by Noah Charney
The letter slips between “I” and “we,” likely indicating the author’s fatigue. The ransomer also shifts blame completely away from himself and onto the bishop. The repeated focus on the bishop, who had nothing to do with the negotiations, suggests that perhaps the ransomer knew the bishop personally and somehow assumed that the bishop would “play ball,” fueling his disappointment.
The police had done a reasonable job in handling the ransom demands but were stringing along a fish that they could never reel in. The rest of the investigation would be pocked with oversights, bumblings, and inexplicable decisions.
Six weeks passed in silence. Then something happened that sounded to all involved so preposterously melodramatic that it could only appear in a work of fiction.
On 25 November 1934 at Holy Mary College in the town of Dendermonde near Ghent, at a meeting of the local chapter of the Catholic Political Party, the fifty-seven-year-old Arsène Goedertier collapsed from a heart attack. Carried to a nearby inn, he was given an injection by his friend and physician, Dr. Romain de Cock, and then taken to the home of his brother-in-law, the jeweler Ernest van den Durpel, accompanied by de Cock and a Benedictine priest who had attended the meeting. While being carried into the house on Vlasmarkt Street, Goedertier passed out once more, only to be revived by de Cock. As he stirred, dazed, Goedertier whispered, hoarse-throated, to his doctor, “Am I in any danger?”
Lying on what would be his deathbed, Goedertier refused a last confession from the priest Father Bornauw. Bornauw pressed the matter, but Goedertier waved him away, saying,“My conscience is at peace.” Goedertier instead summoned his lawyer, Georges de Vos. De Vos arrived and met with Goedertier in private for fifteen minutes, as van den Durpel’s children recalled when they were interviewed about the matter decades later.
Then Arsène Goedertier died.
When Georges de Vos emerged from the death chamber, he was pale. He said nothing to anyone present, not to the priest Father Bornauw, nor to the physician, nor to their host, Ernest van den Durpel. Nor to the police. In fact, the dead man’s lawyer never went to the police, despite having vital information regarding a high-profile case of theft.
Only one month later did Georges de Vos reveal that, with his dying breath, Arsène Goedertier had admitted to being the thief of the stolen van Eyck panels. De Vos had leaned in close to hear the murmurs of his client. Goedertier said that he was the last person on earth to know the hiding place of the Judges panel. With gasping breaths, Goedertier whispered, “I alone know the location of The Mystic Lamb . . . my study, in the file marked Mutualité . . . armoire . . . key . . . ”
And then, with operatic timing, he died.
Who was Arsène Goedertier? The information that exists about him suggests that he was, in many ways, the least likely candidate to steal and ransom a national treasure from a cathedral.
Arsène Théodore Victor Léopold Goedertier was a stockbroker, overweight and short with a thick, curly, waxed moustache, pince-nez glasses, a receding hairline, and oversized elven ears that seemed too low on his head. Born on 23 December 1876 in the town of Lede near Ghent, he was one of twelve children of a primary school headmaster. After his father, Emile, resigned from his post over a school funding controversy, he was offered a post as sacristan at the local church of Saint Gertrude in the village of Wetteren, just outside of Ghent. When Arsène’s mother passed away in 1896, young Arsène became the organist at Saint Gertrude, where he eventually succeeded his father in the role of sacristan, from 1911 to 1919. He said, rather enigmatically, “the biggest mistake my father made was turning me into a sacristan.”
Arsène Goedertier was an artist of minor distinction, having studied at both the Royal Academy of Art in Dendermonde and the art academy in his hometown of Wetteren, of which he would later become managing director. One of his portraits has hung in the town hall of Wetteren since 1913. His favorite subject to paint was church interiors.
He began his studies in Berlare, where he was a schoolmate of Honoré Coppieters, the man who would become bishop of Ghent. In addition to acting as sacristan, Goedertier worked as a clerk in the suburb of Wetteren from 1911 to 1919, avoiding military service because of an ocular defect that made it impossible for him to see in low-light conditions. He worked as a stockbroker from 1919 onwards, a regular face in the financial circles and power-lunch cafés of downtown Ghent. Always an active member of Catholic political and social groups, he also taught drawing and weaving at the Professional School of Kalken, and was an accomplished amateur tailor. He enjoyed puzzles, particularly those involving mechanics. His creativity extended into design. He created blueprints for a new airplane model, which he took to the Bréguet factory in Paris, although the company did not purchase his design.
Goedertier also owned an extensive collection of detective and spy novels. The investigators would conclude that Goedertier’s library contained useful information, because his entire book collection would be confiscated by one of the magistrates taking on the case, Joseph van Ginderachter. The library included the complete works of the author Maurice LeBlanc, whose recurring character was a gentleman thief called Arsène Lupin, with whom Arsène Goedertier may have felt a kinship. According to his wife, Goedertier spoke frequently and with a great deal of fascination about the Judges theft.
On 3 November 1915, Arsène Goedertier married the Paris-born Julienne Minne, heiress to a knitting goods company. They had one son, Adhémar, or Dédé for short. Dédé was born in 1922 and would live only to age fourteen. The child was plagued with health problems, including a chronic eye disease that made it difficult for him to see in the dark, an illness he likely inherited from his father, and signs of mental illness. Dédé received his confirmation at Saint Bavo Cathedral, anointed by Bishop Coppieters. When the young Dédé eventually died on 2 May 1936, two years after the theft, he was babbling incoherently, repeating the words police and thieves over and over.
Goedertier was a man of great activity—professional, social, and charitable. In 1909, he cofounded a Christian National Health Service in Belgium, called De Eendracht. He later founded two more Catholic charitable organizations: De Volskmacht, in 1920, and Davidsfonds, of which he became president in 1932. His colleagues spoke of his desire to gain political importance within Catholic organizations. He was a regular at political gatherings, Catholic events, and parties held at the Episcopal Palace adjoining Saint Bavo’s Cathedral.
After the First World War, Goedertier and his wife established a brokerage office, housed in a former Dominican convent in downtown Ghent, from which they profited considerably in a short period of time. They lived in a spacious home in Wetteren, complete with unusual amenities such as central heating, servants, two telephone lines, and, most luxurious of all, a gleaming white Chevrolet automobile.
In 1928, Goedertier founded an organization called Plantexel, short for the Société de Plantation et d’Exploitation de l’Elaeis au Kasai. The goal of this business was to establish coffee and palm oil plantations in the Congo. Plantexel declared bankruptcy a few days before Goedertier’s death. Had the theft been an attempt to save his company? This does not seem plausible, as it came to police attention that Goedertier died a wealthy man. His bank account was found to contain 3 million francs—three times more than the ransom he seemed to have demanded.
The mysteries continue. Since 1930, Goedertier had been in possession of a fake passport, containing his photograph but registered under the name “van Damme.” He clearly had secrets, but of what nature—and what had he really told de Vos, his secular confessor, on his deathbed? De Vos was sole witness to the confession, and therefore no one can vouch for what he claims to have heard. Did it happen as he said? And why did he speak to no one, not even the police, upon leaving Goedertier’s deathbed, instead driving to Goedertier’s home in Wetteren, eight miles southeast of Ghent?
De Vos was let into the home by Goedertier’s wife, Julienne. He checked the location that Goedertier had indicated with his l
ast breath. In the study, in the top right-hand drawer of Goedertier’s desk, in a file labeled Mutualité, De Vos found carbon copies of every one of the ransom notes, all signed “D.U.A.” The folder contained no other information, but it did hold a final, undelivered handwritten letter. The letter goes on for several rambling pages, an unedited stream of thought, full of cross-outs and incomplete sentences. It was written on Plantexel letterhead paper, much of it incoherent and with an odd syntax in the original French, in a leaning cursive script:I am obliged to undergo a rest cure to recover fully. I take the necessary time to think calmly about the case that interests us. After the disappearance of the panels, we have been able to come into possession of the panels, and after several unforeseen incidents I am the only one in this world who knows that place where the Righteous Judges rests.
It might be essential to underline the importance of the situation, for it releases me of any barrier before friends or other persons. And as a consequence, I can work on the solution of this case quietly, and without any stress. . . . We started off from the basic thought that we might believe and have confidence in the word of a bishop. On the other hand, we wanted to prove to you, by handing over the Saint John, that you can trust our word. We had confidence, you did not have confidence, and unfortunately we were both wrong.
That is indirectly the cause of why the case was not solved, and there is the risk that it will never be settled, when you implement unsuitable tactics. The second fact that does not sound good in your correspondence is the conclusion that you dare take the responsibility to write that your proposal is “take it or leave it.” In such circumstances, it is dreadful to dare to write such a thing.
We have come to a dead end, from which we can only escape by your good will. I am prepared to make your task easier, as I have done during the course of our correspondence, but you cannot ask us the restitution of the . . . without us getting something in return, as we have done for the Saint John. You must admit that I make much effort to allow the returning of the master work, and that it only depends on you to settle this situation without too much damage and bitterness.
Goedertier did not live long enough to send this final letter. But in his last several correspondences he had provided tantalizing information. The panel was hidden somewhere prominent, in a public place. It was not in his direct possession, nor could any potential accomplices reach it without attracting public attention. Perhaps it was even hidden in plain sight.
The other clues in Goedertier’s dying words, his mention of “armoire” and “keys,” did not yield any results. De Vos claimed to have found no other papers or clues of any kind in the house regarding The Lamb.
Or did he? Can it be believed that de Vos did, in fact, discover carbon copies of the ransom letters and the final unsent letter? No one double-checked or even followed up his claims. De Vos was in the death chamber of Arsène Goedertier for more than fifteen minutes. Surely the dying man whispered more than the abbreviated, melodramatic fragments that de Vos reported.
The elegant, well-spoken Georges de Vos was born in 1889 in the Belgian town of Schoten. He received a doctorate in law, worked as a respected attorney, and would serve as a senator, representing the Catholic Party from the district of Sint Niklaas, Dendermonde. Conspiracy theorists have long believed that de Vos was covering up the truth, that Goedertier himself may have been a red herring. What de Vos did next is even more suspicious.
Instead of notifying the police, de Vos went directly from Goedertier’s house to meet with four colleagues, legal magistrates of Dendermonde: Joseph van Ginderachter, the president of the Tribunal of Dendermonde Court of Appeals, who would soon after confiscate Goedertier’s library as evidence; Chevalier de Haerne, president of the Ghent Court of Appeals; District Attorney van Elewijk; and the chief prosecuting attorney to the king, Franz de Heem, the man who had taken over the ransom negotiations from Bishop Coppieters.
These peers of the realm met privately and decided to conduct their own investigation, without involving or informing the police in any way. While magistrates could be charged with preliminary investigation of minor crimes, it was irregular for them undertake the investigation of a major theft without police collaboration or consultation. They investigated for one full month before the police, led by de Heem, began their own inquiry into Goedertier’s involvement.
This unusual behavior has never been explained. Why would the police stand aside and wait for the private investigation of a group of lawyers, albeit one led by the crown prosecuting attorney? Why didn’t Georges de Vos go directly to the police if he believed that his deceased client had been involved in the theft of a piece of Belgium’s national treasure? If not de Vos, then de Heem should surely have involved the police, as soon as he learned of this development. Even at the time, the strange procedure smacked of conspiracy.
The lawyers announced their findings after one month.1. They had located the typewriter on which the ransom letters had been written in Goedertier’s home. It was found at the luggage check of the Ghent Saint-Peters rail station on 11 December. The luggage check ticket had been stored in the Mutualité file in Goedertier’s desk.
2. The Royal Portable typewriter had been rented under the name van Damme from a shop called Ureel, located around the corner from Ghent Cathedral, on 28 April, for a deposit of 1,500 francs. That explained at least one use of Goedertier’s fake passport.
3. On 24 April, Goedertier had opened an account at the National Bank in Ghent, depositing the sum of 10,000 francs.
Beyond that, they found nothing of clear relevance.
But one bizarre decision followed another. The investigating magistrates began to use the very same Royal Portable typewriter that had written the ransom notes and had been seized as evidence from the rail station as their office typewriter, because they did not have one of their own.
The only other item that the magistrates cited was the discovery of an “odd key, recognized by no one, that fit no lock in the house.” This key may indeed be relevant, if we believe that Goedertier’s whispered dying words included “armoire . . . key.” This key was of a generic type that opened many basic locks. It was discovered years later that the key fit the door to the rood loft of Saint Bavo Cathedral—the probable method of entry during the theft.
Only after the magistrates announced their findings did the police begin their investigation of Arsène Goedertier, in late December 1934. Goedertier’s death, and the discovery of the carbon copies of the ransom notes, had been unknown to the police until this time. Now a month after the fact, the house pored over by the lawyers, the chances of the police discovering a meaningful clue were thin. They dismantled the house and garden and interviewed Goedertier’s friends and relatives. They learned almost nothing. Some of his work colleagues said that Goedertier had many debts, but the police also found the 3 million francs in his bank account.
Neither his family nor his wife ever affirmed or denied that he had been the ransomer—they only claimed not to know. But they stuck to a story that, if Goedertier was indeed the ransomer, he was doing it on behalf of an important person in debt. No, they wouldn’t say who that person might be.
If this is true, the lawyers whom Georges de Vos consulted may inadvertently have provided a clue. As crown prosecuting attorney, Franz de Heem had represented the recently deceased Belgian king, Albert I. Could the king have been in any way involved? It is hard to believe that someone would risk imprisonment for a 1 million franc ransom, a sum so relatively paltry (approximately $300,000 today) that it would hardly affect a wealthy personage like the king. And if Goedertier wanted to help the Belgian royal house, why not use some of his own 3 million franc savings? Might there have been some larger conspiracy of which this incident was a part? King Albert I died while hiking, which contemporaries considered highly suspicious of foul play. Was there some link?
Goedertier’s résumé further suggests that stealing from a Catholic institution would have been his least likely cours
e of action, even in desperation. As the president of several Catholic charitable societies, and the recipient of public honors for years of participation, Goedertier was a model citizen and model Catholic. A skeptic might say that his elevated status would give him unusual access to, and connections within, the Catholic Church of Belgium. Did he use his status as the perfect cover to infiltrate and steal from the cathedral? Then there was a separate problem of logistics, if Goedertier was the thief. The size and weight of the panels meant that Goedertier could not have acted alone.
The following year, on 9 May 1935, Crown Prosecutor De Heem placed a placard on a wall in Ghent requesting information that might lead to the recovery of the panel and offering a reward of 25,000 Belgian francs (about $7,500 today). This public appeal, months after the fact, was considered by contemporaries to be insufficient and belated.
To make matters odder, it was only at the end of April 1935 that the police and the magistrates informed the diocese of Ghent about Goedertier’s deathbed confession—five months after it had occurred. The diocese welcomed this news—finally someone whom they could blame, albeit a deceased peer of the secular arm of Catholic politics and one who seemed to be something of a deus ex machina. But why had neither the secretive magistrates nor the ineffectual police informed the diocese sooner? One can only assume that members of the diocese were suspected of involvement in the crime but ultimately dismissed as innocent—whether or not they truly were.
