The Marquis de Valfierno spent his life preparing to become the man who stole the Mona Lisa. We are introduced to him in Buenos Aires, where the criminal mastermind with exquisite taste in art and women has built a highly profitable business selling fake religious masterpieces to grieving widows. A botched love affair forces him to head for Mexico City, where he discovers new ventures and greater profits for his art. In Mexico, he begins to assemble the team that will move with him to Paris. He enlists such talents as those of Yves Chaudron, a master painter without a touch of creative instinct; young Miguel, a crippled street urchin; and Mme Renard, a savvy woman of many faces.
Valfierno will move his team to the scene of the crime, Paris. There he is tempted by nothing more than the imminent theft of the world's most celebrated painting. He could not have anticipated that this theft would be but the beginning.
The Man Who Stole the Mona Lisa is a beautifully written blend of mystery and history. Robert Noah artfully guides his readers through the turns of an intrigue-filled and delicious story.
The Marquis de Valfierno spent his life preparing to become the man who stole the Mona Lisa. We are introduced to him in Buenos Aires, where the criminal mastermind with exquisite taste in art and women has built a highly profitable business selling fake religious masterpieces to grieving widows. A botched love affair forces him to head for Mexico City, where he discovers new ventures and greater profits for his art. In Mexico, he begins to assemble the team that will move with him to Paris. He enlists such talents as those of Yves Chaudron, a master painter without a touch of creative instinct; young Miguel, a crippled street urchin; and Mme Renard, a savvy woman of many faces.
Valfierno will move his team to the scene of the crime, Paris. There he is tempted by nothing more than the imminent theft of the world's most celebrated painting. He could not have anticipated that this theft would be but the beginning.
The Man Who Stole the Mona Lisa is a beautifully written blend of mystery and history. Robert Noah artfully guides his readers through the turns of an intrigue-filled and delicious story.
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Overview
The Marquis de Valfierno spent his life preparing to become the man who stole the Mona Lisa. We are introduced to him in Buenos Aires, where the criminal mastermind with exquisite taste in art and women has built a highly profitable business selling fake religious masterpieces to grieving widows. A botched love affair forces him to head for Mexico City, where he discovers new ventures and greater profits for his art. In Mexico, he begins to assemble the team that will move with him to Paris. He enlists such talents as those of Yves Chaudron, a master painter without a touch of creative instinct; young Miguel, a crippled street urchin; and Mme Renard, a savvy woman of many faces.
Valfierno will move his team to the scene of the crime, Paris. There he is tempted by nothing more than the imminent theft of the world's most celebrated painting. He could not have anticipated that this theft would be but the beginning.
The Man Who Stole the Mona Lisa is a beautifully written blend of mystery and history. Robert Noah artfully guides his readers through the turns of an intrigue-filled and delicious story.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466877535 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 08/05/2014 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 243 |
| File size: | 339 KB |
About the Author
Robert Noah is the president of Mark Goodson Television Productions. He has produced such classic game shows as Concentration, High Rollers, The Magnificent Marble Machine, and Sale of the Century. He is also the author of All the Right Answers (1988) a novel inspired by his time in the game show business. He lives in Beverly Hills, California.
Robert Noah is the president of Mark Goodson Television Productions. He has produced such classic game shows as Concentration, High Rollers, The Magnificent Marble Machine, and Sale of the Century. He is also the author of All the Right Answers (1988), a novel inspired by his time in the game show business. He lives in Beverly Hills, California.
Read an Excerpt
The Man Who Stole the Mona Lisa
By Robert Noah
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1997 Robert NoahAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7753-5
CHAPTER 1
In Buenos Aires, there'd been an apartment on the Paseo Colon. Not one that looked over the park, it's true, but a place that was airy and wide, with high ceilings and enormous windows, entered through a gleaming maple door atop a broad curving staircase of white stone that led up from the enormous lobby that swept visitors in off the Colon and surrounded them with elegant plaster copies of Roman copies of the marbles of Praxiteles.
Here in Mexico City things were modest. There were two reasons for this. First, modest living does not call attention to itself, and second, this was an unproductive period, during which their normally substantial income was not available. So the Marquis de Valfierno had trimmed their living standards several levels below what he, at least, had always found necessary, and they were making do with two small bedrooms, a windowless sitting room, and a kitchen so tiny it could barely accommodate the burly iceman who squeezed past its narrow cabinets to make his deliveries twice a week. The rooms were nearly a mile south of the Reforma, in a section that was struggling to keep its plain face scrubbed and was clearly doomed to lose that struggle.
The barber had been here yesterday, at which time he had made a solemn ceremony of shaving off Valfierno's beard and trimming back his flowing mustache. Now this same barber stood in the doorway again, hat in hand, head bobbing in respectful nods as he reintroduced himself.
The Marquis smiled as he recognized the man. "You are back too soon," he said. "My beard does not return that quickly."
"Of course, Don Valfierno," the barber said, still bobbing in respect. "I return today because yesterday when I shave you I cannot help but notice, forgive me for saying this, that there may be another way that I can be of service."
The barber's gaze moved up, to the top of Valfierno's head, and Valfierno raised his hand to touch his hair as he realized what the man was staring at. It was the same absurd sight that continued to surprise Valfierno each morning in the mirror: half his hair was black, and half, the new half growing in, was white.
"Meaning no disrespect, I know this must disturb you," the barber said. "And I know now that I can make all of it the same." He was familiar with many dyes, he said, because he was often asked to alter nature. Of course, never in his experience had anyone asked him to turn black hair gray, or more precisely white, but it was simply a matter of mixing the pigments correctly. He had not thought it would be a difficult problem, and now he could demonstrate that indeed it was not.
Valfierno shook his head. He was not prepared to entrust the results he'd already spent weeks waiting to achieve to the hands of this neighborhood barber whose experience with dyes had surely been limited to the garish shades of red the neighborhood women seemed to find so attractive.
"Allow me, Don Valfierno," the barber said quickly. "Let me show you what I mean when I say I have proved what I can do."
Chaudron had appeared, still wearing the undershirt and work pants he'd slept in, the stale smell of alcohol almost visible around him, as it was every morning.
"Senor," the barber nodded in his direction. Chaudron acknowledged him with a closing and opening of his heavy eyes. Nothing else moved.
The barber turned back to Valfierno. "May I be allowed?" he asked.
"To do what?" the Marquis asked.
"To introduce my daughter."
Valfierno turned in confusion to Chaudron, who shook his head slowly. Chaudron had no notion of what this was about, but if it involved the introduction of a daughter it did not seem a good idea.
"Please," the barber continued quickly. "She is waiting downstairs. It would take only one minute, and you could see for yourself."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned quickly and ran down the stairs. The Marquis turned to Chaudron and shrugged. What was one to do? Chaudron stared at him and shut his eyes, then he turned and went back to his room and shut his door.
In no time at all the barber was back with his daughter, and when Valfierno turned and saw her in the doorway his eyes grew suddenly large at the impact of this unexpected, astonishing sight, this face of startling grace that looked at him uncertainly through large black eyes, set wide. An involuntary quiver went through the Marquis, but he was careful not to change his expression as he regarded the girl. She was of average height and slender figure, but it was that lovely face, dark, nearly round, perfectly textured, that arrested him. Her hair was completely wrapped in a bright yellow scarf that framed her in a sunrise glow. The Marquis stared, unprepared for such a sight.
"My daughter, Rosa Maria," the barber said, and the girl, with the uncertainty of her youth and station, smiled narrowly, unsure if smiling was appropriate.
"Enchanted," the Marquis said softly, and so he was.
The barber waited a moment, enjoying the reaction his daughter had produced. "She is sixteen, senor," he finally said, "and she is everything to me. I would not have attempted what I will now show you without being certain it would not mar her beauty."
With that he reached behind her and in one quick move whisked away the yellow scarf, revealing a sight that made Valfierno gasp. Her hair, which now reached to the middle of her back, had been dyed a dazzling white, a blinding white, a white as stark as sunlit snow. The girl smiled again as her hair was revealed, this time proudly, sure the Marquis would be pleased.
"You see what can be done?" the barber said.
Valfierno nodded.
"It will last a week, maybe two," the barber said. "Then it can be done again. And at any time, one can wash it clean." He turned to his daughter. "Is that not what I promise, Rosa?"
Still smiling, Rosa nodded.
"So you see," the barber said to Valfierno. "Your hair can be as I know you would wish it to be, one color again." He held up a small satchel he'd been holding in his hand. "I can do it now, at once. It can be done very quickly."
It of course would not be done at all, but Valfierno had no wish to treat the barber rudely, and certainly no wish to shorten this unexpectedly pleasant visit. "I am delighted, of course, at what you have done to try to be of service," the Marquis said. "Please, step inside for a moment."
But the barber's natural diffidence held him back. Unimposing though these rooms might be, the Marquis was clearly an educated man of significant background. The frayed surroundings notwithstanding, the gulf between the two men remained. Even having been invited, the barber knew where he did not belong.
"No, please enter," Valfierno urged, stepping into the cluttered sitting room. The barber looked at his daughter, then back to Valfierno. Then he touched his daughter's arm and moved with her partway into the room.
Valfierno turned to look at him. "This is most rewarding," he said, "to find in a city which is new to me a man so eager to be helpful. That is very pleasant. Your daughter should be proud of her father's kindness." The barber beamed.
"And of his skill," Valfierno said.
Rosa Maria looked at her father proudly.
"I think," Valfierno went on, "that for reasons of my own I will let nature color my hair in her own good time. But I think, too, that it is fortunate that you have chosen to come back to see me as you have."
The barber's face had darkened at the beginning of Valfierno's speech, but now it turned hopeful.
"Now that I no longer have my beard," the Marquis said, "it occurs to me that I will require shaving every second day. Perhaps more often, I am really not certain, it has been so long since I've kept myself clean-shaven. It has, in fact, been so very long that I am fearful of attempting to apply the razor myself."
The barber could see where the Marquis was leading. "Oh, yes, Don Valfierno, of course," he said eagerly. "I would be honored to shave you as often as you choose. Every day, if you like, for the price of every second day."
"We will set the price tomorrow," Valfierno said airily, "when we are alone." Gentlemen did not discuss money in front of a lady. Even the barber knew that, and was pleased that Rosa would receive this consideration.
"Tomorrow, then?" the barber asked, seeking to confirm what seemed very good news. Valfierno nodded.
"At what time, senor?"
"Eleven o'clock."
The barber nodded. "I will come then."
"Good. And if your daughter is not better occupied, she might accompany you," Valfierno said with careful unconcern. "I have some beautiful books that might interest her while you are at your work."
"She reads very well," the barber assured him. "Even some Latin. Yes, she will come with me. And Don Valfierno," the barber said slowly, "if I may suggest, you might think again about your hair. It can do for you quickly what otherwise will take many weeks. And allow me to remind you that if you do not like what you see, it can be washed clear."
"I understand," Valfierno said. "But I have reasons of my own." He looked toward Rosa Maria and smiled. "But I suggest that now that your daughter is no longer needed as an example, she would prefer her hair returned to its natural color, a color I know must suit her perfectly."
Even against her dark skin, the girl's blush was visible as she lowered her eyes.
"Indeed, Don Valfierno," the barber said, and bowed. And after more "thank you"s and other words of appreciation, the barber and his daughter left.
Let it be said quickly of Valfierno that even in a place and time that regarded a girl of sixteen as marriageable and therefore available in other ways, the Marquis de Valfierno had always set stricter limitations on his own behavior. No specific minimum number had ever been assigned to this, but as liberally as he might choose to interpret his self-imposed rules, a girl of sixteen would remain below the limit. None of that, however, would preclude an arrangement with the barber that would provide Valfierno with future opportunities to see the girl. There could certainly be no harm in that.
Care about his dealings with women was very much on his mind these days, since it had been the mishandling of a delicate relationship that had led to their quick departure from Buenos Aires.
The scheme itself could have gone on forever. It had been simple, effective, and easily maintained. It had depended for its success on the charm of its chief practitioner, the gullibility of his clients, and the considerable skills of Yves Chaudron. Since all three were in endless supply, only the fury of a powerful woman could have brought their activities to a sudden end.
The woman was Clara Teresa del Estero, wife of General Carlos del Estero, the Minister for Internal Affairs, whose government position had often been the source of much amusement in the frequent pleasurable meetings between his wife and her very close friend, the Marquis.
The Marquis Eduardo de Valfierno had met the general's wife in the place where he went two or three times a week for the specific purpose of meeting strangers, the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. She had been seated on a plush-covered bench in the middle of one of the darker but still more popular salons. In a city where elegant women style themselves in the European manner, there had been something about her dress and bearing that had made him mistake her for a North American. "I see you rest," the Marquis had said to her in his rigid but quite usable English.
"Only a little," she had replied, in English equally unsure, and in an accent that now made her origins clear. He had laughed and explained his mistake, and she had been flattered; not as flattered, perhaps, as if he'd thought her a Parisian, but pleased enough that he had imagined her to come from anywhere but here.
The fact that she lived here in Buenos Aires had made her useless to him for the business purpose that regularly brought him to the museum, but her lively manner was so thoroughly winning that he continued to pursue the conversation on its own merits, and very quickly the two of them were walking together through the many small exhibition rooms, and then out the back door and along the gravel paths of the garden.
She was open and friendly, and told him quickly who her husband was, information the Marquis received with considerable interest. It was evident that a woman so highly placed could be of great value at some time in the future; especially if that future were carefully built on a relationship strong enough to make her eager to please.
He found her charming, lively, and attractive, despite the barely visible lines that had just begun to etch themselves along the sides of her mouth. Her conversation was quick and edged with irreverence, and her knowledge of the pictures they'd seen together was at least as good as his own.
It was by playing on that knowledge that he arranged for them to meet again. She had mentioned Pueyrredon, whose work the Marquis had said he knew nothing of. That was mostly true, of course, for while he'd often seen the paintings, he'd never troubled himself to learn about the artist. There was no need to do so for a man whose customers were invariably interested in the works of the European religious painters.
So the following day they met and examined the gaucho scenes of the Argentinean master, and the day after that they had coffee at a quiet café, and by the end of the week she'd arranged to be free for a long midday meal at a restaurant run by Italians in La Boca, after which he took her for the first time to the apartment on the Paseo Colon.
Her enchantment with the black-haired, black-bearded Marquis was so complete that by the third such visit he felt secure enough to begin to amuse her with stories of his enterprise. At first she was unbelieving, unwilling to accept the fact that it could all be quite so simple. "Don't they suspect?" she asked.
The Marquis shrugged. "Not in fact," he said. "But just to be certain, I have ways to reassure them."
The Marquis then described his business in some detail, beginning with what he called the Factory, the large open loft to the north of town, on the river. It was here that the paintings were made. Many were copied from the dozen or so master copies that Yves Chaudron had made over the years of the lesser known sacred works of Zurbarán and Murillo that hung in museums all over Europe. But others were what Chaudron called his originals: paintings whose style, technique, and subject matter echoed the two Spanish masters, but did not duplicate any preexisting work, and so could not be said, by Chaudron at least, to be copies. It was these latter paintings that the Marquis sold at the highest prices, because it was these that Chaudron signed with the greatest pride. (Though not, of course, with his own signature.)
At first their customers came only from the obituary columns — from the fine, large announcements of important deaths. Valfierno would learn where the widow lived and turn up at the grieving woman's door, announcing himself as a dealer with whom her late husband had been negotiating. It had been her husband's plan, he would say, to purchase a painting of the Annunciation by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo (always the entire name), and donate it to their joint place of worship, a place the Marquis could easily name, having read it in the death announcement.
The acceptance rate on the part of the bereaved was as astonishing as the gratitude that accompanied it. What a wonderful way to memorialize the man! What a perfect expression of a widow's grief, and of the devotion the two of them had shared; for each other, and for their faith.
And so all three parties to this transaction had everything to gain: the Marquis his substantial selling price, the widow her satisfaction at having perfectly expressed her grief, and the church its valued Murillo, a gift whose authenticity they would be far too sensible ever to call into question.
There were, of course, occasional weeks when no prominent men in Buenos Aires were considerate enough to die. It was during one of these longer-than-usual droughts that the Marquis had become bold enough to attempt a second plan he'd been considering for some time.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Man Who Stole the Mona Lisa by Robert Noah. Copyright © 1997 Robert Noah. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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