The Rescue Artist
Authors: Edward Dolnick
Tags: #Art thefts, #Fiction, #Art, #Murder, #Art thefts - Investigation - Norway, #Norway, #Modern, #Munch, #General, #True Crime, #History, #Contemporary (1945-), #Organized Crime, #Investigation, #Edvard, #Art thefts - Investigation, #Law, #Theft from museums, #Individual Artists, #Theft from museums - Norway
THE
R
ESCUE
A
RTIST
A TRUE STORY OF ART,
THIEVES, AND THE HUNT
FOR A MISSING MASTERPIECE
EDWARD DOLNICK
For Sam and Ben
Being on the tightrope is living.
Everything else is waiting
.
—KARL WALLENDA
CONTENTS
PART II
Vermeer and the Irish Gangster
PART III
The Man from the Getty
29 “Can I Interest You in a Rembrandt?”
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More…
About the author
Meet Edward Dolnick
About the book
Meeting Mr. Hill
Travails with Charley: Edward Dolnick on Frequently Asked Questions
Read on
Author’s Picks: Best Heist Films, Best Art Crime Books
JUNE 2004
T
he mismatched pictures stare down from the wall of the tiny office: Vermeer, Goya, Titian, Munch, Rembrandt. Ordinary reproductions worth only a few dollars, they are unframed and of different sizes. Several dangle slightly askew from tacks jammed in the wall. The originals hung in gilt frames in the grandest museums in the world, and tourists made pilgrimages to see them. Each was worth millions, or tens of millions.
And, at some point in the last several years, each was stolen. Some were recovered—the tall man who arranged this small display is the one who found them—and some are still missing. The “curator” of this odd collection dislikes anything that smacks of statistics, but he is haunted by a melancholy fact: nine out of ten stolen paintings disappear forever.
In the world of art crime, one detective has an unmatched résumé. His name is Charley Hill. The aim of this book is to explore the art underworld; Hill will serve as our guide. It is odd and unfamiliar territory, dangerous one moment, ludicrous the next, and sometimes both at once.
We will look at many tales of stolen paintings along the way in order to learn something of the territory in general, but the story of one world-famous work—
The Scream
, by Edvard Munch—will serve as the thread we follow through the labyrinth. A decade ago, Hill had no more connection with that painting than did any of the millions who recognized it instantly from reproductions and cartoons.
On the morning of February 14, 1994, a phone call changed all that.
OSLO, NORWAY
FEBRUARY 12, 1994 6:29
A.M
.
I
n the predawn gloom of a Norwegian winter morning, two men in a stolen car pulled to a halt in front of the National Gallery, Norway’s preeminent art museum. They left the engine running and raced across the snow. Behind the bushes along the museum’s front wall they found the ladder they had stashed away earlier that night. Silently, they leaned the ladder against the wall.
A guard inside the museum, his rounds finished, basked in the warmth of the basement security room. He had paperwork to take care of, which was a bore, but at least he was done patrolling the museum, inside and out, on a night when the temperature had fallen to fifteen degrees. He had taken the job only seven weeks before.
The guard took up his stack of memos grudgingly, like a student turning to his homework. In front of his desk stood a bank of eighteen closed-circuit television monitors. One screen suddenly flickered with life. The black-and-white picture was shadowy—the sun would not rise for another ninety minutes—but the essentials were clear enough. A man bundled in a parka stood at the foot of a ladder, holding it steady in his gloved hands. His companion had already begun to climb. The guard struggled through his paperwork, oblivious to the television monitors.
The top of the ladder rested on a sill just beneath a tall window on the second floor of the museum. Behind that window was an exhibit celebrating the work of Norway’s greatest artist, Edvard Munch. Fifty-six of Munch’s paintings lined the walls. Fifty-five of them would be unfamiliar to anyone but an art student. One was known around the world, an icon as instantly recognizable as the
Mona Lisa
or van Gogh’s
Starry Night
. In poster form, it hung in countless dorm rooms and office cubicles; it featured endlessly in cartoons and on T-shirts and greeting cards. This was
The Scream
.
The man on the ladder made it to within a rung or two of the top, lost his balance, and crashed to the ground. He staggered to his feet and stumbled back toward the ladder. The guard sat in his basement bunker unaware of the commotion outside. This time the intruder made it up the ladder. He smashed the window with a hammer, knocked a few stubborn shards of glass out of the way, and climbed into the museum. An alarm sounded. In his bunker, the guard cursed the false alarm. He walked past the array of television screens without noticing the lone monitor that showed the thieves, stepped over to the control panel, and set the alarm back to zero.
The thief turned to
The Scream
—it hung only a yard from the window—and snipped the wire that held it to the wall.
The Scream
, at roughly two feet by three feet, was big and bulky. With an ornate frame and sheets of protective glass both front and back, it was heavy, too—a difficult load to carry out a window and down a slippery metal ladder. The thief leaned out the window as far as he could and placed the painting on the ladder. “Catch!” he whispered, and then, like a parent sending his toddler down a steep hill on a sled, he let go.
His companion on the ground, straining upward, caught the sliding painting. The two men ran to their car, tucked their precious cargo into the back seat, and roared off. Elapsed time inside the museum: fifty seconds. In less than a minute the thieves had gained possession of a painting valued at $72 million.
It had been absurdly easy. “Organized crime, Norwegian style,” a Scotland Yard detective would later marvel. “Two men and a ladder!”
At 6:37
A.M
. a gust of wind whipped into the dark museum and set the curtains at the broken window dancing. A motion detector triggered a second alarm. This time the guard, 24-year-old Geir Berntsen, decided that something
was
wrong. Panicky and befuddled, he thrashed about trying to sort out what to do. Check things out himself? Call the police? Berntsen still had not noticed the crucial television monitor, which now displayed a ladder standing unattended against the museum’s front wall. Nor had he realized that the alarm had come from room 10, where
The Scream
hung.
Berntsen phoned his supervisor, who was at home in bed and half-asleep, and blurted out his incoherent story. In midtale, yet another alarm sounded. It was 6:46
A.M
. Fully awake now, Berntsen’s supervisor hollered at him to call the police and check the monitors. At almost precisely the same moment, a police car making a routine patrol through Oslo’s empty streets happened to draw near the National Gallery. A glance told the tale: a dark night, a ladder, a shattered window.
The police car skidded to a stop. One cop radioed in the break-in, and two others ran toward the museum. The first man to the ladder scrambled his way to the top, and then, like his thief counterpart a few minutes before, slipped and fell off.
Back to the radio. The police needed another patrol car, to bring their colleague to the emergency room. Then they ran into the museum, this time by way of the stairs.
The policemen hurried to the room with the ladder on the sill. A frigid breeze flowed in through the broken window. The walls of the dark room were lined with paintings, but there was a blank spot next to the high window on University Street. The police ducked the billowing curtains and stepped over the broken glass. A pair of wire cutters lay on the floor. Someone had left a postcard.
The day of the crime was no ordinary winter Saturday. February 12 marked the first day of the 1994 Olympic Winter Games, held in the Norwegian city of Lillehammer. For Norway in general, and for its leading political and cultural figures in particular, this was a rare chance to bask in the world’s admiring notice.
The opening ceremonies, a happy and controversy-free spectacle, were expected to draw 240 million television viewers. To most of that multitude, the word “Norway” called up only the vaguest associations. Snow. Fjords. Pine trees. Reindeer, maybe. Blondes, perhaps, or was that just Sweden? Asked to name a famous Norwegian, most people would draw a blank.
In the minds of the Norwegian establishment, the Olympics were a chance to begin to dispel that ignorance. When viewers around the world turned on their TV sets, they would see a national coming-out party. They would see Norway at its best.
Instead, they saw a celebration marred by shock and outrage. “In this beautiful scenery,” lamented the minister of culture, “it is hard to imagine that such evil things could take place.”
The thieves had no such somber thoughts. When they snatched
The Scream
, they had left a postcard for the authorities to find. It showed a painting by the popular Norwegian artist Marit Walle, who specializes in cheerful, cartoon-like scenes of everyday life. Walle’s
Raging Hormones
, for instance, depicts two gray-haired matrons at the beach, binoculars to their eyes, ogling young hunks. The thieves had made their choice as carefully as shoppers in search of the perfect birthday card. They had settled on a Walle painting called
A Good Story
. It shows three men laughing uproariously, red-faced, pounding the table, gasping for breath. On the back of the card one of the thieves had scribbled, “Thanks for the poor security.”
The security was worse than poor. “All the windows were locked,” the National Gallery’s director, Knut Berg, told reporters. “We didn’t figure that thieves would climb through broken glass. There was a
lot
of glass. I wouldn’t have dared to go through all that glass.”
National Gallery officials, it soon became clear, had made a string of bad decisions.
The Scream
had been moved from its customary setting on the National Gallery’s third floor to the second floor. That was more convenient for visitors, since it was closer to the street, but more tempting to thieves as well, for the same reason. Knut Berg had been museum director for twenty years, and for twenty years he had done battle with the politicians who controlled his budget. Now, on the brink of retirement, he had orchestrated a can’t-miss crowd-pleaser. As he watched his installers put the show together, Berg had bustled about happily, beaming with anticipation.
His security chief was more wary. “From January through May 1994,” he had instructed the museum guards in a memo, “Edvard Munch paintings will be exhibited on the first floor [the second floor, in American usage] in rooms 9, 10, and 12. Cameras … should be monitored throughout the night. The night guard should vary his routine and should keep a special eye on the outside walls of the exhibition area. This is a unique exhibition, on the first floor, and we expect it to draw extra attention.”
Bringing
The Scream
nearer to ground level was a blunder, and installing the painting next to a window that opened on the street compounded it. Making matters worse still, the windows of the old brick museum had no protective bars and were made of ordinary, rather than reinforced, glass.
The Scream
was not bolted to the wall but hung from a wire, just like an ordinary painting in an ordinary home, without any connection to the alarm system.
The thieves had prepared carefully. Some of their scouting was surreptitious. They had found, for example, that the night guard finished his rounds at about six in the morning and then retreated to his desk. But they carried out much of their research at leisure and in the open, joining the stream of visitors enjoying the “Festival of Norwegian Culture.” The museum’s cameras were out-of-date, they saw, and left some vital areas uncovered. In room 10, there were no cameras at all.
Like most good planners, the thieves kept things simple. They focused exclusively on
The Scream
, resisting the temptation to pick up other baubles along the way. Nor did they bother with cutting phone lines or disarming burglar alarms or any such electronic skullduggery. Speed was the key; if the thieves could get in and out quickly enough, the best alarms would provide little more than background noise.
For several nights before the theft, workmen at a construction site near the National Gallery had left a ladder lying in plain view. In the dark of night a few hours before the museum break-in, the thieves walked off with it. (The building site happened to be at Norway’s largest newspaper,
Verdens Gang
. For crooks with a taste for publicity, it was a sweet touch that a newspaper whose job would be to shout out the story had itself played a bit part in the break-in.)
The day before the heist, the thieves stole two cars, a Mazda and an Audi. Both were in good condition and roomy, well-suited to fast driving and awkward cargo. The Mazda was the getaway car. The thieves drove a few blocks to where they had parked the Audi and transferred
The Scream
to the second car, in case anyone at the museum had seen them flee. Then they split up and drove off in different directions.
Within hours, everyone with a television set, in every country in the world, knew about the theft. In Norway, while excited reporters chattered for the cameras, chagrined officials at the National Gallery picked out a gift-shop poster of their lost masterpiece. The day before,
The Scream
had reigned in glory. Now a cheap poster in a flimsy frame hung in its place. Beneath the poster, a hand-lettered sign read simply:
STOLEN!