by Noah Charney
“This doesn’t sound right.” Lesgourges read aloud: “‘And the porch that was in the front of the house, the length of it was according to the breadth of the house, twenty cubits, and the height was a hundred and twenty: and he overlaid it within with pure gold.’ We’re looking for a clue, not instructions for do-it-yourself shed construction.”
Bizot rested chin on fist. “That doesn’t make any sense at all. Try the next one. Try Chronicles 3:7.” Lesgourges finger-typed, then spoke again: “‘He overlaid also the house, the beams, the posts, and the walls thereof, and the doors thereof, with gold; and graved cherubim on the walls.’”
Bizot looked annoyed. “It sounds like a magazine on interior decorating.”
“Could it describe a location?” Lesgourges lit one of his black, sweet cigarettes. “Someplace that we’re supposed to go, to find…uh…whatever it is we’re supposed to find?”
“I can’t imagine them leaving us clues as to where we can retrieve the stolen painting. What would be the point…or can I,” Bizot whispered. “If this is some sort of political statement, or show of power, then perhaps they don’t want the painting at all. They just want to teach us a lesson, on our way to retrieve it. Like that case not long ago, where paintings were stolen from the Manchester Museum of Art, in England, and then they were found rolled up at a public lavatory nearby, unharmed. The thieves had just wanted to underline the insecurity of the system, and that too much concern is put on art, which the thieves felt was insignificant. Even the first Munch Scream theft, when the thieves left a note that read ‘Thanks for the poor security.’ If we’re dealing with something similar, and we’re meant to be taught a lesson, then the thieves may provide clues for us to follow. In that case, this may describe a place. But it doesn’t sound like anywhere I know. The inside of a house painted entirely in gold, with baby angels carved into the walls? I don’t know.
“Try the next one. Try Chronicles 4:7.”
Lesgourges resumed speaking through the lip-clench of his cigarette. “‘And he made ten candlesticks of gold according to their form, and set them in the temple, five on the right hand, and five on the left.’ It could be instructions on direction, like a treasure hunt.” Lesgourges tapped his ash into a label-less, empty wine bottle. “You know, take five paces to the right hand, then five to the left…”
Bizot nodded. “…add a pinch of salt, and bring to a boil…We would need a starting point, in order for these numbers to be directions. We can’t walk five paces right, then five left, if we don’t know where to start walking from. There might be something in the numbers, ten, five, and five. But it’s also possible that the reason that these passages don’t make sense to us is not that we’re misreading the clues, but that these may not be clues, at all. None have spoken to us as having an obvious connection. If we look too hard, we’ll find that anything might pertain to the case. We could read the ingredients in a box of breakfast cereal, and if we try hard enough, we could apply it to this case. So caution, Lesgourges. We haven’t run the gamut. Try Chronicles 3:47.”
The search engine whirred. “That passage doesn’t exist.”
“Then we can strike it from the list of suspects.” Bizot was fuming through his fourth cigarette. “What’s left? Is there a 34:7?”
Lesgourges typed. “Here we are: ‘And when he had broken down the altars and the groves, and had beaten the graven images into powder, and…,’ shit, Jean, this is it.”
“What, what? Read it.”
“‘And when he had broken down the altars and the groves, and had beaten the graven images into powder, and cut down all the idols throughout the land of Israel, he returned to Jerusalem.’ That’s it, Bizot. What you were saying about the White on White being an anti-icon, negating the image of Jesus and Mary. It’s a false idol. This passage is about the destruction of false idols. This isn’t a political statement, or a flexing of muscle. It’s a religious crusade, and Kasimir Malevich is the infidel.”
CHAPTER 18
It was not until the sun had fully risen that Elizabeth Van Der Mier arrived at the museum. In an elegant panic, Cohen thought. She restrained her anger as best she could, but only because she knew not where to thrust it. She would plunge it in to the hilt, but she needed a victim. Two attacks in two days. Glad I’m not to blame. Cohen shook his head.
The lights had gone out, an explosion had shaken the ground floor, a broken window, no electricity. With heavy lights, police excavated the smoky basement. The broken window was significant. The pane of glass missing was two feet square, large enough for a small person, or large person contorted. But there were no footprints to be seen.
The utility room was of particular interest. As the police led Cohen and Van Der Mier through the smog of dust particles, into the utility room, Van Der Mier saw the cause of the power outage. The control panel, which contained all of the fuses for the entire building, including the backup generator, had been destroyed. But the strangest thing was that it had been detonated while inside a locked steel cage.
“Mr. Cohen, would you care to explain to me how the hell that happened?” Van Der Mier’s patience boiled.
Cohen and Van Der Mier were in the basement, when a police officer’s walkie-talkie went off.
“Llewellyn to Jones, over.”
“What is it, Llewellyn?”
“I think that Ms. Van Der Mier should come up here.”
“We’re down in the basement, looking around. We’ll be up…”
“I think she should come here now.”
“What is it?”
“I’m in the Conservation Department…”
Van Der Mier slumped back, and was caught by a wall.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered.
Inspector Harry Wickenden arrived at the National Gallery of Modern Art with a face only a mother could love. He carried an exceedingly large Styrofoam cup with a plastic top, which he removed to sip rhythmically, beneath baggy, dark eyes, and a brown sagging mustache, which hung down below his lips. His demeanor drooped, and his eyes seemed in a perpetual roll. He was very short, and he thumped along in orthopedic shoes that shuffled beneath a long khaki trench coat. His posture left something to be desired, as did his appearance, not unlike that of a basset hound. From behind his eyes, however, something flashed.
A police officer ran to meet Wickenden, as he entered the museum. “Good morning, sir.”
“There is nothing good about a morning that begins before ten, officer. You’d think that the criminal world would have the decency not to burgle before breakfast.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take you up to the office of the museum’s director, Ms. Elizabeth Van Der Mier. She’s not in a good mood, I should warn you.”
“Neither am I, but I paint on this rosy demeanor for your benefit. Take me to her.”
Wickenden and the officer worked their way through galleries, dim in the early morning light.
“We’ll have to walk to the top floor, as the electricity is…”
“I’ve noticed the absence of light, thank you. Explain what is known, but not evident.”
They began the mount of the spiral marble staircase.
“Uh, right, we arrived around five in the morning, after having been called in by a security guard from the museum, a Ms. Jillian Avery. She’d been sent outside the museum to call us, because the electricity had been cut, from both primary and emergency power sources, neutralizing all communications and the security systems, all of which ran through the computers.”
“Technology will bite you in the bum, officer.”
“Yes, well…”
“You don’t use one of those Palm Pilots, do you?”
“Uh, no, sir. I don’t have…”
“That’s good. A pen and paper can’t delete itself. You may carve that on my tombstone.”
“Very well, sir. With the electricity out, the only defense was the locks on the outside doors. The overnight security captain, a Mr. Toby Cohen, ordered the remaining guards to
disperse throughout the museum and listen for sounds of theft. They maintained contact through battery-powered walkie-talkies. They reported nothing, except an initial muffled explosion that shook the ground floor, and came as the lights first went out. Other than that, nothing.”
“Sounds odd. That is my clinical diagnosis. But truth is stranger than fiction, I suppose. Nothing an author could contrive is half as bizarre as events that have truly happened. Don’t you agree, officer?”
“Uh, yes, sir. We arrived and surrounded the building, for containment security. Then we swept all of the galleries, and found nothing missing. We went into the basement and found a broken window, but no footprints; and the cause of the power outage—the demolished remains of the fuse box, killed by explosive. But the wonky thing is that the explosion took place within a metal cage that’s still locked.”
“A locked-room mystery? Perhaps it was worth getting up this early after all. Anything else?”
“Just Wednesday, a computer hacker had breached the system and manipulated the communications. It seemed to be a senseless act of capability, but it may be connected to last night.”
“Mmmph. Computers.”
“We also found what was stolen, sir…”
The sun spangled over the surface of the river Seine, with the yellow stone palaces draped in charcoal-colored rooftops, rising up alongside. Bizot was on his second pain au chocolat, as he turned onto rue d’Israël, and approached the narrow rectangular tower of the Malevich Society. Runt fingers crumbled crust across his jacket, as he dusted the oil and pastry from his good shaking hand.
He left an oily fingerprint on the doorbell and was soon greeted by the same breasty secretary. I’d like to work here, Bizot thought, as he stepped inside.
“False idols, what a load of crap,” Delacloche said in exasperation, after hearing Bizot’s discovery. He looked nervously at her, then around her immaculately disheveled office.
“Do you mean you don’t…”
“No, Monsieur Bizot, it’s not that. I’m sure you are correct. It all makes sense. I’m just furious at ignorance. Why must the ignorant plague the informed? Cyclical poison. There’s nothing so repulsive as violent ignorance wielded like a weapon. The idea that these philistines are capable of destroying…”
“I mean to prevent that from happening, madame…moiselle. If I may have your cooperation, I think that we can prevent any philistine…age.”
Delacloche bit the back of her fountain pen and leaned against her desk, with one leg bent against it. Around the office, each cabinet drawer and file was carefully labeled, handwritten in capital letters. But the papers were strewn all over the room to such an extent that one could not imagine that the files still contained anything at all.
“What we need, Mademoiselle Delacloche, is a starting point. And I think that it is somewhere here. We now have the motivation. The thieves may have made their point, but in doing so, they left us something to feed on. I think that we are dealing with a religious group, a violent one. Not in terms of bloodshed, but in terms of destructive capability and premeditated lawlessness. Dangerous zealots. But this has, thus far, been conceived to a high polish. Such a clean crime.”
Delacloche offered Bizot a cigarette and lit one for herself. “They’ve made their statement, but to whom? We’ve kept this out of the press. Who knows about it, besides you and I, and the others who work here at the Society?”
“They might have expected press.”
“Perhaps. But we shan’t give it to them. Do you think they mean to destroy…”
“I’m not sure. It seems to be in no one’s interest to destroy the work. It’s like setting fire to a briefcase full of hundred-euro notes. We, as art police, rarely take seriously threats to destroy ransomed art. But what are the options, if not? One: they can keep it locked away. Two: they can hang it on their wall. Three: they can sell it. Given the motivation that we’ve determined, Two is not possible. That leaves One and Three. Any indication that someone might try to sell it?”
Delacloche looked up and to the right. She thought of Wednesday’s day trip to London, then replied.
“No. I had thought they might, but…no.”
“We…I, think that this may be a political or religious statement, rather than a crime for profit or out of need. They can’t sell it on any open market, so it would have to be sold to a private buyer who doesn’t ask questions. That is where most art thieves are caught. It’s not so hard to steal a painting, but it’s very difficult to convert the painting into cash. Most illicit art fetches only seven to ten percent of the estimated legitimate value, and that is if a buyer can be found at all. So if they don’t intend to sell it in the first place…”
“That makes more sense. In selling it,” Delacloche reasoned, “they perpetuate its legacy. If their purpose is iconoclastic, if they want to bring down the anti-icon, then selling it to a buyer who will revere it as a great work of art…well, that would elevate it back to the status of icon. Anyone willing to buy it, in doing so, idolizes.”
“So that leaves option One: they mean to keep it locked away…or to destroy it altogether, both of which would accomplish the same end.” Bizot swayed on his heels, in thought. “If they are indeed a violent religious group and aren’t after money, then the risk of destruction becomes real.”
Delacloche was once again chewing on her pen. “I’m a little nervous, monsieur, about the other Malevich White on Whites.”
“You have others?”
“Not here. But they were painted as a series. There are many of them, in museums and private collections around the world. One sold at Christie’s the other day…”
“Wait, how many is many?”
“I have all of the extant ones filed here, but there may be more that we don’t know of. I’m just worried that…”
“…they also might be in danger. I see.” Bizot paused for a long moment, taking in the gray carpeting. Delacloche interrupted.
“Monsieur?”
“I think we need to press on with concentration. I’ll need your help, mademoiselle. The motivation is the key to solving crimes. There’s no such beast as a motiveless crime, and the motive, once known, invariably leads to solution. The hardest part is past. What I need from you is point A. The start of the trail. What did you find about the last person to request an audience with the White on White?”
Delacloche walked around her desk, mindful to step over the reams of paper strewn in neat stacks across the carpet. She sat in her chair and threw her black-stockinged legs onto the desk.
“His name is Christien Courtil. He’s the curator of a gallery in Paris, near Invalides. It’s called Galerie Sallenave. They specialize in Old Master prints, high-end stuff.”
“Isn’t it odd, then, that he should want to see a Modern painting?”
“Yes, but he said that he was researching for a client.”
“That doesn’t sound suspicious to you, mademoiselle?”
“Either everything, or nothing, in the art world sounds suspicious, Monsieur Bizot. It’s like the weather in England. Either one carries an umbrella at all times, or never at all. But it is certainly worth looking into.”
“Who is the owner of the gallery. Not this Courtil?”
“No. He runs it, but it’s owned by a vintner. He’s from an old aristocratic family. They live in a castle in the southwest, between Biarritz and Pau. Independently wealthy, but he runs a couple of businesses: the vineyard around his family château in the south, the Old Master prints gallery here, in Paris, and he exports wine abroad, from other vineyards. His name is Luc Sallenave. He’s getting on in years now. Must be nearly eighty. I’ve met him once, at a black-tie charity ball at the Musée Marmottan. He gives generously to support the arts. As far as I know, he collects only Old Masters, and almost exclusively prints and rare books. A Malevich is certainly out of his profile. Maybe…”
“I think I know how to get audience with him. What is his address in Paris?” Bizot pulled out
his Moleskine notebook and, with minimal ensnarement, unsnapped the elastic, and began to note.
“It’s not listed, but I’m sure I have it somewhere. Give me a moment.” Delacloche rummaged a bit more, flashing through a file cabinet, until her fingers found their target. “Here we are. His mailing address is care of the gallery, but it seems that he owns the whole building. The gallery is on the ground and first floor, but the second and third floors are one large private apartment. His primary residence is his château, but it seems that his pied-à-terre in Paris is directly above the print shop.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s on rue de Jérusalem, number forty-seven.”
“You’ve been most helpful, Mademoiselle Delacloche. One last thing. I think we should check the safety-deposit box, and see if the password and the third key are still where they should be. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”
“Uh”—Delacloche scanned a finger over her calendar—“that should…that should be fine. We’ll speak in the morning.”
“Very well. À demain.”
Outside, Bizot closed the door to the Malevich Society behind him. The new information shuffled through his thoughts.
Memory, he’d often liked to think, was like an enormous library of files and books in one’s head. A memorial library not to someone, but of someone. He pictured his memorial library as painted a pale mint green, with file cabinets stacked to the rafters, higher than the eye could see. An enormous tapering ladder rested against one of the multitudinous walls of shelves and drawers, which encircled a small wooden desk, at which sat his mental librarian. Bizot imagined that his mental librarian was an elderly man, bent over and frizzle-white-haired, wearing suspenders and wool trousers hiked up above his waist, with a clerk’s translucent green visor, and the stub of a chewed pencil behind his ear.
When Bizot wished to recall an obscure memory, the request would come over a loudspeaker. His librarian would grumble, surprised, and say, “You want what now?” Then he would shuffle off to look up the request, mumbling curses under his breath, down one of the corridors of book stacks emanating, like sun rays, from the central desk and the librarian’s rickety wooden armchair, the seat of Memory.
