—“I think I will go myself.”

  “But Inspector, I thought the commissioner confined you to desk duty.”

  “Did you?” Carnot said as he grabbed his hat and coat from a stand. “Brousard, you’ve done a good job. If this lead pays off, it will go very well for me. And, of course, I will make sure it goes very well for you also.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Brousard said, drawing himself up straight.

  “Oh,” Carnot added before leaving, “and if the commissioner inquires of my whereabouts, just tell him I’ve gone out for a croissant.”

  Chapter 37

  The docking of the Prinz Joachim in Le Havre had been delayed by fog, so by the time the train left for Paris it was already full daylight. Valfierno and Ellen Hart spent most of the journey in silence. He buried himself in a pile of newspapers; she stared out the window observing the endless rolling countryside dotted with small farms and villages, each marked by its own distinctive church steeple. The contrast of the trees rushing by just outside the window with the more stately passage of the distant hills and fields had an almost hypnotic effect, allowing her to empty her mind for a while.

  She thought of the last night on the boat. She could easily rationalize the kiss as a gesture of gratitude, a way of thanking him for helping her. But if she was being honest with herself, she knew there had been something else, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was. Had she wanted him to sweep her into his arms and declare undying love? Had it been a test of some kind? If so, had he failed? He had done nothing in response, or very little, anyway. It was hard to remember now. He hadn’t drawn away, but he hadn’t given any indication that the kiss had been particularly welcome either.

  She tried to push away the thought. It was useless to speculate. She had thanked him, that was all. Another thought brought a wry private smile to her face. Perhaps she had only succeeded in making a complete fool of herself.

  “We’ll soon be approaching the outskirts of the city,” Valfierno said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  She looked at him briefly, then turned her face back to the window.

  * * *

  Disembarking at the Gare d’Orsay, Ellen felt a rush of excitement as the frantic energy of the city began to sweep over her. She had been in Paris twice before, once when she was eleven years old with both her parents, and once when she was twelve with just her mother, before she had slipped into her coma. On that occasion, they had visited the Exposition Universelle of 1889, but even seeing the newly constructed Eiffel Tower, and the giant halls displaying the endless wonders of the industrial age, did not make her feel as exhilarated as she was now. The sense of adventure and possibility made her heartbeat quicken with anticipation, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since she was a little girl. It was pure happiness, even tinged as it was by the specter of an uncertain future.

  Exiting the terminus, Valfierno quickly found a motor taxi. What little baggage they had was loaded into the vehicle and he directed the driver to take them directly to Madame Charneau’s house. Valfierno traveled with two valises, one of cloth, one of leather. He always kept a particularly watchful eye on the leather valise, and Ellen imagined it contained the fruits of his most recent labors.

  The drive through Saint-Germain-des-Prés was far too short for Ellen’s taste. She stared with fascination at the endless parade of electric trolleys, horse-drawn carts, motorcars competing with sleek ponies conveying elegant gray-bearded gentlemen in their four-wheeled barouches, men in sandwich boards touting the wonders of the latest grand magasin, and tradesmen toting high-backed wicker baskets. Styles had of course changed since her last visit. It was a new century. Women no longer accentuated their bosoms, wasplike waists, and hips into exaggerated hourglass shapes; now the lines were longer and slimmer, fur-trimmed coats taming their bodies into sleek straight lines. Hats were smaller and no longer blossomed into veritable mobile gardens of flowers. One thing hadn’t changed: the women being led by small dogs at the end of taut leashes, keeping their balance with tasseled silk parasols, still dressing their pets in tiny outfits to match their own.

  If only the journey itself would last forever, she thought as the taxi pulled into the cour de Rohan.

  * * *

  “Of course,” Madame Charneau said with a welcoming smile, “any friend of the marquis is welcome to stay here as my guest for as long as she wishes.”

  Ellen sat across from Madame Charneau in the living room of her boardinghouse. Valfierno stood behind Ellen, while Émile and Julia observed from opposite sides of the room.

  “You’re very kind, madame,” Ellen said. “I’ll pay, of course.”

  “Only here for a few minutes”—Madame Charneau chuckled for the benefit of the others—“and she’s already insulting me.”

  “You are most kind,” Ellen said, a slight flush on her face.

  “Well,” Madame Charneau began, “you’ve had a long journey. You must be tired. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Ellen rose and glanced at Émile and Julia in turn, smiling her gratitude.

  Turning to Valfierno, she said, “Perhaps, Edward, I will see you later.”

  Valfierno’s only response was a slight bow of acknowledgment.

  “This way, chérie,” Madame Charneau said, leading her from the room.

  As soon as Madame Charneau and Ellen disappeared up the staircase, Julia started peppering Valfierno with excited questions. “What in the world is going on? How on earth did she end up here? What happened? Tell me everything!”

  “Not now, Julia, please,” said Valfierno.

  “But—”

  “Is it all there?” Émile broke in, focusing his attention on the leather valise at Valfierno’s feet.

  Valfierno was relieved to change the subject. “Minus some necessary expenses and a reasonable incentive to make the customs officials look the other way, and there it will stay for now. We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves by trying to change such a large amount of currency, certainly not before the painting has been safely returned to the museum.”

  “Then let’s take it back now,” Émile said. “We’ll just leave it on their doorstep or something.”

  “All in good time,” Valfierno said. “It will be done soon, but it must be done right. We have to make certain there will be absolutely no connection, no trail that can lead back to us.” After a pause, he asked, “Where is Peruggia?” The question was casual, almost an afterthought.

  Valfierno caught the furtive glance the two shared.

  “Well?”

  “He’s gone,” Émile said, a little sheepishly.

  “Back to Italy,” Julia added.

  Valfierno looked from one to the other before nodding his head in resignation. “It was inevitable. He was determined. I was hoping that he would at least wait to be paid.”

  “There was no stopping him,” Émile said.

  “Not that we didn’t try,” Julia chorused in.

&nbs
p; There was something about the tone of their voices that indicated a shared confidence.

  “And you had no difficulty switching the paintings.” It was both a statement and a question.

  “Of course not,” said Julia.

  “And the original is in a safe place?”

  “Absolutely safe,” Émile began. “It’s—”

  “No.” Valfierno stopped him. “I don’t need to know where it is. I trust you, Émile. And if I don’t know where it is, I won’t be tempted to look at it, and if I don’t look at it, I won’t be tempted to keep it for myself. No one is immune to the lure of great beauty.”

  Julia noticed that, after saying this, Valfierno glanced over to the staircase in the foyer.

  “Well, no matter,” he continued, turning to face them. “We’ll wait perhaps a few more weeks, see if there is any word of Peruggia. In the meantime we’ll devise the best way to return it.” He lightened his tone. “So, I was greatly impressed by the various accounts I read of your accomplishment. It was quite a feat.”

  “It wasn’t so bad, really,” Émile said with a look to Julia.

  “It was amazing,” Julia said, excited as a child, “and I had to step in at the last minute to go inside the museum. That idiot, Brique—”

  “Yes,” Valfierno cut in, “where is he?”

  “He disappeared before the theft and we never heard from him again,” said Émile. “Lucky for us, he knew nothing of what we were planning.”

  “I had to step in and take his place,” Julia persisted. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to—”

  Valfierno stopped her with a gentle motion of his hand. “I’ll hear all about it soon, but for now I’m very tired from the journey. I slept little last night.”

  “Of course,” Julia said, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

  “Émile,” Valfierno said, “would you be so kind as to take my bag out to the car?”

  Émile reached down and grabbed the handle of the leather valise.

  “No, just the other bag, please. I’ll take this one.”

  With an awkward smile, Émile replaced the leather valise on the floor and walked to the foyer to gather up Valfierno’s travel bag.

  Valfierno picked up the valise and he and Julia followed Émile into the foyer.

  “And the two of you are getting along all right?” Valfierno asked Julia after Émile had walked out into the courtyard with the bag.

  “The two of us?” said Julia lightly. “Oh, like two peas in a pod. In fact, between you and me, I think he’s madly in love with me.”

  Valfierno stopped at the front door.

  “Well,” he said with a smile, “I’m glad at least that you’re getting on together.”

  “Speaking of which…” Julia made a gesture with her head toward the upstairs.

  “Señora Hart?” Valfierno responded almost dismissively. “I can assure you that it wasn’t my idea to bring her back. She left me with little choice.”

  “I see. And tell me, what does Mr. Hart think about all this?”

  “You know, it’s a funny thing,” Valfierno said with a sly smile as he walked out into the courtyard, “but I never did get the opportunity to ask him.”

  Chapter 38

  As soon as he arrived in Florence, Inspector Carnot went straight to the Comando Provinciale on Borgo Ognissanti and demanded to see the local commissioner of the carabinieri, Signore Caravagio.

  By introducing himself as the official representative of the Sûreté in Paris come to take possession of the stolen masterpiece and custody of its thief, Carnot knew he was taking the biggest gamble of his life. Commissioner Lepine had given him no such authority. If he succeeded, the point would be moot. The newspapers of Paris would splash his name all over their front pages. The commissioner would make sure his own name was also prominently displayed, of course, but he would not be able to take anything away from Carnot, the man who actually recovered La Joconde and delivered its thief.

  If he failed … well, he would not fail; he could not fail. Both the painting and the man were in the hands of the Italian police. It was just a matter of convincing them to release them both into his custody.

  Or so he thought.

  “I’m afraid, Inspector,” began Signore Caravagio, “that the painting in question is a forgery.”

  “A forgery?” Carnot said. “Are you sure?”

  “It has been thoroughly examined by three experts in the field,” Caravagio said with an air of impatient authority. “Mind you, it is a very good forgery. Expertly done, they say, but a forgery nonetheless. You may discuss the matter with the director of the museum, Signore Bozzetti, if you like.”

  Carnot’s insides twisted in turmoil. By now, his absence from the Sûreté would have been noted. He really should have thought this through better; perhaps he should have feigned illness to explain his absence. It was too late now, and to return to Paris empty-handed was unthinkable. He would lose his position, probably be demoted to an ordinary flic and assigned to the night beat in Pigalle, becoming the laughingstock of the force. But perhaps all was not lost.

  “The prisoner,” began Carnot with an authority he neither possessed nor felt, “have you told him the painting is a forgery?”

  * * *

  Carnot observed Peruggia through the judas-hole in his cell door. The prisoner sat on the edge of his cot, cradling his head in his hands. A small barred window provided the only natural light. Was this man simply an opportunist who had come into possession of a very good fake, or was he involved in the actual robbery? If the former, then Carnot truly had nothing. But if the latter …

  Carnot nodded to the uniformed guard, who jerked back the bolt of the lock and tugged on the handle. The door swung open with a grating squeal and the prisoner looked up, squinting against the harsh light from the corridor. Carnot stood silhouetted against the glare for a moment before walking in, motioning for the guard to keep the door open.

  “Signore Peruggia. I am Inspector Carnot of the Sûreté in Paris.”

  The prisoner’s only response was to lower his head and stare at his shoes. Carnot walked a few steps to the wall, peering up at the small, barred window near the ceiling. He saw no sky, only the towering prison walls, gray and menacing.

  “Not the nicest view in Florence.”

  Still no response. He nodded to the guard, who brought in a stool and placed it next to the bed. The guard left the cell, standing just outside the door. Carnot lowered his bulk onto the stool.

  “Your face,” Carnot began, “it is somehow familiar to me. Have we met before?”

  Peruggia slowly raised his head and looked at Carnot.

  “Yes,” Carnot continued, “the Louvre. You used to work there. Am I right?”

  Peruggia said nothing, averting his eyes to the floor.

  Despite the lack of response, Carnot felt a growing confidence. Peruggia was one of the two men who had dropped the shadow box. A real hothead, he recalled. This had to be played just right.

  “Your impulse to return La Joconde to its home country was commendable.”

  Peruggia looked up again and spoke in grave tones. “Injustice is only a word until a man acts to remedy it.”

  That was more like it, Carnot thought, though he was surprised the man had so much conviction in his voice. He’d have to do something about that.

  “Commendable,” he said, “but misguided.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a Frenchman to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “What a patriot feels when the treasures of his homeland are plundered by an invader.”

  “An invader,” said Carnot, considering. “I assume you are referring to Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “Who else would I be referring to?” Peruggia spat out. “My only desire was to save the honor of Italy by returning La Gioconda. But this country is run by fools now, fools who cannot recognize the heart of a true patriot.”

  “A true patriot,” said Carnot, mull
ing over the phrase, “not to mention a very foolish one.”

  “My mother gave birth to no fools,” Peruggia snapped, his eyes narrowing.

  “I submit that the record shows otherwise.”

  Peruggia sat up, bristling. “If you came here to insult me—”

  “That was the last thing I came here for,” said Carnot. Then his voice took on an almost professorial tone. “Perhaps a little history lesson is in order.”

  After his interview with Signore Caravagio, Carnot had paid a visit to the Uffizi, where he was reassured by Signore Bozzetti that the painting was indeed an excellent fake. In the course of that meeting he had also learned some interesting facts, facts that were about to come in handy.

  “Simply put,” Carnot began, “Napoleon did not steal La Joconde.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “I’m afraid I do. History shows that it was purchased by François the First, king of France, in 1516, from Leonardo da Vinci himself. I believe he paid four thousand gold coins for it.” He had made a point of memorizing some important details. “The painting did—for a time—hang in Napoleon’s bedroom, but it was finally bequeathed to the Louvre. So, you see, your entire little crusade has, at best, been based on misinformation, and at worst, built on pure fantasy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You need only consult any history book, or any expert to confirm the accuracy of what I say.”

  “I don’t care what any of them say,” Peruggia said, his defiance starting to show a few cracks.

  “But the trouble is,” Carnot said, adding a touch of impatience to his voice for dramatic effect, “the rest of the world does.”

  Peruggia looked back down and grew silent again. Carnot smiled. He was making progress.

  “And then, of course,” he continued, making an effort to sound sympathetic, “consider the matter of the fifty thousand lire you demanded. A true patriot would hardly expect to profit from his noble gesture.”