Life isn't long enough for love and art.
W. Somerset Maugham
The Moon and Sixpence

FOR BEV…

Story and all drawings by Arnie Greenberg.

All rights reserved.

Background:

Leonardo da Vinci arrived in France in the early part of the 16th century.

The only way to go from Italy to much of France was on foot with a donkey to carry necessities. It would be an arduous journey due to the unknown terrain and the master's age. He arrived from Rome with a student, Francisco Melzi, and three paintings. When he came to Amboise at the invitation of the king, he was 65 years old. He died there on May 2, 1519.

(Melzi returned to Italy with about 30 of daVinci's notebooks. After his death over 50 years later, Melzi's notebooks were split up. In modern times one sold for $30 million. Others are now owned by Bill Gates).

But all of this begs the question, "Where did Leonardo and his aide stay along the way? There were no inns available on a daily basis, and with villages so far apart, they would find refuge in country churches…if they were lucky.

But there was also a series of castles and great chateaux, whose owners might welcome this man of art and science. I base this story on the probability that da Vinci did rest for a day or two in a number of welcoming chateaux.

Could he have stayed at Hautefort, near Perigueux? Why not? It is a possible route to Amboise. Using today's etiquette, I reason that the master might have left a drawing in sanguine and ink as a thank you gift for his hospitable aristocratic host.

(Hautefort Castle as it appears today)

But remember, this is all conjecture on my part. Come, enter into my imagination. I leave the rest to you.

PREFACE

If words could explain why. If we understood man's motives. If there was a plausible explanation. Perhaps there is. Read on read on.

It started with an idea, a malevolent idea by calculating men.
The scenario was simple. The plot was set. The time, the place, and the method was decided. To think that the weather would act on their behalf was beyond their hopes.

It was made easier because of their fortunate timing. The man reached the locked window the moment the thunder clapped. It gave him strength and assurance to enter.

The Latch Is Lifted and...

He slid his hunting knife into the window crack and lifted the latch. Quickly he climbed in as the sound of the rain grew. He crossed the room with sound muffled by gum soled-shoes. He lifted the frame with tight fitting rubber gloves, pried open the tiny clamps at one end and easily removed the contents. It sat naked, before him, centuries old.

(The windown latch was lifted...)

He gently slid the copy into its place and returned the clamps. Again the thunder roared as he re-hung the frame and slid the original into a thin case. The rain was steady now but the explosive thunder was moving on, rolling and racing east.

The world seemed to cower under lightening as it tickled the mountain tops. He was outside again, making sure to close the window, always protected by the covering sound of the heavy rain.

(Arnie Greenberg's drawing of the Hautefort Castle)

That rain accompanied him, protecting, cooling, and joining forces with his secret plan. He had little to fear now as he reached his bicycle and silently headed south until a car light flicked a message.

'We are with you, waiting.' The car, the men, the thin case and the secured bike headed away in relative silence, protected by the night and the thunder as it too rolled off like the echo from a cannon, in the distance.

In the chateau and the village below, everyone slept, lulled by the sound of the rain.

PART 1

Chapter 1

Lives of wise men all remind us; we shall make our life sublime, and in passing leave behind us footprints on the sands of time…

There was nothing simple about Bruce Kellner. He was a man of prodigious habits and sophisticated tastes.

He was dedicated to no person but he was absorbed in his work within the world of Art. He was not an artist but a man of paintings. He sought them out. He searched for them and, more often than not, found what he was looking for. Not for himself did he work so diligently, but for others.

Bruce Kellner was an Art Detective.

(Bruce Kellner, an art detective par excellence)

Now, sitting at his favorite table at Restaurant Flo in central Nice, he sipped the contents of an aged Chateau Neuf de Pape, breathed in the aroma, savored the taste and was content. His dinner of 'Oyster Belandines' entrée were perfection. His Filet de Dorade was as tasty as ever. It was perfection.

The Best International Art Detective in the World

Tonight was a celebration of sorts. Dr. Kellner was more than an art sleuth or finder of missing paintings. He was good at his work and while he maintained an office in New York, he was possibly the best international art detective in the world. He had the experience of 30 years behind him.

Only today on his 60th birthday, he had closed a file on a stolen art caper that had taken him to France, England, Mexico and the United States. It ended in the Sabine Hills in central Italy.

Now he had his first moment of respite; a holiday worth waiting for. He let the wine swirl on his tongue and puffed long on his flavorful Montecristo number 4. Bruce was a loner and a man of habit. More importantly, he was a man of special taste. This was his favorite way of celebrating and as usual, he did it alone.

Watching him, one would say he was a lawyer, a dentist perhaps or even a broker. But he was none of these. He was an art connoisseur who was known by the curators of all the museums in America and Europe. He was a sleuth who concentrated on lost or bogus art. He was the best.

The restaurant trappings were to his liking. The art deco décor was tasteful. The crowd was almost hushed and the waiters went about their business with pride and silent dignity. It was a convivial eatery that paid attention to service. It had that special French aura he loved so much.

He might have had dinner at his historic Negresco Hotel, but he chose anonymity here at this beautiful elegant refuge behind the Galleries Lafayette in the center of Nice.

Watching an Army of Chefs

Bruce Keller waited for the wine to explode with that glow he always enjoyed. As he sat facing what had originally been a theatre stage, he watched an army of chefs behind a glass curtain, preparing meals for sophisticated palates.

It seemed that they were all working especially for him. This made him proud. Flo was his victory site. He would come here after most cases and sit alone, congratulating himself. It was a unique place for a quiet dinner and Bruce Kellner was "a man of taste."

He remembered his first case. That had ended in Budapest and Bruce celebrated at the famous Gundel Restaurant. It was more pretentious. Bruce favored Flo.

He liked to be alone with his thoughts but tonight, the art sleuth would not be alone for long.

He had just finished his soufflé, was daubing his lips and eyeing the half finished bottle of wine when a voice interrupted him. It was the sultry, almost masculine voice of a woman. It caught him by surprise.

"Monsieur Kellner?" she almost whispered. "Sorry to interrupt you."

He turned and faced a woman who was fashionable but not over-dressed. She wore a tailored black outfit which suited her eyes and hair. She carried a small silver handbag. She was tall slim and quite young. From where he sat, looking up, she appeared taller than she actually was. He rose and took her extended hand.

"I am Countess Marie-Claude d'Autafort," she smiled. "May I join you for a moment? It is a matter of some urgency."

"Bien sur," Bruce smiled. "It will be my pleasure." He held the chair for her then motioned to the waiter. "Another glass for Mademoiselle," he said, quietly.

The Countess Makes Herself Comfortable

The countess made herself comfortable and Bruce examined her more closely as he put out his cigar.

"No need to ruin a good cigar," she said, handing him her gold embossed card. "I am familiar with that odor. It is rather pleasant."
But the waiter had already removed the ashtray.

Bruce glanced perfunctorily at the card and pocketed it." Can I offer you something? A soufflé perhaps. They are superb."

"No," she smiled. I had a rather late lunch. But if you are not in a rush I would deem it an honor to talk to you about a personal conundrum."

"Ah," said Bruce forcing a grimace. "A Countess with a conundrum. That will not do. How can I help you?"

The countess sighed. Her slight smile accented her features. She had beautiful features, a perfect pert nose, alert eyes and a delicate mouth. Bruce estimated her age as mid thirties at best. She had not lost her youthful beauty.

"This wine is perfect," she said. "It is a good year, n'est-ce-pas"?

Bruce nodded and lifted his glass. "The best, I assure you," he replied.

There was a moment of silence and Bruce waited. Finally, the lady spoke.

"Your reputation precedes you. I heard that you find thing. Things that are missing."

"Sometimes," he replied, nodding slightly. "I work in the field of art. I find missing paintings, sculptures, religious objects or objets d'art. Sometimes they are things that were lost, sometimes stolen and sometimes just missing.

"I even had a case where the object in question was not missing at all but declared so for the benefit of an insurance settlement. My most recent case had to do with a missing original painting where the artist who had copied the painting twice, delivered two copies and sold the original."

"You are referring, of course, to the Picasso portrait of Miss Gertrude Stein."

Bruce was taken aback.

"News travels fast," he suggested. I only received word that the original arrived safely in New York today. It will be on exhibit very soon. How did you know about that?"

A School Friend of Picasso's Mistress

The lady smiled more broadly. "I am a school friend of Francoise Gilot, Picasso's mistress. I was with her the night she first met Picasso. We studied art together. She was quite taken with Picasso. Soon afterwards he asked her to come and live with him. She said she lived with her grandmother who was old and needed her. He replied, I am older than your grandmother and I need you too."

"Incredible. What a small world," Bruce replied. I met Francoise and the children, just recently. Well, well, we have acquaintances in common."

"Yes, I was there when Paloma was born. I am her god mother. She's a charming little girl."

Bruce felt more relaxed. "Did she tell you where we found the original portrait?'

"She said somewhere in Italy. That must have been a surprise."

"Yes. It was when we first found it but like every conundrum it all makes sense once you solve the mystery. We just followed the possible clues and, voila, there it was, in the Sabine Hills, at Rocca Sinibalda, a hill village at the top of the world."

She watched him as he talked. He was relaxed and that put her at ease. She leaned forward. "I'd like to engage your services," she announced. "Is that possible? I'm rather impatient."

"You seem so relaxed," he started. "It can't be…"

"Not at all," she interrupted. "I have lost something extremely precious; something precious to me and my family. It was a Da Vinci drawing."

Click here for Chapter 2