The Revenge of Moriarty (24 page)

He would pass the time of day with this pair of artists who would come into the Grand Gallery from time to time, stopping to see if they could learn anything new from the Englishman's technique.

Within himself, the Professor was becoming more and more irritated. He had hoped to get the business dealt with quickly, but the two official photographers put an end to that, and he was forced to improvise, going through the motions: taking pictures of Vanucci's
St Sebastian
, Titian's
Man with a Glove
and two Leonardos –
St John the Baptist
and
Bacchus
. He was further concerned, on the third morning, when a student came into the Grand Gallery and set up his easel to start on a copy of Andrea del Sarto's
Holy Family
.

On the fourth day the two official photographers were not there, though the tyro artist still worked at his copy. The eccentric Englishman commented on the absence of his friends to one of the passing attendants, making his occasional round of the Grand Gallery. They had finished up here, he was told, and were now working in the Salon du Tibre downstairs.

Moberly nodded enthusiastically, using the whole of his body, telling the attendant that he would now be able to take some photographs in the Salon Carré, remarking that he would have to go down and see his colleagues later, as he also might be leaving after today. With that he began to fold up his tripod camera stand, pack his equipment into the large oblong case, and make his way back to the Salon Carré.

There were several people in the long gallery, two watching the student, still laboriously sketching out part of his canvas in preparation for his copy of the
Holy Family
, the others strolling and stopping, almost at random, in front of paintings which took their fancy among the vast patchwork of canvases which littered the walls. One group – mother, father (pince-nez firm on his nose), and consumptive-looking daughter – stood in front of the large Murillo generally called
The Angels' Kitchen
. Moriarty glanced at their faces which were fixed with that look folk have when they are conscious that exposure to great art will do them some spiritual good.

Cretins, thought the Professor as he passed by. Art is only good for two things – its financial value or the deep secret knowledge that you own something unique which nobody else can have in a million years. Great art could equal great power, particularly if you used it in the way he was, at this moment, planning.

He passed through the archway into the Salon Carré and began to set up his camera in front of the
Mona Lisa
, his eyes taking in all the angles from which he could be viewed. There were three entrances to the small Salon: the one from the Grand Gallery, through which he had just passed; another directly opposite, into the Gallery d'Apollon which housed what was left of the Crown Jewels of France,
*
and so called because of the Delacroix panel in the ceiling, depicting Apollo slaying the Python; the third entrance was through the door to the small room which housed
The Virgin and the Donors
by Hans Memling, and the Luini frescos.

Moriarty reflected that he could only actually be seen from relatively small areas of the Grand Gallery and the Gallery d'Apollon, though it was still possible for visitors, or attendants, to enter quietly from the fresco room without his knowledge. When the moment came, he would have to work quickly and with great stealth.

He stayed, adjusting his camera, peering through the lens and viewing the painting for the best part of ten minutes. In that time only two visitors came through the Salon, hardly pausing, on their way into the Grand Gallery. It was a most admirable time. His ears were adjusted to every sound, cough, footfall, shuffle or unexpected noise. He so concentrated on his hearing that he could detect even the smallest vibration. At last, he bent down and opened the oblong photographic box at his feet, hardly looking at it, his eyes intent on scanning the dangerous entrances and exits.

Feeling with the tips of his fingers, Moriarty found the hidden catch on the right hand long side of the box. He pressed down and the side fell away, revealing a recess in which the Labrosse copy lay cushioned with velvet, fitting exactly but for one small area which contained a pair of long-nosed pliers, similar to a cracksman's ‘outsider'.

Grasping the pliers firmly, his senses straining to the limit, Moriarty began to cross the small area which separated his camera from the space of wall containing the painting. He was about to grasp the lower ledge of the frame when the muffled sound of voices reached him from far away at the other end of the adjoining d'Apollon Gallery.

Three strides and he was back at the box, sliding the pliers into their place and closing the partitioned side before resuming his position behind the camera.

The voices were raised and coming closer: a steady monologue punctuated by grunts from a second party; the tapping of a stick, and the sound of at least four pairs of feet.

The Professor ducked his head under the black cloth behind his camera just as the quartet entered the Salon.

‘I know that my eyes have almost gone, Monsieur le Directeur,' one voice rattled on. ‘But even in this foggy autumn of my sight, I can see the truth.'

Moriarty raised his head, prepared to give the intruders the full Moberly treatment. An imposing picture met his gaze. The central figure wore thick-lensed glasses and walked precisely, with a cane tapping in front of him. At his side the grey-bearded figure of the Louvre's Director bent in deference. Behind them two menials hovered.

‘I know that I am a worry to you, Directeur,' continued the short-sighted one. ‘But, like other artists, I am only concerned that essential truth and beauty may be preserved.'

‘I realize that,' the Director smiled indulgently. ‘Just as I realize you have a great number of weighty and influential artists on your side. I have to deal with the mules, though, Degas.'
*

‘Mules, dolts, fools, who would not be able to distinguish oils from watercolours. All they want are pretty pictures hanging on their walls. Pictures which look clean and freshly varnished.'

‘We seem to be interrupting one of our photographers,' interjected the Director.

One of the menials coughed, the other shuffled towards Moriarty as though to guard the two great men.

‘It is all right, Monsieur le Directeur,' Moriarty fawned and bowed.

‘An Englishman,' Degas beamed. ‘You have to come to Paris in order to see priceless works now, eh?'

‘I have the privilege to be taking photographs, sir, of some of the finest paintings in the world.' Moriarty drew in his breath, about to launch into a Moberly speech.

‘I trust his photography is better than his French,' rattled the short-sighted Degas. Then, more slowly, for the Englishman's benefit, ‘And you are photographing
La Joconde?
You are, perhaps, an expert on this painting?'

‘I know its priceless worth. Just as I know how honoured I am to be speaking to such an artist as yourself, Monsieur Degas.' Inwardly, he scoffed: a dauber, a painter of dancers, blurred ballerinas and women completing their toilet.

Degas laughed. ‘I am making an irritation. A small storm. The idiots here at the Louvre would have
La Joconde
cleaned. What do you think of that, Englishman?'

‘I have read the arguments, sir,' he threw a sidelong glance at the Director who was unwilling to become involved. ‘In my own humble opinion, you and your colleagues are correct in fighting such a decision. Clean the
Mona Lisa
and you risk doing it great damage. Clean it and you risk more than damage, you risk a transformation.'

‘You see,' cried Degas, thumping his cane on the floor. ‘Even English photographers understand. Clean it and it would become unrecognizable. Look at her, Directeur. I cannot see her as plainly as I would like, but I can feel. To clean and revarnish
La Joconde
would be like stripping the most fascinating woman on earth. You can still desire a woman whom you have seen stripped to the flesh, but the sense of mystery always departs with the flutter of the last garment. So it would be with
La Joconde
. The fascination would be consigned to history. You might just as well burn her as clean her.'

‘Bravo,' Moberly's high-pitched bray echoed through the Salon, and the Director, sensing an embarrassing speech by this unknown visitor, took hold of Degas' arm.

‘We must let our English friend continue with his work. You have made your point, and you can make it again to the Committee this afternoon.'

The great artist allowed himself to be turned slowly back towards the d'Apollon.

‘I am almost blind, photographer,' he called back. ‘But not as stone blind as the cretins who look after the heritage of mankind.'

Moriarty breathed a sigh, standing stock still behind the camera, his eyes fixed on Leonardo's small masterpiece. So, they were still thinking of cleaning her. It was a risk he had to take.

The family which had been so impressed with
The Angels' Kitchen
, were now coming back through the Salon, and one other visitor had entered, together with an attendant. He looked as though he was going to settle down and examine each painting in minute detail.

‘You saw the great man then?' asked the attendant.

Moriarty nodded. ‘An honour, a considerable honour.'

‘He makes things warm for the Director and the Committee,' chuckled the attendant. ‘Me? I do not know if they should clean her or not. I only work here. I know nothing of art,' and he shrugged, heading for the Gallery d'Apollon.

Five minutes later the coast was again clear. To his surprise, Moriarty found himself sweating heavily. He held up his hands and noticed that they trembled slightly. Surely his nerve was not failing him? He glanced around, hearing once more stretched to the limit as he reached for the camera box and again released the hidden partition. There was a dry smell in his nostrils, and in the archway between the Salon and the Gallery d'Apollon he was conscious of dustmotes drifting downwards in the light. Far away, someone dropped something with a loud clatter. He was at the picture now, hands on the frame, lifting it from the wall hooks, heart thumping in his ears, perhaps distorting the sounds elsewhere in the museum. The frame was heavy, much heavier than he expected, but it came away from the wall easily enough.

Moriarty lowered it to the floor, leaning it against the wall, turning it as he did so, exposing the back, where the fourteen clasps held the original painting in place. He stopped working for a split second, hearing something unusual in the air, only to realize that it was his own breathing. Then, the pliers down onto the clasps, swinging each of them outwards, towards the frame, one at a time until Leonardo's poplar panel was free. Grasping the top of the frame, the Professor tipped it forward from the wall, his other hand behind the picture, allowing it to drop from the frame.

To hold it was almost a sexual experience. He had to will himself to move quickly, taking the three strides back to the camera box; holding the real Mona Lisa with one hand while he lifted the Labrosse version from its recess; sliding the Leonardo into the secret hiding place: a perfect fit.

Now he found himself counting as he moved back to the frame, positioning the copy's bottom edge onto its ledge. For a second, Moriarty felt an obstruction in his throat as the copy did not seem to fit snugly. Then a slight juggling and it dropped into place. The pliers again on the clasps, and the exertion of lifting the whole thing back into place on the hooks.

As he returned the pliers back to their niche in the camera box there was the scrape of a footstep from the fresco room. He slammed the false side closed, went down on one knee and began to rummage in the box. An attendant had come in behind him. He wondered how long the man had been there? How long had he taken to complete the exchange? The dustmotes still drifted in the air and the background noises were still distant.

‘Charlot tells me you are not coming back tomorrow,' said the attendant.

Moriarty let his breath out slowly, controlling it, fighting the pounding in his ears.

‘No, no,' he replied – Moberly's bray of laughter. ‘I have completed my work here.'

It remained only for him to spend a little more time in the Salon Carré, not rushing his departure, before walking from the Louvre with the black camera box over his shoulder. Nobody seeing the gangling figure, lopsided with the weight of his equipment, crabbing his way across the Place du Carroussel, could ever have imagined that he carried with him one of Leonardo da Vinci's great legacies.

Two days later, Moberly was gone from France – in fact from the face of the earth – and Moriarty returned to the house in Albert Square in order to put the treasure in a safe hiding place. It was a strange sensation for him to sit in the study and look upon the original painting, knowing that it was now his. Yet there was also a sense of anticlimax. Only he was now certain about the location of the
Gioconda, La Joconde
, the
Mona Lisa
– whatever they wished to call it. He also knew that nobody but himself would set eyes on it until the final settlement with Jean Grisombre, who had betrayed him so badly. To set that part of the plot in motion, however, he had to return to Paris – and quickly. This time he went as yet another character from his repertoire of disguise – an American gentleman of great and undisputed wealth.
*

The American was not loud or flash in any sense. He wore his riches with the ease of one born to them, without the aggressive and brash manners of so many who came to Europe from the American continent these days, having made their money quickly in gold or railroads, and who splashed, bullied and ordered as though their new-found opulence was the key to life – as, unhappily, it so often was.

He appeared to be a portly man in his late forties, pudgy of cheek, florid of countenance, dark-haired and soft-voiced. It was one of Moriarty's most simple transformations, accomplished with skilfully-made padding under his clothes and in his cheeks, a cosmetic preparation to increase his colour, and dye for his hair. To this he added horn-rimmed spectacles, his own not inconsiderable talent for assumed vocal illusions, and papers, including letters of credit, which showed that he was Jarvis Morningdale from Boston, Mass. With him travelled a secretary whom he referred to as Harry. They were both booked into a suite at the
Crillon
.