The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 13
It was not the first time a Vermeer had gone missing. Hadley knew that Signore Domingo would give anything to locate an authentic Vermeer. He’d had a role in trying to track down Vermeer’s The Concert, which was part of a large art heist that took place in March 1990 at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum when a group of thieves entered the museum dressed as Boston police. They stole thirteen paintings, including Vermeer’s masterpiece. Signore Domingo considered the fact that the paintings were still missing one of his greatest failures. When he was unable to recover the treasures, his reputation had spiraled downward.
That same elusive painting had quite a checkered history. It had been sold in Amsterdam in 1696 and did not resurface for more than a hundred years. It was purchased by Isabella Stewart Gardner in 1892 in Paris for $5,000. Now valued at an estimated $200 million, it held the record for the most valuable unrecovered artwork in the world. Who knew what Woman in Pearls and a Red Dress would be worth today?
“Why do you care about tracing the provenance of a painting?” Luca wondered when they were settled in their hotel room.
“Because it provides evidence of its origin,” explained Hadley. “A painting’s history can be established by verifying the chain of custody. Who owned the painting, where it was stored, and whether it was part of an exhibition.”
“So you are a detective, like me?” Luca asked.
“Exactly,” said Hadley.
In order to establish provenance and help authenticate the artwork, Hadley began checking auction records. The odds were against her. She knew establishing an unbroken line of provenance of older paintings was rarely achieved. She’d feverishly consulted the requisite websites. Her fingers flew over the computer keys. The IFAR (International Foundation for Art Research) site yielded nothing. The Essential Vermeer Interactive Catalogue listed no auction records for this particular painting. Any details on the painting—style, subject, size of the work, and its description, signature, materials, dimensions, and frame—were nonexistent or, at best, sketchy. Records of sale from the more distant past didn’t often survive. And records could be forged or destroyed for dubious reasons. The titles of paintings and the attribution to a particular artist frequently change over time. Many private collectors buy and sell works anonymously through third parties, art dealers or auction houses, which may or may not disclose the owner’s identity, even that of art thieves.
“Is a painting with a good provenance more valuable than one without it?” Luca asked.
“Yes, because it is less likely to be a forgery or the work of an imitator. However, provenance alone is not enough to establish the authenticity of a painting, especially if it is considered of value.”
Luca looked out the hotel window at the sparkling lake and mountain vista and breathed a heavy sigh. “This must be the most beautiful place on earth.”
“I agree. Wouldn’t it be great to live here year ’round?”
“It would be expensive,” Luca pointed out.
“How would you make a living? I doubt if much crime goes on at the lake.”
“You’d be surprised, Cara. You know the TV shows about those quiet English villages where a murder happens every week and serial killers lurk behind every garden gate?”
“True. But what would I do?”
“You’d be married to me and spend your life making me happy and raising our babies.”
“Dream on. I guess I could have an affair with a fabulous actor with a home on the lake.”
“You forget, Cara, I’m carrying a gun, and I would have to challenge your lover to a duel.”
“You brought your gun?” Hadley frowned.
“It came in handy in Venice. You never know what dangers lurk on the lake.”
“I think you see danger around every corner.”
Luca’s expression turned serious. “That’s my job, Hadley. To protect the innocent.”
“Well, in this case, we’re protecting a work of art.”
“According to you, a very valuable piece of art. In my experience, where money is involved, men tend to stretch the limits of the law. And sometimes seeking justice requires taking risks.”
“You may be right. Men have done some serious things for the sake of art.”
Luca turned toward the lake. “When can we get out on the water?”
“Right after lunch. We’ll hire a boat to take us to Villa Rossi.”
“First things first, Cara. I need a workout. My body needs to stretch after all that time on the train and in the car.”
Hadley looked around the room. “I don’t see any exercise equipment. I’m sure they have a gym in the hotel.”
Luca took her hand and led her over to the king-sized bed. “That’s not the kind of workout I had in mind.”
Hadley blushed.
****
After their “exercise” session, Hadley and Luca enjoyed a nice lunch outside by the pool with an iconic view of the majestic lake and mountains to pass the time before their appointment.
“I could get used to this,” Luca said, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Don’t get too comfortable. We have a job to do, and we must be dedicated to doing it.”
Luca looked into Hadley’s eyes and tilted her chin in his hand. “You are dedicated to me, no? And to raising our family?”
“Certo,” replied Hadley. “But from now on, let’s save the romance for after we finish this case.” Sometimes she got the feeling Luca would like to remake her into his mother. A plump but attractive Italian woman who stayed at home, cooked pasta, and raised bambinos. The subject of bambinos hadn’t even come up yet, until now. She was in love with Luca, but would she go as far as to say she was “devoted”? She knew she wouldn’t give up her career for him. She did love pasta, even though she didn’t know how to cook, and babies were cute, but she didn’t intend to lose her figure right away.
“We can make time for both, Cara.”
Luca tried to pay the bill, but Hadley tapped his wrist and signaled to the waiter to charge the meal to their room. It was business, after all. Luca thanked her, took her hand, and they walked out of the hotel toward the dock to catch the boat to Villa Rossi.
Being out on the lake on such a glorious day was invigorating. Hadley loved the water. The lake sparkled in the sun and changed colors, sometimes blue, sometimes green. The charter boat gently swayed as it glided peacefully across the lake and down some thirty-four kilometers to an exclusive area of villas in Cernobbio. The vessel pulled into a private boat dock, and Luca helped Hadley out.
“We’ll call when we’re ready to leave,” Hadley told the captain.
“It’s only a stone’s throw away from Como, if you want to take in some sightseeing on the way back. And it’s located in front of the Grand Hotel Villa d’Este. That’s worth a look.”
“We’ll let you know.”
Approaching the property from the waterfront, Hadley’s jaw dropped.
“It’s heavenly,” she breathed, taking in the perfectly manicured lawn, the stone steps, the landscaping—a lush garden with olive and lemon trees—and the sumptuous mansion itself, with balconies off each of what looked like four lakefront bedrooms in the three-story stone structure. On the side facing the lake was a large patio with a pool.
When they knocked on the door, Prince Alessandro Rossi introduced himself and welcomed them. She was expecting a butler. She’d never met a prince before and wondered if she should call him Your Highness or bow.
“Prince Alessandro, I’m Hadley Evans, and this is my associate, Luca Ferrari.”
“Please, I don’t stand on formality. Call me Sandro. It’s very nice to meet you,” he said. “May I offer you some refreshment? Some prosecco and biscotti, perhaps?”
“That would be lovely,” Hadley said.
They sat on a comfortable flowered sofa in front of a fireplace. Off to the side was a spacious dining room with a crystal chandelier, and she caught a glimpse of a professional chef-worthy kitchen.
There was an elegant staircase rising to the second floor.
“You have a lovely home,” Hadley said.
“Thank you. It belonged to my parents. I spent many memorable vacations here. It was built in the early 1900s,” the prince noted, “but it has every modern convenience.”
“Why would you ever want to leave?” Luca asked.
“You can imagine, with the taxes and upkeep, the costs are prohibitive. I also maintain a home in Rome, where my business is, so I’m afraid I have to give this up, although I will miss it.” The prince rose from the couch. “Well, do you want to see her?”
“Her?” Luca asked.
“The Woman in Pearls and a Red Dress.”
“Yes, of course,” Hadley said. “Lead the way.”
“I have her on display in the solarium so you can see her in just the right light.”
“He talks of the woman in the painting like she’s alive,” Luca whispered, scratching his head.
“Luca, that is the way a patron thinks when they own a masterpiece. When you see her, you’ll understand, if she was really painted by the Master. If she is indeed real, she will come alive before your eyes.”
The prince led them into a sunlit solarium and stood transfixed in front of the painting.
Hadley drew a breath. If she thought the villa was breathtaking, the painting, and it was real, she was convinced, was even more magnificent.
While Hadley studied the painting, Prince Alessandro looked over his shoulder. Luca excused himself, saying he had to answer the call of nature. But instead of heading for the bathroom, he began to do some digging of his own around the comfortably appointed villa. He opened drawers and cabinets in all the rooms of the house and conducted a thorough search as if he’d had a warrant, which he definitely didn’t have. But who knew if they’d have another opportunity to explore the premises again. People tended to get uncooperative, especially when something was at stake as valuable as this painting apparently was.
The prince turned to Hadley. “Well, what do you think?”
“I’m speechless,” Hadley admitted.
“It is authentic?”
“I’d bet my life on it. This had to have been painted by the Master. Of course, I will have to have my opinion corroborated by my boss, but there is no doubt in my mind this is a genuine Vermeer.”
“As I thought,” said Sandro. “But it wasn’t dated.”
“Only three of his works were,” Hadley replied. She turned to face the prince.
“Prince Alessandro—um, Sandro—in researching provenance, I, as the investigator, try to produce a complete list of owners from the present time backward to when the painting left the artist’s studio,” Hadley explained. She knew that sometimes, especially in older paintings like the Vermeer in question, it was impossible to clarify a provenance definitively or to determine it was a work that came from a particular family and should be returned to the heirs of that family. This ambiguity kept companies like the Massimo Domingo Art Detective Agency in business.
“I may be able to help,” Sandro said. “I just found this letter from my mother among her things, and I think it might answer some questions.” He handed the fragile letter to Hadley.
Dear Sandro:
If you are reading this letter, your father and I are gone. I imagine you will be shocked to find Woman in Pearls and a Red Dress, a genuine Vermeer, in our possession. How do I know the painting is real when no one else seems to know a thing about it? That was intentional. We kept the secret for all these years. Now it’s your turn to hear the story and keep the secret.
It was the end of the war, late April 1945. April 25, I remember, because it was our wedding anniversary. We were celebrating at home when there was a frantic knock on the door. Everyone knew the war was over and that the Germans, our former allies, were on the losing side. Italy was no longer under control of the Third Reich. Milan was not the stronghold it once was. Benito, or, as we called him, Il Duce, was to meet with a delegation of partisans at the palace of Cardinal Schuster. He told us that when he learned the Nazis had already begun negotiations for an unconditional surrender, he stormed out of the palace with Clara. That’s Claretta Petacci, his mistress. They immediately fled Milan to Como, hoping to escape to Switzerland.
Your father and I had been friends with Mussolini, but things were beginning to get tenuous. People were turning on collaborators in a deadly way. Informers were everywhere, and the Italian people were bloodthirsty for revenge. The war was a mistake for Italy from the beginning, but we thought we were away from all the drama in Como. But Como is no different from the rest of the world. News travels fast. Especially bad news.
Il Duce begged us to take the painting for safekeeping. He knew we were art lovers and that we could be trusted, but I couldn’t believe I was holding an authentic Vermeer. I almost dropped it, I was so nervous to realize I was holding in my trembling hands a work painted by the Master in the 1600s.
“Is th-this authentic?” I asked Il Duce.
“It’s as real as you are standing in front of me, Principessa.”
“Where did you get this?”
Benito’s classic jaw tightened. “Courtesy of an exhibition in Rome. Later, I thought to bargain with Hitler for it. But I couldn’t bear to part with it. The woman in the painting reminds you of my Clara, no? So beautiful in her red dress and pearls.”
I looked at the frightened young woman by Benito’s side. There was a resemblance, but the woman before me, the woman who shifted continuously, looking around like a caged animal, did not have the demeanor or the calm assurance of the subject of the painting. She couldn’t wait to leave. I could hardly get a clear look at her face. She was afraid for her life and, as it turned out, she was right to be worried, since she had only three more days to live.
“We’ll be back to collect it,” Il Duce assured. “We’re going to attempt to cross the border into Switzerland. From there, I don’t know where we’re headed, but hold on to this for me. Someone will be back to collect it. If I need to, I could use it later to bargain for our freedom or to sell. It’s invaluable. No one is even aware of its existence, and if they are, they have no idea where it has been hidden all these years. I’m depending on you. Tell no one you have it. Though I know it will be tempting to show it off, to display it, don’t give in to that urge. My enemies will get me any way they can.”
He stared at the painting for a long time, hesitant to give it up, looking for a parting message, perhaps. Of course, your father and I promised. And we kept that promise all these years.
We invited them to stay the night, to have dinner at least, but they were in a hurry to move on. I have no idea where they spent the night, but the following day, they joined a convoy of fellow Fascists and German soldiers heading north toward the Swiss border.
So that was the last I saw of them, until of course we heard the news about their execution.
By now you know the story. According to historic accounts, Mussolini was wearing a German Luftwaffe helmet and overcoat, but the disguise did little to save him when partisans stopped the convoy at the lakeside town of Dongo on April 27. Mussolini was one of the most recognizable men on earth. With his shaved head and prominent jaw, his appearance gave him away.
The partisans seized Benito. Clara could have blended in with the crowd, but Benito inadvertently called attention to her by begging for special treatment for his mistress. The partisans hid the couple in a remote farmhouse overnight, afraid the Nazis would try to free him as they had done before. They weren’t taking any chances.
The next morning, April 28, 1945, after enjoying their last evening together, unbeknownst to them, their last evening on earth, the partisans removed them from the house and drove them to the small village of Giulino di Mezzegra in northern Italy on the shores of Lake Como, not far from our villa. As the story goes, they were ordered to stand in front of a stone wall at the entrance to Villa Belmonte, where they were both executed by machine-gun fire. They say his killer was the communist partisan commander Walter Audisio.
Before dawn on April 29, the corpses of Mussolini, Petacci, and fourteen fellow Fascists were placed in a truck and dumped like so much garbage in Milan’s Piazzale Loreto, the “Square of the Fifteen Martyrs.” There was a reason they were taken to that place. Only eight months before, Fascists acting under order from the SS publicly had displayed the bodies of fifteen executed partisans. Now Mussolini and the others were put there also. Residents of Milan cursed him, threw vegetables at his corpse, kicked him, spat at him, and worse, beat his body beyond recognition and even fired more bullets into it. Then the crowd strung up the bodies at a gasoline station in the corner of the square. In early afternoon, American troops ordered the bodies to be taken down and Mussolini’s corpse transported to the city morgue. I couldn’t sleep for weeks after, imagining that it could happen to us. Oh, the nightmares. Every knock on the door had us frightened for our lives for years.
As the Soviets got closer to Berlin, apparently Hitler heard news of Mussolini’s death. He didn’t want to give his enemies the satisfaction of killing him in the same way, so he took the coward’s way out and committed suicide on April 30.
Mussolini’s body was buried in an unmarked grave in a Milan cemetery until Easter Sunday 1946, when Fascists dug it up, washed it in a nearby fountain, and pushed it in a wheelbarrow to a getaway car.
For nearly four months, the corpse was missing. It was found in August 1946, in the cupboard of a Capuchin monastery outside Milan. Once the Italian government recovered Mussolini’s corpse, it kept its whereabouts secret for more than a decade. In 1957, the Italian prime minister finally delivered Mussolini’s bones to his widow, where they received a burial in the family crypt.
With his death, we were powerless. The painting was cursed. Every time I look at it I see only the blood red of the dress and the deathly white of the translucent pearls. Yet it is so beautiful, I couldn’t look away.
If anybody suspected we were hiding a Vermeer at the behest of Mussolini, they would have torn us limb from limb. Perhaps you’ve heard what they did to collaborators. We very well could have ended up like Il Duce and Clara. We had no idea if he had stolen it or where it came from, other than what he’d said. We even worried that Hitler knew of its existence and had charged one of his henchmen to retrieve it. Son, we literally lived in fear the rest of our lives.
