The royal party was scheduled to appear at the Prado at exactly 11:00 A.M., and the streets around the Prado had been roped off by the Guardia Civil. Because of a delay in the ceremony at the presidential palace, the entourage did not arrive until close to noon. There were the screams of sirens as police motorcycles came into view, escorting a procession of half a dozen black limousines to the front steps of the Prado.
At the entrance, the director of the museum, Christian Machada, nervously awaited the arrival of His Highness.
Machada had made a careful morning inspection to be sure everything was in order, and the guards had been forewarned to be especially alert. The director was proud of his museum, and he wanted to make a good impression on the prince.
It never hurts to have friends in high places, Machada thought. ?Quien sabe? I might even be invited to dine with His Highness this evening at the presidential palace.
Christian Machada's only regret was that there was no way to stop the hordes of tourists that wandered about. But the prince's bodyguards and the museum's security guards would ensure that the prince was protected. Everything was in readiness for him.
The royal tour began upstairs, on the main floor. The director greeted His Highness with an effusive welcome and escorted him, followed by the armed guards, through the rotunda and into the rooms where the sixteenth-century Spanish painters were on exhibit: Juan de Juanes, Pedro Machuca, Fernando Yanez.
The prince moved slowly, enjoying the visual feast spread before him. He was a patron of the arts and genuinely loved the painters who could make the past come alive and remain eternal. Having no talent for painting himself, the prince, as he looked around the rooms, nonetheless envied the painters who stood before their easels trying to snatch sparks of genius from the masters.
When the official party had visited the upstairs salons, Christian Machado said proudly, "And now, if Your Highness will permit me, I will take you downstairs to our Goya exhibit."
Tracy had spent a nerve-racking morning. When the prince had not arrived at the Prado at 11:00 as scheduled, she had begun to panic. All her arrangements had been made and timed to the second, but she needed the prince in order to make them work.
She moved from room to room, mixing with the crowds, trying to avoid attracting attention. He's not coming, Tracy thought finally. I'm going to have to call it off. And at that moment, she had heard the sound of approaching sirens from the street.
Watching Tracy from a vantage point in the next room, Daniel Cooper, too, was aware of the sirens. His reason told him it was impossible for anyone to steal a painting from the museum, but his instinct told him that Tracy was going to try it, and Cooper trusted his instinct. He moved closer to her, letting the crowds conceal him from view. He intended to keep her in sight every moment.
Tracy was in the room next to the salon where the Puerto was being exhibited. Through the open doorway she could see the hunchback, Cesar Porreta, seated before an easel, copying Goya's Clothed Maja, which hung next to the Puerto. A guard stood three feet away. In the room with Tracy, a woman painter stood at her easel, studiously copying The Milkmaid of Bordeaux, trying to capture the brilliant browns and greens of Goya's canvas.
A group of Japanese tourists fluttered into the salon, chattering like a flock of exotic birds. Now! Tracy told herself. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid the guard could hear it. She moved out of the path of the approaching Japanese tour group, backing toward the woman painter. As a Japanese man brushed in front of Tracy, Tracy fell backward, as if pushed, bumping the artist and sending her, the easel, canvas, and paints flying to the ground.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Tracy exclaimed. "Let me help you."
As she moved to assist the startled artist, Tracy's heels stamped into the scattered paints, smearing them into the floor. Daniel Cooper, who had seen everything, hurried closer, every sense alert. He was sure Tracy Whitney had made her first move.
The guard rushed over, calling out, "?Que pasa? ?Que pasa?"
The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, "!Ser-gio! !Ven aca! !Pronto!"
Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the Puerto.
Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were trying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.
"Get the director," Sergio yelled. "!En seguida!"
The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. !Que birria! What a mess!
Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look and screamed, "Get some cleaning women down here--quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. !Pronto!"
A young aide rushed to do his bidding.
Machada turned to Sergio. "Get back to your post," he snapped.
"Yes, sir."
Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.
Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened. He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.
Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the Clothed Maja. All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper knew it.
He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. "I have reason to believe," Cooper blurted out, "that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes."
Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. "What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm."
"I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for a real one."
The director gave him a tolerant smile. "There is one small thing wrong with your theory, senor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall--which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting--the alarm would instantly sound."
Daniel Cooper was still not satisfied. "Could your alarm be disconnected?"
"No. If someone cut the wire to the power, that also would cause the alarm to go off. Senor, it is impossible for anyone to steal a painting from this museum. Our security is what you call proof from fools."
Cooper stood there shaking with frustration. Everything the director said was convincing. It did seem impossible. But then why had Tracy Whitney deliberately spilled those paints?
Cooper would not give up. "Humor me. Would you ask your staff to go through the museum and check to make sure nothing is missing? I'll be at my hotel "
There was nothing more Daniel Cooper could do.
At 7:00 that evening Christian Machada telephoned Cooper. "I have personally made an inspection, senor. Every painting is in its proper place. Nothing is missing from the museum."
So that was that. Seemingly, it had been an accident. But Daniel Cooper, with the instincts of a hunter, sensed that his quarry had escaped.
Jeff had invited Tracy to dinner in the main dining room of the Ritz Hotel.
"You're looking especially radiant this evening," Jeff complimented her.
"Thank you. I feel absolutely wonderful."
"It's the company. Come with me to Barcelona next week, Tracy. It's a fascinating city. You'd love--"
"I'm sorry, Jeff. I can't. I'm
leaving Spain."
"Really?" His voice was filled with regret. "When?"
"In a few days."
"Ah. I'm disappointed."
You're going to be more disappointed, Tracy thought, when you learn I've stolen the Puerto. She wondered how he had planned to steal the painting. Not that it mattered any longer. I've outwitted clever Jeff Stevens. Yet, for some inexplicable reason Tracy felt a faint trace of regret.
Christian Machada was seated in his office enjoying his morning cup of strong black coffee and congratulating himself on what a success the prince's visit had been. Except for the regrettable incident of the spilled paints, everything had gone off precisely as planned. He was grateful that the prince and his retinue had been diverted until the mess could be cleaned up. The director smiled when he thought about the idiot American investigator who had tried to convince him that someone had stolen a painting from the Prado. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow, he thought smugly.
His secretary walked into the office. "Excuse me, sir. There is a gentleman to see you. He asked me to give you this."
She handed the director a letter. It was on the letterhead of the Kunsthaus Museum in Zurich:
My Esteemed Colleague:
This letter will serve to introduce Monsieur Henri Rendell, our senior art expert. Monsieur Rendell is making a tour of world museums and is particularly eager to see your incomparable collection. I would greatly appreciate any courtesies you extend him.
The letter was signed by the curator of the museum.
Sooner or later, the director thought happily, everyone comes to me.
"Send him in."
Henri Rendell was a tall, distinguished-looking, balding man with a heavy Swiss accent. When they shook hands, Machada noticed that the index finger on the right hand of his visitor was missing.
Henri Rendell said, "I appreciate this. It is the first opportunity I have had to visit Madrid, and I am looking forward to seeing your renowned works of art."
Christian Machada said modestly, "I do not think you will be disappointed, Monsieur Rendell. Please come with me. I shall personally escort you."
They moved slowly, walking through the rotunda with its Flemish masters, and Rubens and his followers, and they visited the central gallery, filled with Spanish masters, and Henri Rendell studied each painting carefully. The two men spoke as one expert to another, evaluating the various artists' style and perspective and color sense.
"Now," the director declared, "for the pride of Spain." He led his visitor downstairs, into the gallery filled with Goyas.
"It is a feast for the eyes!" Rendell exclaimed, overwhelmed. "Please! Let me just stand and look."
Christian Machada waited, enjoying the man's awe.
"Never have I seen anything so magnificent," Rendell declared. He walked slowly through the salon, studying each painting in turn. "The Witches' Sabbath," Rendell said. "Brilliant!"
They moved on.
"Goya's Self-Portrait--fantastic!"
Christian Machada beamed.
Rendell paused in front of the Puerto. "A nice fake." He started to move on.
The director grabbed his arm. "What? What was it you said, senor?"
"I said it is a nice fake."
"You are very much mistaken." He was filled with indignation.
"I do not think so."
"You most certainly are," Machada said stiffly. "I assure you, it is genuine. I have its provenance."
Henri Rendell stepped up to the picture and examined it more closely. "Then its provenance has also been faked. This was done by Goya's disciple, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla. You must be aware, of course, that Lucas painted hundreds of fake Goyas."
"Certainly I am aware of that," Machada snapped. "But this is not one of them."
Rendell shrugged. "I bow to your judgment." He started to move on.
"I personally purchased this painting. It has passed the spectrograph test, the pigment test--"
"I do not doubt it. Lucas painted in the same period as Goya, and used the same materials." Henri Rendell bent down to examine the signature at the bottom of the painting. "You can reassure yourself very simply, if you wish. Take the painting back to your restoration room and test the signature." He chuckled with amusement. "Lucas's ego made him sign his own paintings, but his pocketbook forced him to forge Goya's name over his own, increasing the price enormously." Rendell glanced at his watch. "You must forgive me. I'm afraid I am late for an engagement. Thank you so much for sharing your treasures with me."
"Not at all," the director said coldly. The man is obviously a fool, he thought.
"I am at the Villa Magna, if I can be of service. And thank you again, senor." Henri Rendell departed.
Christian Machada watched him leave. How dare that Swiss idiot imply that the precious Goya was a fake!
He turned to look at the painting again. It was beautiful, a masterpiece. He leaned down to examine Goya's signature. Perfectly normal. But still, was it possible? The tiny seed of doubt would not go away. Everyone knew that Goya's contemporary, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla, had painted hundreds of fake Goyas, making a career out of forging the master. Machada had paid $3.5 million for the Goya Puerto. If he had been deceived, it would be a terrible black mark against him, something he could not bear to think about.
Henri Rendell had said one thing that made sense: There was, indeed, a simple way to ascertain its authenticity. He would test the signature and then telephone Rendell and suggest most politely that perhaps he should seek a more suitable vocation.
The director summoned his assistant and ordered the Puerto moved to the restoration room.
The testing of a masterpiece is a very delicate operation, for if it is done carelessly, it can destroy something both priceless and irreplaceable. The restorers at the Prado were experts. Most of them were unsuccessful painters who had taken up restoration work so they could remain close to their beloved art. They started as apprentices, studying under master restorers, and worked for years before they became assistants and were allowed to handle masterpieces, always under the supervision of senior craftsmen.
Juan Delgado, the man in charge of art restoration at the Prado, placed the Puerto on a special wooden rack, as Christian Machada watched.
"I want you to test the signature," the director informed him.
Delgado kept his surprise to himself. "Si, Senor Director."
He poured isopropyl alcohol onto a small cotton ball and set it on the table next to the painting. On a second cotton ball he poured petroleum distillate, the neutralizing agent.
"I am ready, senor."
"Go ahead then. But be careful!"
Machada found that it was suddenly difficult for him to breathe. He watched Delgado lift the first cotton ball and gently touch it to the G in Goya's signature. Instantly, Delgado picked up the second cotton ball and neutralized the area, so that the alcohol could not penetrate too deeply. The two men examined the canvas.
Delgado was frowning. "I'm sorry, but I cannot tell yet," he said. "I must use a stronger solvent."
"Do it," the director commanded.
Delgado opened another bottle. He carefully poured dimenthyl petone onto a fresh cotton ball and with it touched the first letter of the signature again, instantly applying the second cotton ball. The room was filled with a sharp, pungent odor from the chemicals. Christian Machada stood there staring at the painting, unable to believe what he was seeing. The G in Goya's name was fading, and in its place was a clearly visible L.
Delgado turned to him, his face pale. "Shall--shall I go on?"
"Yes," Machada said hoarsely. "Go on."
Slowly, letter by letter, Goya's signature faded under the application of the solvent, and the signature of Lucas materialized. Each letter was a blow to Machada's stomach. He, the head of one of the most important museums in the world, had been deceived. The board of directors would hear of it; the King of Spain would hear of it; the world would hear of it. He was ruined.
&n
bsp; He stumbled back to his office and telephoned Henri Rendell.
The two men were seated in Machada's office.
"You were right," the director said heavily. "It is a Lucas. When word of this gets out, I shall be a laughing stock."
"Lucas has deceived many experts," Rendell said comfortingly. "His forgeries happen to be a hobby of mine."
"I paid three and a half million dollars for that painting."
Rendell shrugged. "Can you get your money back?"
The director shook his head in despair. "I purchased it directly from a widow who claimed it had been in her husband's family for three generations. If I sued her, the case would drag on through the courts and it would be bad publicity. Everything in this museum would become suspect."
Henri Rendell was thinking hard. "There is really no reason for the publicity at all. Why don't you explain to your superiors what has happened, and quietly get rid of the Lucas? You could send the painting to Sotheby's or Christie's and let them auction it off."
Machada shook his head. "No. Then the whole world would learn the story."
Rendell's face brightened. "You may be in luck. I might have a client who would be willing to purchase the Lucas. He collects them. He is a man of discretion."
"I would be glad to get rid of it. I never want to see it again. A fake among my beautiful treasures. I'd like to give it away," he added bitterly.
"That will not be necessary. My client would probably be willing to pay you, say, fifty thousand dollars for it. Shall I make a telephone call?"
"That would be most kind of you, Senor Rendell."
At a hastily held meeting the stunned board of directors decided that the exposure of one of the Prado's prize paintings as a forgery had to be avoided at any cost. It was agreed that the prudent course of action would be to get rid of the painting as quietly and as quickly as possible. The dark-suited men filed out of the room silently. No one spoke a word to Machada, who stood there, sweltering in his misery.
That afternoon a deal was struck. Henri Rendell went to the Bank of Spain and returned with a certified check for $50,000, and the Eugenio Lucas y Padilla was handed over to him, wrapped in an inconspicuous piece of burlap.