The Mystery of the Misplaced Mona Lisa

by Ron Katz

“What is that, Bernie?” asked Barb Silver. She had just walked into the kitchen of the Palo Alto home she shared with her husband, who was also her business partner in Silver Investigations.

“Just a fruit snack,” responded Bernie, unsuccessfully trying to mask the girth of a Sumo tangerine with his hands.

“Last I checked that list you brought home from your annual physical exam,” she noted, “fruit intake has to be limited for pre-diabetics. That is the largest tangerine I’ve ever seen; it must have 1000 carbs.”

“First of all,” he argued, “with the possible exception of Snow White, no one has ever been seriously harmed by eating fruit. Second, there’s a reason they call it ‘pre-diabetic.’ I am not a diabetic.”

“Not diabetic yet,” she said, putting the tangerine back into a bowl, “but please lay off the Sumos—the point of your diet is to keep the ‘pre’ in ‘pre-diabetic‘.”

“But what about my mental health?” he asked.  “I had never understood the causes of the pathological behaviors we’ve seen in many of our cases, but now, with these impossibly low carbohydrate intake guidelines, I sometimes feel I’d commit mayhem for a water cracker.”

“Look at it this way for the moment,” she said. “You don’t have time to consume that massive tangerine before your favorite art history professor shows up for a cocktail in five minutes.”

“Ah, Ozzie,” Bernie said. “He now fancies himself a part-time detective as well.  He’s stopping by after the karate class he’s taking so that he can subdue wayward wrongdoers.”

“I thought he didn’t like you calling him ‘Ozzie,’” said Barb. 

“At first that was true,” replied Bernie, “and I didn’t like him calling me ‘Silver.’ But we instantly changed our forms of address in the crucible of male bonding that occurred the moment he knocked out that killer in Helsinki and saved my life.”

“Do I get a nickname too?” she purred.

“I’m not sure how that fits in with male bonding,” he said, “but perhaps we could try ‘Barbie.’”

“Now I see why sisterhood is superior to male bonding,” she said, as the doorbell rang. “No stupid nicknames.”

***

“Silver!” greeted Professor Vladimir Osofsky, with outstretched arms, when Bernie opened the door.  Osofsky was the chair of the art history department at Stanford and had been involved in two of the Silvers’ recent investigations. He was slender, had shoulder-length black hair and sported a beret.

“Ozzie, my man!” Bernie declaimed, as they embraced. “I hope your karate training doesn’t prevent you from joining Barb and me for a watermelon Bellini, our summertime drink of choice. It’s the only fruit that Barb allows me.”

“Sparkling water will do,” said Ozzie. “I’ve got to intensify my karate training because  I’ve been offered a big new case that I’m hoping will interest you.”

“How did you get a case?” asked Barb as she walked in, not having heard Ozzie’s request for sparkling water, with three large glasses filled with bubbly red liquid and garnished with watermelon slices. “You’re a great art historian, but I’m not sure that qualifies you to investigate, for example, missing persons.”

“Missing persons, no,” Ozzie replied, “but what about missing artworks? Our exploits recovering the stolen Jackson Pollock painting are the most exciting crime news in the art history world since van Gogh died of gunshot wounds. The result is that I’ve been asked to investigate the biggest art theft in history.”

“I haven’t seen anything about a big art theft in the newspaper,” said Bernie. 

“First of all,” responded Ozzie, “if you want people to think you live in the modern world, you should not let on that you read newspapers. Second, to read about this theft, you’d need a newspaper from 1911. That’s when the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in Paris.”

“Funny,” said Barb, “but I could swear we saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in 2015.”

“Are you sure it was the original?” asked Osofsky. 

“Well,” Barb replied, “it’s true that there were hundreds of other people there at the same time—I believe around 30,000 people a day view that painting.”

“Not to speak of the fact” Ozzie added, “that it’s so easy to forge a painting now that you can google how to do it. You can even buy a veneer online called Crackle, which gives paintings that old cracked look on the surface. Want a nice copy of the Mona Lisa?” Holding out his phone, he continued, “Check out this hand-painted one for $949.99.  Think what you could get for $20,000.”

Bernie eyed the image on the small screen. “I concede we couldn’t judge the Mona Lisa’s authenticity if we were right next to it,” he said, “which we definitely were not when we shuffled by it in 2015. Who stole it in 1911?”

“An Italian fellow, Vincenzo Peruggia, who lived in Paris and had been a workman at the Louvre,” responded Ozzie. “His story was that he thought France had stolen the Mona Lisa from Italy, and he wanted to restore the masterpiece’s honor by returning it to its homeland. Others think that he was more financially motivated.”

“But how could he make any money off such a famous painting?” asked Barb.  “Nobody would buy it, because it’s too well known.”

“You are wrong about that, Barb,” responded Ozzie. “In fact, it may have been sold dozens of times. Stop by my office tomorrow and I’ll show you how it’s done. In the meantime, I will take one of those low-carb Bellinis after all.”

He lifted his glass. “Here’s to Mona, wherever she may be.”

***

At the center of Ozzie’s spacious office on the Stanford campus the next day stood something around six feet tall with a silky cloth over it. “Is that the Mona Lisa?” joked Bernie, as he and Barb entered.

“In fact, it is,” said Ozzie, pulling off the cloth with a flourish.

Barb and Bernie gaped at the picture, which, to them, looked quite authentic. “I assume this is a fake,” said Barb.

“’Assume’ is the key word,” responded Ozzie.  “In truth, you don’t know one way or the other.”

“Correct,” said Bernie. “But so what? You’re not going to sell it to us.”

“In fact, I am,” said Ozzie.  “I’ll sell it to you for a dollar.”

“How do we know we’ll be getting what we’re seeing now?” asked Barb.

“Because you are detectives,” replied Ozzie, “I thought you’d ask that. Here’s a magic marker.  Please sign the back of the painting and put any other identifying marks on it that you want.”

Barb and Bernie each signed in longhand and added a few random stars and crosses.

“Ok,” said Ozzie, taking a dollar from Barb.  “I will deliver it to your house tonight at 7.”

***

That evening, Ozzie showed up at the Silvers’ home bearing two wrapped packages. He joined Barb and Bernie in their living room and asked them to open one of the packages. They inspected it carefully.

“I see our signatures and other marks on the back, so I agree that it’s exactly what we saw in your office today,” said Bernie.  “Therefore it appears that we bought the Mona Lisa, or, more likely a fake, from you for one dollar.”

“Except that you didn’t,” said Ozzie, unwrapping the other package, which contained an identical painting without any signatures or other markings on the back. “This is what you saw at my office. It had a second, identical canvas affixed to its back. Your signatures and other marks were on the back of the second painting, which enabled me to detach the second painting for you while keeping the first painting.”

“Clever,” said Barb, “but, again, so what?”

“I’m answering your question about why someone would steal such a recognizable piece of art as the Mona Lisa.  The answer is that they can do what I just did and re-sell it again and again. There are many rich people who would love to own the Mona Lisa at a deep discount, even if they could show it only to their family and closest friends.”

“So,” interjected Bernie, “you’re saying that the Louvre may not have recovered the real Mona Lisa that was stolen in 1911.”

“That is what I’ve been hired to find out. Will you partner with me?”

Bernie’s face brightened, but, before he could commit, Barb cut in: “We’d love to, Vlad, but, as you know, we take only cases, as our motto states, ‘Where age is an edge.’”

Ozzie appeared to be ready for this, saying “We worked so well together recovering the Jackson Pollock painting, I was hoping you’d make an exception for this once-in-a-lifetime case involving a painting valued at a billion dollars.  Perhaps, because we’re from different generations, you could have a supplementary motto, like ‘Intergenerational Ingenuity.’”

Bernie responded before Barb could react: “The world needs more intergenerational cooperation, Ozzie, so count us in!”

*** 

“Of course, Julia and I will take care of Snowball while you’re in Europe, mom,” said Daniel Silver, Barb and Bernie’s 40-year-old son. Julia was his wife of ten years.

“Thanks so much, Danny,” said Barb. “The last time we left her in a kennel, she went on a hunger strike.”

“What seems to be a much bigger problem,” said Danny, “is that you’re investigating the theft of a painting that occurred in 1911. Isn’t that just a tad insane?”

“I know,” sighed Barb.  “Your father is taking the lead on this.  I’m a little unclear on the concept, but I think that his irrational desire to investigate this relates somehow to male bonding.”

“Where does that leave you?” asked Daniel. 

“My job is to make sure no one gets hurt. Last time we were in Europe, your dad spent some low-quality time looking down the wrong end of a revolver.”

“I presume that all the gunslingers in this case are long gone,” said Daniel, “which brings up the question of who gave Professor Osofsky this crazy assignment?” 

“That actually makes some sort of sense,” Barb replied. “The outgoing director of the Pompidou Centre, a major museum in Paris, has previously worked with Vlad. She has now been appointed head of the Louvre effective next year, but she wants this old mystery cleared up to her satisfaction before she starts.”

“She?”

“Yes, Simone Rousseau.  She’s the first female director of the Louvre in history.”

“Wow,” exclaimed Danny. “What a way to start a new job—revealing that every male director since 1911 has engaged in a cover-up.”

“We’ll see,” said Barb.  “If this case goes anywhere, I may be engaging in some serious sisterhood with Madame Rousseau. In the meantime, I’ve got a lead on some current detective work that I can do on the Mona Lisa before we head for Italy. I’ll leave the historical investigation to Bernie and his professor buddy. Returning to the issue at hand, please don’t forget to give Snowbie her sausage treats at 11 and 3 every day.”

***

“Mrs. Peruggia?” inquired Barb at the doorway of a small home in the North Beach neighborhood in San Francisco, also known as Little Italy.

“Yes,” the young woman answered. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Barb. “I…I was expecting…”

“Someone older?” asked the young woman.

“Yes, exactly,” answered Barb. “Sophia Peruggia, who I guess would be about 87.” Barb had found information on Sophia Peruggia on the Internet.

“Unfortunately, you’re six months late.  She died early this year, shortly after her husband, Vincenzo, Jr. passed away. I am her daughter-in-law, Lucia.  My husband Vincenzo III and I inherited this house.  Can I help you?”

Changing her strategy on a hunch, Barb improvised, “Yes, my name is Barb Silver. During the pandemic, I was in touch with Sophia by phone concerning a historical research project I’m doing about the theft of the Mona Lisa.  Because she was the daughter-in-law of the alleged perpetrator, I thought she might have some relevant materials. She said I could look through some old papers and effects she and her husband had held onto.  Do you have any idea where those are?”

“Yes, I was just about to take them to our self-storage unit. They don’t mean much to my husband and me, because, after my husband’s father--Vincenzo, Jr.--and Sophia moved to this country--in part to get away from the legend of Vincenzo, Jr.’s father—they did not speak much about this chapter of the Peruggia family history. But perhaps your research will straighten things out, so please come in.”

***

While Barb was in Little Italy, Bernie and Ozzie were plotting out the strategy for the upcoming trip to Italy.  “We should start at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence,” said Ozzie. 

“Why is that?” asked Bernie.

“The thief, Mr. Peruggia, travelled to Florence some months after the theft. He  contacted the Uffizi, because he wanted the Mona Lisa to be displayed in one of Italy’s most noted museums.”

“Did the people running the Uffizi feel the same way?” Bernie inquired.

“Apparently not,” answered Ozzie. “They reported Peruggia to the police and then they supposedly returned the painting to the Louvre with great fanfare.”

“What happened to Peruggia?”

“He was put on trial—luckily for him in Italy, where many considered him a hero. He ended up serving seven months in prison and then returned to France, where he lived out his life in obscurity.”

“And you think the Mona Lisa is still in Italy?”

“I don’t know,” said Ozzie. “But, if I were an Italian museum director—then or now--I would not even consider returning the greatest Italian painting of all time to another country.”

***

Barb was going through the papers and other things in a large box at the Peruggia home. She came across a 1911 newspaper clipping with a banner headline about the theft of the Mona Lisa, accompanied by a picture of a handsome Italian man with a waxed handlebar mustache. Hearing someone enter the room, she looked up and was startled to see the man pictured in the clipping.

Bringing herself, back to the present, she said, “You must be Vincenzo III.”

“Yes,” he said, “the grandson of the rescuer of the Mona Lisa.”

“These articles I’m reading don’t describe your grandfather quite that positively,” said Barb.

“I know,” he said. “They call him a thief. I admit he was duped by some thieves, but his motives were purely patriotic.”

“How is that?” Barb asked.

“Some very sophisticated art thieves, led by someone under the alias Eduardo, the Marques de Malfierno, had six copies of the Mona Lisa made by a master forger, Yves Chaudron, and sent them to the U.S. Then they played on the patriotism of my father, who had worked at the Louvre, to steal the painting, which was guarded very lackadaisically.  The painting was stolen on a Monday in August, when the museum was closed and most French people are on vacation. Afterwards a popular song reflected the reaction of the public with verses like ‘It couldn’t be stolen, we guard her all the time, except on Mondays.’”

“I’m interested in the copies of the Mona Lisa,” said Barb.  “Why were they made?”

“That was probably the thieves’ cleverest idea.  Once the painting was reported stolen, it was credible that someone outside the Louvre possessed it and could sell it.  The copies were works of art in themselves—Yves Chaudron, the forger, was an evil genius. The thieves sold each of the six forgeries, and no one was the wiser because the buyers couldn’t and wouldn’t say publicly that they had just bought the Mona Lisa.”

“But then your grandfather got caught.”

“That is not an accurate way of saying it.  He brought the painting to one of the greatest Italian museums—the Uffizi Gallery—where he thought it would be displayed in perpetuity. That is not exactly the act of a thief.”

“But, after receiving the painting from your grandfather, the Uffizi Gallery returned it to the Louvre.”

Vincenzo smiled. “Something was returned to the Louvre.”

“Very enlightening,” said Barb. “Thank you so much for the information and for letting me have access to these papers and artifacts. May I borrow them for my research project?”

“Yes,” said Vincenzo. They really don’t have much value today, except to researchers like you.”

“One question about them,” said Barb, lifting a large brass key with an odd-shaped blade, engraved with ‘da Vinci xxxx.’ “What is this?”

“I don’t know,” responded Vincenzo. “By the time my father gave this box to me, he was suffering from dementia and never coherently explained the meaning of this key. Looks like the inscription refers to Leonardo, and it looks very old, so maybe it does have some value. Please make sure to return it when you finish your research.”

***

“Buongiorno, Roberto,” Ozzie greeted his old friend, Roberto da Verona, a tall, elegant man in a bespoke Italian suit perfectly complemented by a silk designer tie.

“Good morning to you, my friend,” responded Roberto, the director of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. “So nice to see you after all these years.” They had been graduate students in art history at Harvard.  Both had written their theses on Italian artists.

“These are my good friends, Barb and Bernie Silver,” said Ozzie.

“Of course I have heard of the famous Silvers,” exclaimed da Verona while dramatically kissing Barb’s hand.  “The world would be missing one of the most famous Jackson Pollock paintings if it were not for their clever sleuthing. Are you here on another notorious case?”

“In fact, we are,” answered Ozzie. “Try as we might, we cannot figure out why one of your predecessors gave back the most famous Italian painting to the French in 1913.”

“Oh, that old chestnut,” said da Verona.  “Hasn’t that been settled for 108 or so years?”

“Supposedly,” replied Ozzie.  “But your French counterpart, the newly appointed director of the Louvre, wants to put a stake through the heart of this soap opera that never quite dies.”

“Ah, Madame Rousseau,” said da Verona with a bemused smile.  Turning to Barb, he added, “Can you imagine, Signora Silver, the appointment in 2021 of the first female director of the Louvre, which was founded in 1783?”

“Well,” Barb responded, “I assume that women will now get equal time, so I look forward to another male director being appointed in the year 2259.”

“Touche’,” said da Verona.  “I love how you Americans get right to the point. Back to Vladimir’s point about the Mona Lisa, I am glad to cooperate, but I warn you that you will be disappointed.  We do have a room in the basement dedicated to this case, but no one has been there for years. I will give you access to it, but I hope you aren’t allergic to mold, because you’ll likely encounter a lot of it down there.”

***

“He wasn’t kidding about the mold,” said Bernie the next day, as he Barb and Ozzie surveyed the 20 x 20 foot dank cell heaped with 20 or so copies of the Mona Lisa and at least 50 moldering boxes filled with newspaper articles and objects related to the case.

“Welcome to my world,” replied Ozzie.  “This is actually pretty civilized compared to some of the places I’ve searched for artwork. Why don’t I go through this pile of paintings while you two go through the boxes?”

“Some of those paintings look pretty good,” observed Barb.

“Creating a fake Mona Lisa is much easier than finding the real one,” sighed Ozzie, as he took the top painting off the pile. “The most famous painting in the world is also the most copied.  These are probably fakes that have come to the Uffizi over the past 100 years. They’re down here because the Uffizi determined that their value is zero.”

“How can you be so certain that the real one isn’t in that pile?” asked Bernie.

“Quite frankly, at this point, 500 years after the fact, no one can be 100% certain. Because Leonardo is so famous, most people don’t realize that there are only eight paintings that can be attributed to him without controversy.  Often paintings he started were finished by other artists in his workshops. For example, most experts consider the painting called ‘Salvator Mundi’ to be one of those.”

“Didn’t that recently sell for $450 million?” asked Barb.

“Yes,” answered Ozzie.  “You’ve just inspired me to get back to work on this pile.”

***

Four hours of frustration later, the mood in the Uffizi basement was gloomy. “It takes at least an hour to study each painting,” said Ozzie, “and, so far, Roberto is 100% correct that this mystery was solved in 1913.”

“At least some of the newspaper clippings are humorous,” said Bernie.  “Here’s a headline from a French newspaper published right after the theft: ‘We Still Have the Frame.’”

“Yes,” acknowledged Ozzie. “Peruggia had to take the painting out of the frame in order to hide it under his workman’s smock.”

“And here’s an article,” added Barb, “describing one of the supposed security measures that the Louvre took at the time: teaching elderly security guards judo.”

“The only thing of interest that I have found is this,” said Bernie, holding up a large brass key, with an odd-shaped blade, inscribed  ‘da Vinci xxx.’”

Barb’s eyes widened. “Vlad, let me ask you what might seem like an irrelevant question. Do you know the origin of the last name of your museum director friend, Roberto?”

“Sure,” responded Ozzie. ‘da Verona’ just means that his family is from the city of Verona. His name literally means ‘Roberto from Verona.’”

“Let me follow up with another question, which may betray my ignorance,” said Barb. “Is there a city or town called Vinci?”

“Yes,” answered Osofsky, “about 30 miles from here.  “It’s the birthplace of Leonardo, which is why he’s called Leonardo da Vinci.”

Barb opened her oversized handbag and pulled out the key she had gotten from the San Francisco home of the current generation of  Peruggias. It was identical to the key Bernie was holding, except that the inscription had one more x.

The three of them looked at one another in amazement. “I’ll bring the rental car around,” said Bernie, looking at his watch.  “We should be in Vinci by 1 p.m.”

***

As they sped toward Vinci, Ozzie was having second thoughts.  “I’m not sure what’s the hurry on a case over 110 years old. I feel a little bit like the dog who catches up to a car after chasing it and asks himself ‘What now?’”

“I’ll give you one reason for speed,” responded Barb. “The age of the case means that those who know most about it won’t be around much longer.  For example, Vincenzo Jr. and his wife, Sophia, died a mere six months before I visited their San Francisco home.”

“Another good reason,” added Bernie, “is our experience that, once the first clue—the first piece of the puzzle--falls into place, it’s much easier to fit the other pieces in.”

“You’ve convinced me,” said Ozzie.  “Now I need your sleuthing experience to help me take the next steps in this investigation.”

“I think shortly before we arrive in Vinci we should find a clothing store, so we don’t look quite so American,” said Bernie. “Then I think we should go to the person most likely to know everything in a small Italian town, the priest at the biggest church. Hopefully he’s in his eighties, so that he’s closer in time to these events than the current generation.”

“But why would he give us any information?” asked Ozzie.

“I haven’t run this by Barb yet,” Bernie responded, “but I think we can pull off telling him that we’re Mr. and Mrs. Vincenzo Peruggia, Jr.; that you’re our son, Vincenzo III; and that our devoutest wish in our old age is to see the Mona Lisa in the rightful place to which our ancestor returned it.”

“I have to admit,” said Barb, “that hatching that plan in the 30 minutes since our brass key epiphany is sleuthing genius. But, truth be told, I’m a little bit tired of acting the part of an old lady.”

“Just be thankful that you still have to act,” noted Bernie.

***

As predicted, the Church of Santa Croce was right in the middle of Vinci.  Barb, Bernie and Ozzie, dressed as somewhat unstylish Italians, were the only ones in church except for someone in the confessional. They solemnly made their way to the baptismal font, where Leonardo himself was baptized over 500 years before. 

In addition to clothes, Barb and Bernie had purchased canes, which they appeared to need because of the stooping postures they adopted. Both of them wore hats pulled low on their foreheads.

A few minutes later, the confessant slunk out of the church.  Shortly thereafter, an elderly priest limped slowly from the confessional toward the three Californians. “May I help you?” he asked in a raspy Italian.

Ozzie, who had learned Italian when writing his PhD thesis, greeted the priest respectfully, also in Italian. Then he said, “My name is Vincenzo Peruggia III, Father, and these are my parents. They have asked me to speak for them because they have been in America many years and their Italian is poor. I have been lucky enough to work in Florence for a while and to keep up my Italian.” 

The priest looked with great interest at Barb and Bernie, who were smiling wanly at him. “Peruggia is a name of great honor here,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“My parents have one wish in this stage of their life,” continued Ozzie. Then, using the words by which the Italians refer to the Mona Lisa, he intoned dramatically, “They wish to see La Gioconda.”

The priest betrayed no emotions except for a slight flare of his nostrils, saying, “They should go, then, to the Louvre, in Paris.”

“Perhaps,” responded Ozzie, “but they were hoping that they could use this.” He pulled one of the brass keys out of a tote bag he was carrying.

The priest barely got his next words out. “Keys like this are quite common,” he said, trembling. “I am sorry, but I cannot help you. I have to attend to my duties now. I hope I will see you in church again.” He turned away and disappeared behind the altar.

“Now what?” Ozzie asked Barb and Bernie. 

“Now we engage in one of the main activities of detective work,” said Barb. “Watching and waiting.”

***

They didn’t have to wait long. A half hour later, an old Fiat pulled up to the church, driven by a young priest.  He helped the elderly priest into the car, and they drove away, with the Californians following at a discreet distance. After just a couple of miles, the priests turned into a lane leading to a stone farmhouse. The sign at the gate said “Casa Natale de Leonardo,” Leonardo’s birthplace.

Barb, Bernie and Ozzie drove past the gate and stopped in a wooded area 100 yards down the road. “I hate to keep asking this,” said Ozzie, “but now what?”

“Don’t leave home without them,” replied Barb, pulling a pair of high-powered binoculars out of her purse.

***

Dressed in black, the sleuthing trio returned to Leonardo’s birthplace at midnight. Security appeared to be non-existent, because the home was not a major tourist site and, at least in the main house, there was nothing of value. They made their way to what looked like a storm cellar door covered by tree branches. Barb had observed through her binoculars the two priests entering there earlier in the day.

They climbed down some steep steps and found themselves in a huge space with 20-feet-high vaulted ceilings. Before them was a massive oak door criss-crossed by heavy steel bands. Taking out one of the two brass keys from her purse, Barb prepared to insert it in the keyhole.  Before she could do that, Ozzie grabbed her wrist.  “You realize,” he gasped, “we may be about to see something that—”

Barb inserted the key before he could finish. They all were surprised by the sound of tumblers falling into place without Barb having turned the key. The door swung open, which triggered a massive bank of spotlights focused on a lone painting in an ornate frame twenty yards away. 

Barb and Bernie were transfixed. Ozzie seemed to be transported into an alternate state of being. They stayed for three hours and then reluctantly headed back to their hotel.

***

“Now what?” asked Ozzie the next morning at breakfast. 

“That’s easy, up to a point,” answered Bernie.  “We have a client—Madame Rousseau—and we have an obligation to report to her.”

“I’m not sure that’s the right thing to do,” said Ozzie.  “Having been caught up in the excitement of the chase, I hadn’t had much chance to ponder this until last night. I couldn’t get to sleep after we returned. My conclusion is that I agree with Vicenzo Peruggia—this is where La Gioconda belongs.”

“That may be,” responded Bernie, “but that’s not our call. I suggest that you and I stay here for the next two days to make sure nobody gets any bright ideas about moving this painting. Barb can go to Paris and have a chat with Madame Rousseau. Then our consciences will be clear.”

“Our consciences?” exclaimed Ozzie. “We lied to a priest yesterday, as well as breaking and entering. I’m not sure I see where conscience enters into this private detective business.”

“You will see,” said Bernie. “Barb will get it right. Sisterhood will triumph.”

***

The Pompidou Centre in Paris still looked ultra-modern, though it had been completed in the early ‘70’s. Its inside-out design—with structural, mechanical and circulation systems exposed on the exterior of the building--was somewhat disorienting to Barb as she was guided by a docent to the office of the outgoing director, Simone Rousseau.

Although the office was filled with boxes in anticipation of Rousseau’s  move to the Louvre, it was still stunning—a massive glass box with commanding views of Paris from three of its floor-to-ceiling glass walls.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Vladimir,” Rousseau greeted, kissing Barb on both cheeks.  “Thank you so much for travelling here--from Vinci I understand.”

“Thank you for this interesting assignment,” responded Barb. “I’m afraid I have somewhat of a mixed message.”

“Most of the messages I receive are mixed,” said Rousseau. “You may have noticed that the French are not strangers to disagreement.”

“This is a little different,” continued Barb. “We have successfully located the Mona Lisa, but we think it’s in its rightful place, where Leonardo was born.”

“I agree you’ve succeeded,” said Rousseau, “but perhaps not in the way you think. For example, can you be absolutely sure you’ve located the Mona Lisa?”

“Vlad thinks so,” replied Barb, “and it’s certainly under lock and key.” She fished the two da Vinci keys out of her purse.”

“I wish I could agree,” said Rousseau, “but the fact of the matter is that the forger, Yves Chaudron, was probably as skillful as Leonardo. In my opinion, it would be impossible to distinguish the Mona Lisas painted by the two.”

Puzzled, Barb asked “Then what makes you say we succeeded?”

“Those two very precious keys you just showed me,” responded Rousseau, walking over to one of the boxes in front of her and pulling out a key that was identical, except that its inscription read “da Vinci xx.”

“Why are these keys so special?” asked Barb, “That is, aside from the fact that you don’t need to turn them in order to open the door of the room containing what appears to be the Mona Lisa.”

“You don’t have to turn them because they are magnetic keys; they move the tumblers of the lock by magnetism. The locks they open cannot be picked and the keys themselves are impossible to duplicate. When I gave Vladimir the assignment to find the Mona Lisa, I didn’t tell him what I really wanted: the keys. If I had asked him to find them, his male ego would have told him that that was not an important enough assignment for a professor of his stature.”

“Yes,” agreed Barb. “He’s quite proud to have found what he thinks is the true Mona Lisa.”

“Finding the keys is even more important. When I was selected to head the Louvre, I was given access to the archives. I researched this Mona Lisa problem thoroughly, because I did not want any unpleasant surprises during my directorship. What I found out was that, in 1913, a deal was struck between the Uffizi and the Louvre for the return of La Gioconda: The Uffizi could keep what it thought was the original, on three conditions: 1) the transaction would be top-secret; 2) the story told to the public would be that the Uffizi was returning the original to the Louvre; and 3) what the Italians thought was the original was to be kept in an out-of-the-way place behind a door to which there were only four non-duplicable magnetic keys.”

“How can you identify these keys?’ asked Barb. 

“They all say ‘da Vinci’ followed by one, two, three or four x’s.”

“If that’s true,” said Barb, I’ve seen three of them.  Vincenzo III had the key with four x’s, the Uffizi had the key with three x’s, and you have the key with two x’s. What about the key with one x?”

“I’ll respond to your question with a question,” said Rousseau: “How do you think the old priest opened the door?”

“So now you know where all the keys are, and you possess three of them,” Barb said, handing her two keys to Rousseau. “What good does that do you?”

“That’s easy,” answered Rousseau.  “The Louvre now has the situation under control, whereas before we never knew who possessed those keys and what would be done with them regarding this very delicate secret transaction in 1913.”

“I don’t mean to spoil your plan,” Barb said, “but the key with four x’s belongs to the Peruggia’s, and I said I’d return it.”

Rousseau seemed to have already considered this, responding “What if I gave you a budget of $10,000 to compensate them for what they think is a useless key?”

“That’ll work,” answered Barb. “I can probably do it for 5k. What about the key with three x’s from the Uffizi’s basement?”

“The Uffizi is obviously not aware of that one,” responded Rousseau, “which is not surprising because the director of the Uffizi who made the deal in 1913 died under mysterious circumstances shortly after the deal was made. So, I think I’ll just hold that key for the Uffizi in trust. And, if your next question relates to the key with one x, possessed by the Vinci priests, that is the one we’re least worried about—our secret is safe with them, because the last thing in the world they’d want is to lose possession of what they think is the original Mona Lisa.”

“So,” Barb said, with admiration, “we’re all good. I’ll just tell my husband and Vlad that you’ve agreed that what we found in Vinci can stay in Vinci.”

“Yes, my dear.  They have not solved the mystery of the misplaced Mona Lisa—that is truly unsolvable because no one can, with certainty, ever know which is the authentic La Gioconda. But they have solved the mystery of the missing keys.”

“If your husband is like mine,” retorted Barb, “he has attempted to solve that mystery many times.”

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Copyright 2021, Ron Katz