Stealing the Mystic Lamb

by Noah Charney

  There were no further clues at the scene of the crime. The only useful piece of information came from a passerby, who had seen a light shining in the Vijd Chapel around 11:15 PM. The police had no further leads. Three days after the theft, Canon Gabriel van den Gheyn said, in an interview for the newspaper La Flandre Liberaleé, “I imagine this must be the work of foreigners, and I am close to certain that it is for the purposes of blackmail.” One day later the canon published an editorial in the newspaper L’Indépendance Belge in which he stated, “Now that I’ve had time to recover my senses and consider it, I think that this must be a crime of vengeance.”

  Was he guessing, or could he have known more about this crime than he let on?

  An answer came on 30 April 1934, when the bishop of Ghent, Monsignor Honoré-Joseph Coppieters, received a letter in the mail in a pale green envelope.

  It was a ransom note typed in French. It read:It is our privilege to inform you that we possess the two paintings by van Eyck which were stolen from the cathedral of your city. We feel that it is better not to explain to you by what dramatic events we now possess these pearls. It happened in so incoherent a manner that the current location of the two pieces is known only to one of us. This fact is the only thing that should concern you, because of its terrifying implications.

  We propose to deliver the two paintings to you on the following conditions. First, we will give you the grisaille Saint John. After you have received this you will hand over, to a person whose address we will give you, the amount of a million Belgian Francs in 90 notes of 10,000 Francs, and 100 notes of 1,000 Francs. The money will be wrapped in a package, sealed with the seal of the diocese. Then you will wrap everything in brown paper, sealed with an ordinary signet.

  Furthermore you must ensure, Monsignor, that you will avoid giving us notes with registered serial numbers. And finally, you must commit yourself to convince the proper authorities to stop all legal action and drop the case indefinitely. Once we have the notes and satisfy ourselves that there have been no difficulties, the place where you can collect the Righteous Judges will be indicated to you.

  We understand that the demanded amount is high, but a million can be regained, whereas a van Eyck can never be painted again. Further, what authority would dare to take the responsibility of having rejected our proposal, which contains an ultimatum? We know very well that the artistic and scientific world would react with outrage, should they learn about your refusal, and the circumstances of our proposal.

  If you accept our conditions, something that we do not doubt, you will publish the following text under the “Miscellaneous” Classified advertisements in the newspaper “La Dernière Heure,” on 14 and 15 May: “D.U.A. In agreement with the authorities, we accept your propositions totally.”

  D.U.A.

  Bishop Coppieters wanted to pay, but the crown prosecutor, Franz de Heem, and the Belgian minister of justice would not allow it. The police, under Antoon Luysterborgh, instead advised the bishop to feign compliance. Attorney de Heem and the police placed the Classifieds ad, as instructed, but not with the requested phrase. Their response read: “D.U.A. Exaggerated proposition.”

  On 20 May a second letter arrived. It was polite but insistent. If total agreement was not proffered, the ransomers would begin to cut off sections of the panels and mail them to the diocese. The letter ended, strangely enough, with this postscript: “Monsignor, because we handle this case almost as a commercial one, and the objects actually belong to a third party, it is fair to pay you a commission of 5%, of which you may dispose freely.” The bribery attempt made on the bishop added insult to injury.

  Attorney de Heem took over the negotiations, writing in the name of the bishop. Matters were made more difficult when the Belgian government applied pressure to recover the panels, by ransom payment if necessary. The government claimed that they were the true owners of the altarpiece, not the diocese, and that the painting, as a national treasure (not merely an ecclesiastical treasure), was property of the nation on loan to the bishopric. The panel’s recovery was, therefore, a matter of national urgency.

  The bishop offered a reward of 25,000 francs for the recovery of the panel. This sum seemed paltry in comparison to the inestimable value of the panel and the ransom demand. It smacked to many contemporaries of a strange lack of enthusiasm on the part of the bishop for the recovery of the panel, though the bishopric did not have sufficient funds to mount more of a ransom attempt, even if it had wished to do so. But if this theft were a national issue, why then did the government not intervene with funds of its own? These questions are still unresolved. A more appropriate reward of 500,000 francs was offered by an anonymous benefactor, identified only as a Mason. Neither reward yielded any real clues.

  The ransom notes did, at least, suggest one thing. The note about the Treaty of Versailles probably was a red herring. The theft was no act of misguided nationalism. It was a crime for profit in a time of recession—though one cleverly laid with a false lead. Had it really been a reprisal after the treaty, the revenger would have ensured that Ghent would be definitively deprived of the panel.

  Under pressure from the Belgian government to continue negotiations, the bishop and the police submitted another Classifieds ad: “D.U.A. As agreed with authorities, we accept your proposition fully.”

  Then the bishop received a third letter: “We have read your answer in the paper of 25 May and take full note of your obligations. Observe them conscientiously, and we will preserve ours. . . . We suggest you tell no one anything about the hand-over of the S.J.” The pale green envelope contained a ticket for the Brussels Nord train station luggage check.

  Inspector Luysterborgh and De Heem rushed to Brussels. When they presented the luggage ticket at the train station, they received a fifty-two by twenty inch package wrapped in black wax paper. The luggage check attendant recalled only that the depositor of the package was a man, about fifty years old, without remarkable features beyond a pointy beard.

  This package was taken to the Ghent Episcopal Palace, the same bishop’s residence where van den Gheyn had hidden the panels during the First World War. There it was examined by museum experts. It was indeed the original recto half of the panel; there was the painted statue of Saint John the Baptist. But then the police made another questionable move. They kept the panel secreted at the Episcopal Palace, telling no one about its return.

  Despite this attempt at secrecy, on 31 May the newspaper L’Indépendance Belge published an article about the return of the Saint John panel. How had they found out? Was there a rat among the police or at the diocese?

  Letter number four arrived on 1 June:Corresponding to our agreement and our previous instructions, we ask you to personally hand over the package that contains our commission to Father Meulapas, Sint-Laurentius Church, Antwerp. You could let him know that it concerns a restitution of papers and letters involving the honor of one of the most dignified families. Please hand over the enclosed vertically torn newspaper page, together with the package. The person that will present himself to collect the package will, in order to prove his identity, give you the other part of the torn paper.

  Who was this new middleman? Vicar Henri Meulapas was resident at the Church of Saint Lawrence on Markgravelei Street in Antwerp. When interviewed by the police, he convinced them that he knew nothing about the incident. All that he could report was that, through the brass grate of a confession booth, he had been asked if he would help a prominent Belgian family recover some letters that would have brought about the ruin of the Belgian royal house. He had agreed to help. No, he responded to the police, he did not know who was confessing, as confession relied on anonymity. Nor, if he knew, would he tell anyone, lest he violate his vows as a confessor.

  Was he telling the truth, or was he Belgium’s best actor? One thing was clear—the ransomer was using the secrecy of the confessional booth to profit from a crime.

  De Heem continued to feign compliance in the bishop’s name, and trie
d to lure the ransomer into a trap. He replied via the Classifieds: “Letter received. Pursuant to indiscretions involved, please be patient for a few days.” The police began to formulate a plan. They next published, “Package will be handed over 9 June.”

  The next few letters and Classified responses exposed the ransomers’ increasing wariness at the slow pace at which events were unwinding. Though publication in a newspaper’s Classifieds section was hardly a legal contract, the ransomers repeatedly insisted that the bishop publish his renunciation of legal proceedings, as if that would make the ransomers exempt from possible conviction. This showed both a lack of understanding of legal matters and a reliance on a strangely moral “gentleman’s agreement.” They would return the painting and collect the reward, and the bishop should play along like a good and honorable victim. Two letters insisted on a specific phrase, which was finally published by de Heem on June 13: “Full pledge that secret will be kept. Act without concern.” These hollow guarantees in print provided moral support, if nothing else.

  The police presented the sealed package containing payment to Father Meulapas in Antwerp, just as the ransomers demanded. On 14 June, Meulapas’s housekeeper saw a taxi driver pull up outside the vicarage. The driver got out, carrying a torn piece of newspaper, and knocked on the vicarage door. Meulapas, matching the half of the newspaper that the police had given him to the one held by the taxi driver, handed over the package.

  But the sealed package did not contain the 1 million Belgian francs demanded. Instead, the police had included 25,000 francs only, with the serial numbers carefully noted, and a letter of their own:In this envelope Monsignor hands over, for the grisaille, 2 notes of 10,000 F and 5 notes of 1000 F, or 25,000 F, of which he ensures you that he has not noted the serial numbers and that no one has seen them. Contrary to his expectations, he cannot raise the demanded amount, but he will pay the amount of 225,000 F afterwards, or at the moment the J are delivered.

  These are take it or leave it conditions. The Bishop cannot do more. Because of the nature of this case, it is not possible to call for a public subscription. . . . The Bishop gives you the certainty that the case is closed, and that nothing will be done to further seek out the persons responsible.

  De Heem and the police were giving the ransomers a taste of their own medicine. There would be no gentleman’s agreement with these criminals. They lied outright about the serial numbers on the ransom payment notes. And the bishop could not grant them immunity. This was a police matter, and only the police could decide when the case was closed.

  Throughout the negotiations, the ransomers seemed under the impression that they were corresponding exclusively with the bishop. In actuality, Bishop Coppieters had ceased long ago to have any involvement and handed all letters, still sealed, directly to de Heem. In this letter, de Heem dropped the subterfuge that the bishop was involved in the negotiations, referring to him in the third person.

  The next ransom letter expressed dismay: It seems unnecessary to underline how distressed we were reading [the enclosed letter]. Breaking up an agreement at such a moment, while we have committed ourselves, at the payment of a relatively small commission, to hand over to you the most valuable object in the world, the loss of which will keep troubling those who are the cause of this. It is incomprehensible. And to undermine the mutual trust, so essential for the delicate and difficult negotiations on this enormous piece of art. It is dreadful. . . . We risked our lives to come into possession of these two jewels and we keep thinking that what we ask is not excessive or impossible to realize.

  Expressing their sense of betrayal at the lack of cooperation, the ransomers seemed to have forgotten that they were criminals. At the least, the bishop could have the good manners to pay the ransom.

  The police only replied: “Regret to have to maintain the proposition in our letter.” They were clearly dealing with amateur criminals. The ransomers could not bring themselves to say that they would destroy the Judges panel altogether if the ransom were not paid. They skirted the threat, suggesting that something terrible would happen. The police felt confident that they would never let the painting come to harm.

  Further, the ransomers had returned their only bargaining chip, the Saint John panel. If they cut up the Righteous Judges panel, they would receive no ransom. It was in no one’s interest, least of all the ransomers’, to destroy the panel. That would be like setting fire to a suitcase full of money. The police would wait and let the ransomers expose themselves.

  On the sixth of July, the eighth letter arrived. The first half further reprimanded the bishop for his failure to deliver ransom payment. Having gotten that out of their system, the ransomers were prepared to alter their demands slightly. They countered with a demand of 500,000 francs now, and another 400,000 within twelve months of the return of the painting.

  To this, the remarkably blasé police replied, “Maintain our last proposition.”

  Letter number nine bubbled over with frustration. The ransomers were repeatedly granting extra time, bending to the call of their bluff.

  Because you did not respond at all to our last letter . . . the situation is very clear. . . . But since the cessation of negotiations depends on us, we will offer you one last opportunity to reach us, in the usual manner, by 28 July. When at that moment no suitable solution has been reached, this will mean a definite break in negotiations, with all the consequences connected to it. And no one in this world, not even one of us, will get the opportunity to see the immortal piece, which will be lost forever. It will stay where it is now, without anyone being able to touch it. That will be the implication of your decision.

  This emotionally charged response was just what the police had sought. In this letter, the ransomers inadvertently provided some clues.

  In the last few lines of the letter, the ransomers revealed that the panel was hidden someplace where it would be in no danger of being discovered. It was not in the immediate possession of the ransomers. There was no true threat of the panel being destroyed after all. It was simply hidden and would remain hidden if no ransom were paid.

  The police decided to stall further. They responded: “Confirming last proposition.”

  In the ransomers’ next letter they expressed their confusion. Which “ last proposition” was being confirmed, theirs or the bishop’s? “Because we do not want to break negotiations due to a misunderstanding,” they wrote, “we hurry to ask you for a more explicit response.” This letter, like the others, went on at some length to chastise the bishop for not keeping his end of the bargain—even though the police had dropped the artifice that the bishop was involved in negotiations several letters earlier. The ransom letter ended with the promise of no more letters and an open offer: They would read the newspaper the first of every month, should the bishop decide to comply in the future.

  After all their toying with the ransomers, the police were no nearer to solving the crime. If this were truly the last letter, then the panel would not be recovered. The police still had no leads.

  But the ransomers could not keep away from their typewriter, failing even to follow through with the threat to cease writing. Letter 11 arrived on 8 September. The tone had changed. Gone was the politesse. The author of the letter no longer pretended to be the man who signed his name as D.U.A. at the end of each correspondence. The ransomers had finally realized that the bishop was not involved in the negotiations. They switched to speaking about the bishop in the third person as well, though they also referred to the police reading their letter in the third person—perhaps as a mark of disrespect.

  We regret it personally that you have not given him [the bishop] the means that would have avoided our anger at the qualified authorities, who have not kept their word and promises. . . . D.U.A. is not able to say more about this, nor to give further instructions, but he dares to believe that this letter will make you think seriously. . . . Meanwhile, the masterpiece still rests in the same place that only D.U.A. knows, and of which he has not
even entrusted the secret to a piece of paper.

  Despite the bluster and new tactics, the police remained firm. They responded, “Letter received. Regret to have to maintain earlier proposition.”

  There would be only two more letters.

  The pretext of third-person address was discarded in the twelfth note, a tirade against the underhanded way that the criminals were being treated, by both the bishop and the authorities.

  I already foresaw that you would not pay enough attention to my personal letter [number eleven]. I regret this firmly. . . . One will have to admit that you and the authorities have a different opinion than us in this case, about the meaning of a commitment. . . . I personally start to believe that you have never possessed the 250 [thousand Francs promised in the counteroffer], and that you may never have had any intention to pay it. Allow me now to say: you maneuvered badly and it would have been better if you had let me keep the S.J.

  One wonders how the bishop would have been better off if the ransomers had kept the Saint John panel. This logical oversight aside, the letter’s author slipped up. For the first time, he used “I,” indicating, as the police had long suspected, that there was no criminal gang ransoming the panel. It was an individual criminal and, from the hurt tone of his letters, one who was lonely and thoroughly dismayed.

  The last letter arrived on the first of October. With the flavor of a judicial proclamation, the ransomer claimed that the whole disaster was the fault of the bishop for not being a good sport and complying with the ransom demands:You thought it unnecessary to reply to my last personal letter. I understand that you did not like certain phrases in it, because no one likes to have his back against the wall, the wall you built yourself. But that is of subordinate importance. . . . We have come to the dead end, the point where you will have to accept our conditions to once more possess the work, or bear upon your shoulders everything you provoked, without hope to recover what only I can deliver to you. Allow me to conclude that I have tried everything in my power to save the Righteous Judges. After having tried everything within our power, and despite your continuously repeating impossible to realize counteroffers. I believe I fully performed my duty as a Leader.