The Art Thief: A Novel Read online

  “A rich one,” replied Lesgourges. “If you have a château, you don’t need a school, and if you have your own Armagnac vineyard, in Armagnac, then you don’t need the cafeteria milk cartons.”

  “You proud bastard,” Bizot grumble-smirked, “I’ll give you a bottle of your Armagnac up your…”

  “I’m the only one licensed to distribute my Armagnac, Jean. But without my extensive knowledge of art, you’d be…”

  “…a lot happier.” Bizot scraped the eel from his fingers onto his napkin, which hung, like a tie, from his neck. “What do you know about art, anyway? I happen to know a lot more than you do about art, despite your little Modern art collection, and your backyard sculpture garden, and your…”

  “…and my what?”

  Bizot leaned in. “Jean, you own the ugliest Picasso I have ever seen in my life.”

  “Ah.” Lesgourges leaned back. “But I do own a Picasso.”

  Bizot thought a moment, then shrugged and returned to his meal. “Touché.”

  Lesgourges looked on at him. “And what do you know about Picasso, anyway? You wouldn’t know a Picasso if it walked up behind you and bit you on the ass!”

  “Look, I know…”

  “You think that you know. That’s the worst kind.”

  “Ah, eat your eel and asparagus, Lesgourges! I’ve put up with you long enough. Always wanting to tag along on my cases. You know I strictly work alone.”

  “I’ve put up with you, Bizot, since I got you out of trouble with Hubert Pompignan, and I’ve been your guardian angel ever since. Eat more of the eel, it’s good for you.”

  “The Hubert Pompignan Affair took place when we were eleven, and I’ll thank you to stop patting yourself on the back about fading-ember glories. Pass the salt.”

  “So,” Lesgourges smacked and dabbed his lips dry. “I haven’t anything better to do. Lost Maleviches. Are we on the hunt, or what?”

  “As soon as I finish my meal. And dessert.”

  CHAPTER 4

  In Rome, the tiny church of Santa Giuliana in Trastevere was a nest of activity. The well-meaning, well-dressed Italian police swarmed the slate-paved square, and a crowd of Romans had found time during their lunch break to investigate the cause of commotion, had they missed it during the first day of investigation.

  When word circulated that a painting had been stolen, from the altar, no less, people were more outraged at the principle of the theft from a church, than out of any particular attachment to the missing painting. There was no weight given to the fact that the painting was a Caravaggio.

  Gabriel Coffin crossed the square and made his way toward Santa Giuliana, tapping his umbrella, which he carried despite the Roman sun, along the pavement as he went, alternating taps and swings with each step. Coffin slid through the crowd of onlookers, and past the Carabiniere guarding the entrance to the church.

  Inside the church, several Carabinieri were wandering, pretending to look for something, while the priest, distraught and quick of breath, was speaking with balding and kempt Claudio Ariosto. Ariosto was one of the chief detectives from the Carabinieri’s Unit for the Protection of Cultural Heritage.

  The Caravaggio that had been stolen was a known quantity, unique, universally identifiable. It could not, therefore, be shopped by the thieves. It must have been stolen to order, either for an organized crime syndicate, as happened most often since the Second World War, to use as barter currency…or in the rarer instance, for a private individual who wished to possess it. It recalled the theft that prompted the creation of the Carabinieri Arts and Antiquities Division: another Caravaggio, Adoration of the Shepherds, stolen from a church in Palermo in 1969. It had been a thorn in the side of the department ever since, never found. From one Caravaggio to another. I’m sure that’s crossed Ariosto’s mind, Coffin considered. Wonder if he’s more focused on retrieving this one, or if he thinks it’s gone forever, like the Palermo Adoration.

  Coffin scanned the interior as he took his first step inside. Three officers, one detective, one frantic priest, one missing altarpiece. Three flanking chapels on either side of the nave, each with a piece of art or relic as the focal point, chairs aligned in each, and empty prayer candles, one confessional booth, made of dark, oiled wood, much younger than the church itself, curtain in the front right corner must lead to offices, no holy water in the font, telephone beside the entrance, alarm keypad, motion sensors two feet off the ground along the periphery and across the altar, no locks on the ground-floor windows, not good, original stained glass of the Passion Cycle, but the Way to Calvary window had been restored, none of the furniture out of place, plaster cracking in the inside of the dome, wax from the prayer candles recycled, church underfunded, Domenichino’s Santa Giuliana, not his best work…. Then Coffin took a second step into the church.

  He met eyes with Ariosto and crossed over to him, hand extended.

  “Buongiorno, Claudio. Come va?”

  “Gabriel. Let me guess. You heard the word Caravaggio and sniffed us out?” Ariosto shook Coffin’s hand in both of his.

  “Actually,” Coffin began in mostly accent-free Italian, “the company I work for now would prefer not to have to pay for this.” He gestured toward the vacant altar with his thumb.

  “Insurance? Of course.” Ariosto looked momentarily concerned.

  “Don’t worry, Claudio. I’ll stay out of your way. We both want the same thing. To see this altar filled again.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking. I’m just curious, although I know you’re not supposed to say. But then, that’s never stopped you before.”

  “Well…” Coffin looked up at the altar, then down at the bewildered Father Amoroso. “I really shouldn’t say.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ariosto, mildly displeased at the withheld gossip, resumed his usual habit of fiddling with the watch chain in his right jacket pocket. He was dressed, as always, in a gorgeously cut designer suit, offset by a necktie of a color that echoed, but did not overshadow, his shirt and jacket. “Though they’d be fools if it were valued at more than forty million euros.” Ariosto looked up from beneath his brow with a half-smile. He couldn’t read Coffin’s face.

  Coffin smiled and shook his head. “Do you have anything so far?”

  “We’ve been looking since yesterday,” began Ariosto. “But there’s something missing.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Coffin. “It’s the altarpiece.”

  “Very funny. How I’ve missed not having you with us. Are you still lecturing?”

  “Yes. Can’t keep my hand out of academia. And I need to come up with creative ways to supplement my income.”

  “And your taste for collecting…”

  “Guilty as charged.” Coffin twisted his umbrella beneath his hand. “Do you mind if I…”

  “Suit yourself,” Ariosto muttered. “Nothing has been moved. But let us know what you find.”

  “Of course.”

  “We can help each other, I think.” Ariosto, fingers ringed, handed a folder to Coffin. “We have fewer art thefts every year, but last year we still came in near twenty thousand, and those are only the ones that are reported in Italy. I’ve got a lot to do, as you know. If you could…”

  “Of course.”

  Coffin took the folder and opened it. Inside were documents pertaining to the Caravaggio: color photographs, details of the back of the canvas and support, statistics, provenance. Unusually, in this case, the provenance was comprised of only one entry: one owner in the entire history of the painting’s existence. The photocopy of a manuscript, dated 1720, a portion of which was highlighted, read: Annunc. pict. Mich. Mer. da Carav. 120 d. 1598. The sheet was an inventory of possessions of Santa Giuliana in Trastevere, made upon the appointment of a new priest. An Annunciation scene painted by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio had been purchased, apparently straight from the artist, in 1598 for 120 scudi.

  Coffin wondered what 120 scudi would be today. Thirty years later, Claude Lorrain was earning
the top wage for each painting, and would receive in the vicinity of 400 scudi. Caravaggio was no less acclaimed but was in constant financial and judicial straits, so this was a considerably cut rate. He must have needed the cash, and quickly, which explained the unusually small size of the painting in question. He fired it off for the money.

  Coffin pulled one of the color photographs out of the folder. It was not a great Caravaggio by the artist’s own standards, but miraculous by any other. There were Gabriel and Mary. The Annunciation was the moment in the New Testament when God sends Gabriel, the messenger angel, to visit Mary and tell her that she will bear the Son of God.

  This moment, and the Crucifixion, were the two most commonly depicted in religious art, and the iconography was quite standard. Mary was shown as a humble, achingly young girl in prayer, often poring over a copy of the Old Testament. She is surprised by the arrival of Gabriel, beautiful and androgynous, who conveys the word of God, sometimes in the literal form of words or rays issuing out of his mouth. God the Father looks down from a top corner of the painting, and often shines a ray of light into Mary’s womb. On occasion, a little baby Jesus or a dove may be seen sliding down the ray of light into Mary’s stomach. I’ve always found that a little odd, thought Coffin. Looks like he’s skiing. How could an as yet unborn baby know how to ski? The Son of God, presumably, is skilled in all winter sports, Coffin conjectured.

  But this Annunciation scene, as with all of Caravaggio’s paintings, differed completely from the iconographic norm. He was a stylistic pioneer of the Baroque. His paintings were incendiary, in both popularity and impact on every artist who came after him, as was his temper. He was forced to leave Rome because he had killed a man.

  Coffin was not surprised to see that Caravaggio’s Annunciation looked nothing like the traditional depictions. Mary’s back was to the viewer, and she spun to look over her left shoulder at Gabriel, as he reached out to touch her. She had sensed the angel’s presence, and there seemed to be some erotic charge between the two figures. This made sense, after all, for Gabriel’s words are a sexual equivalent, leading as they do to Mary’s impregnation. The look on her face had a coy startle to it, as if surprised by the appearance of her lover. Much of Gabriel’s winged back was to the viewer, as well, and the scene was set against an amorphous black background, the chiaroscuro figures emerging into light as if from an inky sea.

  It was clear that Caravaggio had spent less time on this work than he had on others. More of the background was simply painted black than in most of his paintings. In doing so, he had been able to avoid painting Gabriel and Mary from the waist down. The point of view put the focus squarely on the facial expressions, and left the viewer straining to see more of the faces, which were partially obscured due to the odd backward positioning of the bodies.

  Coffin noted the dimensions: 99 x 132 centimeters. Oil on canvas. No signature, of course. Artists rarely signed works until centuries later.

  Then Coffin just stared. He locked his gaze on the photograph of the painting. Just as he did in museums, when examining a painting new to his eyes. He memorized it, drank in everything that it had to offer. He always began in the upper left corner and worked his way across and down. Paintings were meant to be read.

  He handed the folder back to Ariosto.

  “I’ll just have a look around.”

  He strolled down the aisle, between rows of pews, his umbrella clasped with two hands behind his back. He was in the habit of over-dressing, and invariably in the same clothes: three-piece suit, Charles Tyrwhitt French cuff dress shirt. It was what he liked. He liked spats, though he did not often wear them. And bowler hats. And basset hounds. And eating lobster without utensils, while he ate chocolate bars with a knife and fork. And his James Smith & Sons mahogany-handled umbrella.

  Coffin had long been nestled professionally amongst the art world’s strange characters. Those in whom knowledge and passion are acute, and highly specific. But, Coffin felt, too often such scholars lost track of their own reality and plunged into the escapist world of focused expertise. For many tweed-and-bow-tied scholars, a vicarious life in 1598 in Rome, or in any other period for that matter, was safer and softer than the now. And this disregard for the trappings of reality led to unusual forms of dress, among other things unusual. Coffin self-consciously believed that he was one of them, but he preferred to limit his dealings to professional encounters and to socialize with a strata that seemed to him less novelistic. He played poker on alternate Tuesdays with a policeman, a plumber, and a mechanic—three of the most intelligent, yet least intellectual, people he knew.

  Coffin noticed something. Down between two pews. A single feather. From a small bird. Gray. A pigeon? He was about to kneel down beside it but thought better. He slowed his pace, and then moved on.

  Coffin paused for a moment. He looked up, then across to the ground-floor windows, then to the alarm modules, the motion sensors, then back to the windows.

  He smiled.

  The next slide clicked into place. The whir of the projector threw light through it, and onto the empty wall, producing an illuminated Jesus.

  The office was overcome with books, books that crept off the shelves and seemed to run for the door, strewn as they were about the floor and furniture. Photocopied articles and pages of notes were tucked under and in anything and everything. Compared to this chaos theory of filing, the streets of London outside the window seemed a calm seascape.

  A young girl in a black skirt and white button-down shirt sat on the edge of a green velveteen chair, the only portion unoccupied by papers.

  “Professor Barrow, I’ve done the reading for tomorrow, and I’m still lost on this iconography stuff. All the medieval saints look the same, so how am I supposed to tell them apart?”

  A white-haired, red-faced old man spun in his chair away from the wall and toward her.

  “Do you mean to tell me,” he began sternly, then paused for effect, “that you did your homework!?”

  “Um, yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s bloody brilliant, Abby! I never expect that any of my students do anything I tell them to, or listen to anything I have to say. This is indeed a joyous occasion. Good day!”

  He looked over to the light pouring through his open window, then leaned over his desk and resumed work.

  “But, Professor…about the saints?”

  “What? Oh, right. Um, right. Let’s see…” Barrow clicked the slides forward, and forward again, until a medieval Italian altarpiece slowly came into glowing focus.

  “Take a look at this for a moment, and tell me whom you can identify.”

  Barrow stood up, crossed around to the front of his enormous desk, for the most part buried in paper, and maneuvered around the vertical stacks of books that lay, like detonated mines, along the floor. He approached the window and looked outside. Then he quickly jerked back in.

  He’s still there, Barrow thought to himself. What the hell is he doing?

  “Um, Professor, I can find Jesus and Mary, but the rest of them all have the same beards and stuff.”

  Barrow turned back to his student. His pure white hair was his own, but looked like a poorly made toupee. He seemed to sweat at all times.

  “Right. Who are all these strange people carrying stranger-still objects? Now, you know that the only way to become a saint was to have been killed in some obscene and overly dramatic manner. The saints are traditionally identified by the object they carry, which is representative of the way in which they were martyred. A biography of the saints was written in the thirteenth-century by Jacobus de Voragine. It is called The Golden Legend and is the major source for iconography of saints. If we are to believe everything that Monsieur de Voragine tells us, then the only way to get into Heaven is to die a poor, starving virgin killed in an extremely unpleasant manner, but that’s as may be. I’ll give you a hint. If you read the Bible, The Golden Legend, and Ovid, then you can decipher most any painting in the Western canon.

 
“It can be rather fun to play the identification game. Who is who? Or whom, I can never remember. You need to know the story of martyrdom to unlock this riddle. And you are correct in thinking that I will test you on this, my dear.

  “How was Saint Lawrence killed? He was roasted, without marinade, on a grill. So, he is painted carrying a grill. His famous last words: ‘ Turn me over, I’m done on this side.’ Saint Sebastian? Well, it’s a little more complicated with him. He was shot full of arrows, but he did not die, miraculously, so he was later clubbed to death, but he is traditionally shown with arrows sticking out of him. This symbolism is what we call iconography. You can begin to associate a certain saint with a certain object, so that object can act either as a stand-in for the saint, or as an identity badge.

  “So, we’ve got Lawrence with the grill, Sebastian with the arrows, and Colonel Mustard with the wrench in the Conservatory. Are you getting the picture?”

  Abby nodded, smiling, as she frantically took notes.

  Barrow glanced at the window again.

  “Abby, I’ve just noticed the time, and we’ve got to be at the National soon. Why don’t you run along, and I’ll just sort some things out.”

  “All right, Professor Barrow. Thanks a bunch!” Abby left and closed the office door behind her. Barrow crossed to the window once more and looked outside cautiously.

  Goddamn it, he thought. He wiped his bloodhound baggy cheeks with a purple bandanna from his breast pocket.

  He laid his overcoat across his arm and left his office, closing the door behind him.

  He paused by the exit on the ground floor. Through the glass doors and across the street, Barrow could see him. In a suit, wearing sunglasses. Just standing around. Probably wants an appraisal, he thought, bloody Americans. He often chose to forget that he was one.