Only Georg de Stael seemed able to maintain his interest in the search. Now and then he would put through a call to London, requesting some obscure piece of information about an anonymous buyer of a Titian or Rembrandt in the late 18th century, or the history of some damaged copy by a pupil of Rubens or Raphael. He seemed particularly interested in works known to have been damaged and subsequently restored, information with which many private owners are naturally jealous of parting.
Consequently, when he called to see me in London some four months after the disappearance of the Leonardo, it was not in a purely jocular sense that I asked: ‘Well, Georg, do you know who stole it yet?’
Unclipping a large briefcase, Georg smiled at me darkly. ‘Would it surprise you if I said "yes"? As a matter of fact, I don’t know, but I have an idea, a hypothesis, shall we say. I thought you might be interested to hear it.’
‘Of course, Georg,’ I said, adding reprovingly: ‘So this is what you’ve been up to.’
He raised a thin forefinger to silence me. Below the veneer of easy charm I noticed a new mood of seriousness, a cutting of conversational corners.
‘First, Charles, before you laugh me out of your office, let’s say that I consider my theory completely fantastic and implausible, and yet—’ he shrugged deprecatingly ‘- it seems to be the only one possible. To prove it I need your help.’
‘Given before asked. But what is this theory? I can’t wait to hear.’
He hesitated, apparently uncertain whether to expose his idea, and then began to empty the briefcase, taking out a series of looseleaf files which he placed in a row facing him along the desk. These contained what appeared to be photographic reproductions of a number of paintings, areas within them marked with white ink. Several of the photographs were enlargements of details, all of a high-faced, goatee-bearded man in mediaeval costume.
Georg inverted six of the larger plates so that I could see them. ‘You recognize these, of course?’
I nodded. With the exception of one, Rubens’ Pieta in the Hermitage Museum at Leningrad, I had seen the originals of them all within the previous five years. The others were the missing Leonardo Crucifixion, the Crucifixions by Veronese, Goya and Holbein, and that by Poussin, entitled The Place of Golgotha. All were in public museums the Louvre, San Stefano in Venice, the Prado and the Ryksmuseum, Amsterdam — and all were familiar, wellauthenticated masterworks, centrepieces, apart from the Poussin, of major national collections. ‘It’s reassuring to see them. I trust they’re all in good hands. Or are they next on the mysterious thief’s shopping list?’
Georg shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think he’s very interested in these. Though he keeps a watching brief over them.’ Again I noticed the marked change in Georg’s manner, the reflective private humour. ‘Do you notice anything else?’
I compared the photographs again. ‘They’re all crucifixions. Authentic, except perhaps in minor details. They were all easel paintings.’ I shrugged.
‘They all, at some time, have been stolen.’ Georg moved quickly from right to left. ‘The Poussin from the Chateau Loire collection in 1822, the Goya in 1806 from the Monte Cassino monastery, by Napoleon, the Veronese from the Prado in 1891, the Leonardo four months ago as we know, and the Holbein in 1943, looted for the Herman Goering collection.’
‘Interesting,’ I commented. ‘But few masterworks haven’t been stolen at some time. I hope this isn’t a key point in your theory.’
‘No, but in conjunction with another factor it gains insignificance. Now.’ He handed the Leonardo reproduction to me. ‘Anything unusual there?’ When I shook my head at the familiar image he picked up another photograph of the missing painting. ‘What about that one?’
The photographs had been taken from slightly different perspectives, but otherwise seemed identical. ‘They are both of the original Crucifixion,’ Georg explained, ‘taken in the Louvre within a month of its disappearance.’
‘I give up,’ I admitted. ‘They seem the same. No — wait a minute!’ I pulled the table light nearer and bent over the plates, as Georg nodded. ‘They’re slightly different. What is going on?’
Quickly, figure by figure, I compared the photographs, within a few moments seized on the minute disparity. In almost every particular the pictures were identical, but one figure out of the score or more on the crowded field had been altered. On the left, where the procession wound its way up the hillside towards the three crosses, the face of one of the bystanders had been completely repainted. Although, in the centre of the painting, the Christ hung from the cross some hours after the crucifixion, by a sort of spatio-temporal perspective — a common device in all Renaissance painting for overcoming the static nature of the single canvas — the receding procession carried the action backwards through time, so that one followed the invisible presence of the Christ on his painful last ascent of Golgotha.
