Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  It wasn’t long before he reached the same ornate MÉTROPOLITAIN sign that Émile had passed earlier. Valfierno tried the door to the rough wooden shack erected above the metro entrance and found it unlocked. He slipped inside.

  Water trickled down the steps as Valfierno descended into the darkness. After two turnings, he stepped onto a station platform dimly lit by a line of incandescent lightbulbs running along the top of the arched ceiling. Attached halfway up the curved wall was a large enamel plaque with SAINT-MICHEL in white letters against a blue background.

  To Valfierno, the space looked like a vast crypt. The first metro line had opened in 1900, shortly before he left for Buenos Aires. The few times he used the metro he had not been impressed. He resented how it drew business away from the street-level autobuses and the once popular bateaux-mouches. He had found the metro to be unnatural, not to mention unpleasant; it inhabited a dark netherworld filled with the roar and clatter of steel wheels echoing from tiled walls. He preferred invigorating walks aboveground, or the opinionated observations of taxi drivers. He saw little difference between metro trains and the mechanical trolleys that had been installed in selected sewers to cater to the curious tourists drawn to Paris’s most unlikely subterranean attraction.

  A dark red wooden metro car sat on sunken tracks. The trench through which the tracks ran was already filled with water to the depth of about a foot and a half. Extending perhaps sixty feet in length, the platform terminated in an arched rear exit with steps leading upward. A section of flat tiled wall separated this rear exit from the archway of the track tunnel. Not all of the lights were illuminated, and the sound of dripping water echoing off the walls contributed to the dank, forbidding atmosphere.

  “Marquis de Valfierno?”

  Valfierno turned. A figure stood partially hidden by darkness in the mouth of a small, unlit connecting pedestrian passageway.

  “Inspector Carnot?”

  Carnot stepped out into the dim light.

  “Officially, yes,” the inspector said, “but for these purposes, ‘Monsieur Carnot’ will suffice. I believe you know Signore Peruggia.”

  The lanky Italian stepped out of the passageway behind Carnot.

  Valfierno tried to conceal his surprise.

  “Yes, we’re well acquainted,” he said, nodding his head slightly. “Good to see you again, signore.”

  “You tricked me,” Peruggia muttered. “You switched the painting with a copy.”

  “And I do apologize, but you see, my friend, the Italian authorities would have returned the painting to France anyway. And you were, after all, to be well paid.”

  Peruggia squinted at Valfierno. Then an awkward smile grew on his face.

  “And now I’ll be even better paid.”

  “Yes,” Valfierno said.

  He turned his attention to Carnot. “Shall we get down to the business at hand before we’re all swept away?” For effect, he lifted a foot from the platform and shook off some water.

  “Soon enough,” said Carnot, “but I’m not finished with the surprises.”

  Carnot looked back into the passageway and stepped aside. Valfierno followed his gaze, expecting to see Ellen and Julia.

  Out of the darkness stepped Joshua Hart, followed by Taggart. Valfierno could not hide his shock at seeing these two men.

  “Marquis,” said Hart with a gruff amiability, “what a pleasure to see you again.”

  Valfierno did his best to regain his composure. “As always, señor, the pleasure is all mine.”

  Hart stepped forward. “I believe that we have some unfinished business to attend to. Foremost, I would like to take delivery of the painting for which I have already paid you in full. In addition, I would like not only my own money back, all four hundred and fifty thousand dollars of it, but I think I shall have everyone else’s money also. If my calculations are correct, I believe that should come to almost three million dollars.”

  “I’m afraid,” Valfierno began, unable to suppress a smile, “that your calculations are somewhat optimistic. In truth, the other buyers all paid considerably less than you did.”

  Hart’s jaw clenched as he tried to control his anger.

  “Though indeed,” Valfierno added, “it still represents a great deal of money.”

  “And that’s not all,” Hart said, regaining his composure with a smirk. “I would also like an apology. A sincere apology.”

  Valfierno managed to muster a small laugh. “The first two items you mention will be no problem at all, but the third … whatever would I need to apologize for?”

  “For a start, you could apologize for running off with my wife.”

  “Perhaps it is you who owes her an apology.”

  “Now why on earth would I owe her an apology?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Valfierno said mildly, “perhaps for being an unscrupulous, malevolent pirate who profits from the misery of others, who seeks to snatch up all that’s beautiful in the world only to lock it away for his own perverted pleasure, and in truth couldn’t tell a Pissarro from a piss pot.”

  The smirk on Hart’s face evaporated. Taggart stepped toward Valfierno, but Hart put his hand up to stop him.

  “Not yet,” Hart said. Then he nodded toward the valise that Valfierno carried. “The money. It’s all there?”

  “Most of it. New York, as you know, tends to be somewhat expensive.”

  Hart motioned to Taggart, who took the valise from Valfierno. He unfastened the clasp and rummaged through the wads of bills, then turned and nodded to Hart before fastening it again.

  “Good,” said Hart. “That’s mainly to punish you. What I really want is the painting. And make sure it’s the real one this time.”

  “Where are they?” asked Valfierno.

  “I assume you’re referring to my wife and your lovely … niece?”

  “I have to see that they’re safe first.”

  “You’re in no position to bargain,” Hart snapped.

  “Perhaps not, but I still have to see them.”

  “They are close by. Where is the painting?”

  “Also close by.”

  Hart and Valfierno stared at each other.

  “Taggart,” prompted Hart.

  Still holding the valise, Taggart crossed the platform to the door of the metro car. He turned its handle and pulled it open. Valfierno took a step closer. Ellen and Julia sat inside on a bench, their hands bound behind them and their mouths gagged. Julia was struggling against her bonds. Ellen sat still, looking at Valfierno, her composure belying her predicament.

  “Release them first,” said Valfierno.

  Hart exploded in anger. “Enough of this! Where’s the goddamn painting?”

  Taggart slammed the carriage door shut.

  Valfierno turned on Hart. “Do you think I’m fool enough just to hand it over to you? The Mona Lisa is so well hidden that if you don’t release them right now, you will never hope to possess it. Unless you do exactly as I say, I can assure you that neither you nor anyone else will ever lay eyes on the painting again.”

  Valfierno’s statement seemed to have had the desired effect on Hart, who could not find the words to respond immediately. At least it might have had the desired effect if the moment hadn’t been shattered by a panicked scream. Everyone turned toward the main entrance as Émile slid on his back down the steps onto the platform, the wrapped panels slipping from his hands, breaking loose from their wrapping, and skidding across the floor to come to rest at Peruggia’s feet.

  Valfierno looked with astonishment into the young man’s shocked, embarrassed face.

  “Sorry,” Émile said, grimacing with pain and motioning with his head to the steps. “Slippery.”

  As Émile struggled to his feet, Carnot took his arm and pushed him toward Valfierno.

  “You definitely need to work on your timing,” Valfierno said with a wry smile.

  Peruggia picked up the panels, staring at them both in astonishment.

  “W
hat is this?” Hart snarled, motioning toward the paintings.

  “I wasn’t sure which one it was,” Émile said, “so I brought both of them.”

  Hart stared at the panels for a moment before fumbling in his pocket and pulling out a tailor’s tape measure. With Peruggia still holding the paintings, he hastily began measuring the sides.

  “Where are they?” Émile quietly asked Valfierno.

  Valfierno nodded toward the carriage.

  Before Émile could say anything more, Hart bellowed out at the top of his voice, “They’re both too damn big!”

  Ripping the panels from Peruggia’s hands, Hart threw them across the platform and stepped menacingly toward Émile.

  “I was sure it was one of those,” Émile stuttered, “but I could have been mistaken. There were two others.”

  Hart turned to Valfierno, his face reddening. “After all this you’re still trying to swindle me?”

  “No,” Émile protested, turning to Valfierno. “I tried to pick the right one. Everything was such a mess.”

  “Diego’s studio?” Valfierno asked.

  “Yes,” replied Émile, then added, “only he’s calling himself something else now.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Valfierno said to Hart. “It’s only a few streets away. Go back with him.”

  “If it’s not there,” said Hart, barely controlling his anger, “you’ll regret it, I promise you. You’ll all regret it!”

  “Your wife had nothing to do with the painting,” Valfierno said. “Don’t punish her.”

  Hart stepped up to him, his jaws clenching. “You think I would still have her for my wife after what she’s done to me? After what you’ve done? You are all in this together, and you will all suffer together if I don’t get that goddamn painting!” He wheeled on Taggart. “Watch him. You know what to do.”

  Taggart smiled as he withdrew a silver Colt .45 automatic pistol from a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket. Placing the valise onto a small bench built into the wall next to him, he racked back the slide to strip a cartridge from the magazine and feed it into the chamber.

  Carnot’s eyes widened. “You said there would be no violence.”

  “And if everyone cooperates,” Hart said ominously, “there won’t be.”

  After getting a nod from Valfierno, Émile led Hart up the stairs and out of the station. Valfierno, Carnot, and Peruggia stood on the wet platform looking at Taggart. The sound of dripping water echoed from the tunnel.

  Finally Peruggia spoke, his sullen voice thick with resentment. “Nobody said anything about a gun.”

  Chapter 46

  Hart followed Émile down rue Danton away from the river. Cold, dirty water seeped into his patent-leather shoes and undulating sheets of rain soaked his overcoat. The older man was having trouble keeping up the pace, and this gave Émile a certain satisfaction. Hart deserved all the discomfort he was being subjected to.

  “Does it always rain like this here?” Hart grunted as he vainly tried to keep his trouser cuffs from trailing in the water.

  “Only every hundred years or so,” Émile answered with a quick glance back over his shoulder.

  Hart’s foot became momentarily entangled in a sodden newspaper, which he angrily tried to kick off.

  “We have to hurry,” said Émile, waving him forward.

  Giving up on the newspaper, Hart sloshed off after him.

  * * *

  In the metro station, Carnot paced nervously across the platform. Taggart stood implacably, tapping the barrel of his gun into the palm of his left hand. Peruggia moved closer to Valfierno and whispered, “This was not my idea.”

  “I think,” said Valfierno, lowering his voice and turning away from Taggart, “that Señor Hart and his friend have enough ideas for all of us.”

  “They’d better hurry,” said Carnot to no one in particular, his eyes fixed on the water seeping steadily down the steps. “I’m not staying down here forever.”

  * * *

  As Émile and Joshua Hart turned into rue Serpente, they were hailed by a gendarme hurrying along the opposite side of the street.

  “You must get away from the river,” the gendarme shouted. “They are going to dynamite the obstructions in the arches of the upstream bridges. The sandbags may not be able to hold the surge! The soldiers will be firing warning shots first! Get as far away as you can.”

  Hart looked worried, but Émile took his arm and led him to the door of the studio. He pulled it open and indicated that Hart should go down the steps.

  “I’m not going down there,” Hart protested.

  “Suit yourself,” said Émile as he scurried downward, “but this is where the paintings are.”

  Hart hesitated a moment before warily following him.

  The water on the floor now reached above Émile’s ankles.

  “Where are they?” Hart said, looking around.

  “In here.” Émile led him into the storage closet.

  Hart took in the disarray of scattered canvases, panels, and equipment as Émile moved to the wooden desk that held the two smaller panels.

  “It has to be one of these,” Émile said.

  Hart removed the cloth tape from his pocket and measured the sides of each panel.

  “Yes,” he said, anticipation starting to override his apprehension. “These are the correct size.”

  His eyes darted back and forth between the two paintings. They were indistinguishable from each other.

  The distant crack of rifle fire penetrated the street-level window.

  “We have to leave now,” said Émile, grasping Hart’s arm. “That’s the warning.”

  Hart angrily shook him off, his eyes never leaving the paintings.

  The sound of another rifle shot reached their ears.

  “Take them both,” Émile said. “We have to go. Now!”

  “But if there are two, there may be more,” Hart said, looking around the room.

  Émile felt an almost overwhelming urge to grab this man by the throat and strangle him there and then. Instead, he looked at him with contempt and said, “Then drown for all I care.”

  With that, Émile raced from the room and bounded up the steps two at a time.

  * * *

  Hart sweated profusely, his eyes darting from one painting to the other. There was no mistaking it. The one on the right. The depth. The muted colors. The electric feeling of genius it imparted. That was the one! He was positive.

  Then he looked again at the one on the left and quickly back to the other. His confidence drained away. He could not tell them apart.

  Panic and doubt rose in his chest. What if it wasn’t either of these paintings? What if it was somewhere else in the room?

  Hart heard a muffled crump like the report of a distant cannon firing. It was followed by a low rumbling vibration in the floor. It was time to leave. Placing one panel on top of the other, he lifted them and hurried from the room.

  * * *

  As soon as Émile emerged from the studio, he heard a distant explosion from the direction of the river. The rain had diminished to a steady drizzle and there was an ominous silence for a moment, followed by a low, menacing rumble, as if hundreds of horses with muffled hoofs were stampeding. Bits of debris were rushing by his feet. A small army of rats frantically clawed at the water as the current swept them along. He looked back down the steps. There was no sign of Hart. He had seen and heard enough. He had to get back to the metro station as soon as possible, but he couldn’t go back the way he had come. Turning away from the sound, he ran as fast as he could through the filthy ankle-deep water.

  * * *

  By the time Hart put his foot on the steps, the low rumbling noise had become much louder. Clutching the two Mona Lisa panels close to his body, he struggled upward, his heart pounding as if trying to escape his chest.

  Reaching the street, he stopped and leaned over, desperately gasping for air. The noise of his own heaving breath began to be replaced by a
new sound, the roar of rushing water. He straightened up and turned toward rue Danton as a wall of water, more than three feet high, surged around the sharp corner. With a crescendo, the water crashed into the buildings on the opposite side and ricocheted back into rue Serpente, toward him. Despite the funneling effect of the narrow street, the oncoming wave appeared at first to have lost some of its force, and for a moment he thought he might be able to stand his ground. But the growing pressure around his legs quickly changed his mind and he turned to run. He managed only one faltering step before the wall of water hit him with the force of a tidal wave, knocking him down and ripping one of the panels from his hands.

  Chapter 47

  At the precise moment the wall of water swept into rue Serpente, Émile reached rue Hautefeuille, a narrow side street about fifty yards to the east. Glancing toward the river, he saw another wave, compressed in the narrow space, rushing toward him and threatening to cut off his escape. Hurrying across, he reached the opposite side seconds before the deluge passed behind him. The surge created a moving dam that cut across rue Serpente, diverting the main wall of water. Momentarily sheltered from the flow, Émile continued to struggle along rue Serpente, lifting his feet high out of the water with each step.

  Behind him, Joshua Hart still managed to cling desperately to one panel as the moving dam of water dragged him helplessly farther away from the river up rue Hautefeuille.

  Émile reached the intersection with Saint-Michel, a wide boulevard leading directly to the river where it merged with rue Danton into Place Saint-Michel. Rows of chestnut trees rose from the water on either side, lending an almost swamplike aura to the scene. Unlike the narrow streets behind him, the broad boulevard allowed the flow of water to spread out, taming its ferocity somewhat. The water here, though still moving swiftly, reached barely to his knees, making movement easier.

  The Saint-Michele metro station was to his left, directly toward the angry gray water that surged over the now indistinct bank of the river. To reach the station he would have to fight against the oncoming flow. An instinct for survival screamed at him to get as far away from the river as possible. If the station had already flooded, it would be too late to save them anyway and pointless to throw away his own life. He made his decision.