Hot Art (14 page)

Reading the article on the front page was slightly humiliating, he recounted: a high-profile theft, and of a painting that had previously been stolen—twice. Dulwich Gallery came off as irresponsible, and now one of the stars of its collection was gone for the third time. Waterfield clicked through the two earlier thefts, although both had taken place before he was director of Dulwich.

“The first took place on New Year's Eve 1966, I believe. Ten paintings, including the Rembrandt, were stolen.” A major bank robbery had also taken place in London around the same time. The stolen works were later recovered at Streatham Common, in a bag under a bush. “Much speculation was given to the idea that the bank robbers had stolen the paintings as an insurance policy and traded them with the police for a favour.” That was the rumour, but it was never proven. “Everyone was just happy the art came back.”

The second time the Rembrandt was stolen was less sinister but more bizarre. “It was an eccentric theft,” noted Waterfield. The portrait disappeared in the middle of the day, during business hours. When staff members saw the blank space on the wall, they got into a car and drove around the neighbourhood, searching for a suspect. A few streets away they saw a man with a large beard riding a bicycle up a hill. There was a package in the bicycle's basket, about the size of the stolen painting. A staff member pulled up the car beside the bicycle and asked, “Excuse me. What do you have in your bicycle basket?”

The man admitted it was, in fact, Rembrandt's portrait of Jacob de Gheyn iii. He didn't try to outrun them on his bike. Instead he complained that the gallery was always closed at the most inconvenient times. He planned to copy it and then return it to the gallery. He didn't understand what all the fuss was about. The police didn't press charges.

Now the painting was gone again—for the third time—and Waterfield's vacation was over. He was on the next train back to London.

Dulwich Picture Gallery sits back from the road on a lawn dotted with trees. Opened in 1817, it is widely considered to have been the first public art gallery in Britain. In 1981 Dul-wich had recently reopened after a renovation, and it was Waterfield's mission to garner the gallery more attention. That wasn't a problem anymore. “The media were all over us. And so were the police.” He remembered looking at the empty spot on the wall. “There was a sense of real violation,” he told me.

Dulwich held a major old-master collection of seventeenth-and eighteenth-century paintings, and one of the main draws was the Rembrandt room, which held several paintings by the revered Dutch artist, including the now missing portrait. Staff knew it as Gallery Eleven. Waterfield had last seen the painting three days earlier. He knew it well: he'd spent hours looking at Jacob's face. Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn had painted the portrait of Jacob de Gheyn on wood early in his career. Born on July 15, 1606, the artist was the son of a miller and a baker, one of nine children. He hit success young as a portraitist but died poor, outliving his wife and son. In death he became one of the most treasured painters in history, and one of the most popular among art criminals—close to two hundred Rembrandts are listed as stolen.

The portrait at Dulwich was a well-known easy target. The frame hung on just two hooks, for a reason: “The hanging system was designed for easy removal so that even an idiot could move it if there was a fire,” explained Waterfield. When I strolled into Gallery Eleven, the portrait was the first in sight, facing me. It hung at chest level and was small compared to most of the works in the room. So small, in fact, that it was easy to understand the inclination to grab it off the wall and run. Jacob stares out darkly from the glistening canvas, almost daring you, “Take me.”

“There was one piece of good news,” Waterfield told me. “Two of the thieves had been caught on camera.” But as the days passed Waterfield lost hope. The media decamped. So did the police. Dulwich went from circus to graveyard. For eleven days nothing happened. Every once in a while Waterfield would get a phone call from a friend wanting to commiserate. He got used to these calls. On the morning of Tuesday, August 25, Waterfield was sitting at his desk in the gallery when the phone rang. He assumed it was another pity call.

“Is this the managing director of the gallery?” The voice was male, with a foreign accent.

“Yes, I'm the director,” Waterfield answered.

The voice said, “I am a German businessman and I act as a broker. I deal in pictures, sometimes for private clients in America interested in very high-quality works.” He told Waterfield that a person was offering to sell him a Rembrandt painting for a million pounds.

“It is a portrait of Jacob de Gheyn,” said the voice. “I have looked it up in a catalogue of Rembrandt paintings, and I see it belongs to you.”

Waterfield stayed calm, his voice steady. “It has been stolen from us,” he said.

“Oh. I have not seen any newspaper report of the theft,” said the voice. “I would like to help you but I need to discuss it with you further.” Then he asked, “Can you fly to Amsterdam tomorrow to talk about it?”

The question floated in Waterfield's mind for a moment.

“Yes, I think so,” he answered. Of course he could. It was his Rembrandt. He'd do whatever the man on the phone commanded.

“Is the picture insured?” the voice asked.

“No, because the premiums are too expensive for the gallery, but there is a reward.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

“Not much for a Rembrandt,” the voice laughed.

“Ours is a poor gallery,” said Waterfield.

The voice laughed again.

“May I tell the police?” Waterfield asked.

“I would prefer not at this moment,” the voice answered. “There is a need for haste, as there is an interested American buyer coming to Europe on the weekend.”

Waterfield agreed to fly the next day. The voice said he would call back in one hour with further instructions. Water-field hung up the phone and ran all the way to the bursar's office at Dulwich College, which at that time was responsible for the gallery. The two men decided to ignore the warning and call the police, who agreed to send an officer to the gallery.

Meanwhile, the voice called back at 11:15 as promised.

Waterfield had already arranged his flight to Holland. He would arrive at the airport at noon, and the voice instructed him to take the airport bus to the Schiphol Hilton hotel. The bus was free, he added, consolingly.

“Could you tell me your name?” Waterfield politely inquired.

“Müller,” said the voice. It was a common German name.

Müller provided further instructions. Waterfield should go to the reception desk at the Hilton and ask for Mr. Müller. Agreed. Waterfield hung up.

The police arrived at the gallery too late for that conversation, but now they attached a tape recorder to his phone. This was 1981, and the tape recorder was big, Waterfield remembered. “It was a low-tech offering. Not much of a secret weapon, but it would do.”

Then the police left him alone. An hour passed, and Water-field suddenly remembered that his passport had expired the week before. “There was a passport strike in progress!” He made a few phone calls. There was something called a Visitor's Passport that he could pick up at the post office. He rushed around London to get some passport photos, then to the post office. Success. When he returned to the gallery, he found a message from a Detective Chief Inspector Evans, who was requesting a meeting. He went to see the detective.

DCI
Evans had white hair and a relaxed smile. He coached Waterfield on what to say to Müller. “This whole thing could be a hoax,” the detective warned, and in his opinion it probably was. In case it wasn't, though, the
DCI
and another police officer would make the trip to Amsterdam as well. Waterfield was relieved. “This James Bond stuff wasn't my thing,” he said.

In Holland, the Dutch police would be the active officers; the Brits weren't going to be allowed even to observe the meeting. The night before the trip,
DCI
Evans gave Waterfield this advice: “Get a good night's sleep.” That was not possible.

The next morning Waterfield flew to Amsterdam. In the arrivals lounge he caught sight of another British detective he had met, a Detective Inspector Sibley, but he pretended not to recognize him in case Müller was watching. Water-field skipped the free bus ride and hailed a taxi. The taxi driver scolded him for not taking the free bus.

The Hilton lobby was anonymous, comfortable, and not large. At reception Waterfield asked for Mr. Müller. The receptionist paged the German, but there was no sign of anyone. Maybe it was all a hoax? Waterfield started to relax. He walked a few paces away. Then a stranger appeared beside him. “Mr. Waterfield?”

He recognized the voice.

Müller was about six feet tall, receding hairline, overweight, rings of sleeplessness under his brown eyes. His style was garish, his jacket and tie brightly coloured. “Orange is what I remember most,” said Waterfield. The stranger steered the gallery director toward the hotel lounge. It was crowded, but oddly, nobody sat near them.

Müller told Waterfield that he had a wife and children and that his wife was worried. It was a nice touch, a personal detail that put Waterfield at ease. Maybe this man was just trying to be honest and helpful. Maybe he was just trying to get Waterfield's painting back. Müller said exactly that: he was an honest businessman who wanted to help the gallery director, and he was prepared to co-operate with the police, but not at this point.

Müller said he felt he deserved 10 per cent of the painting's value as a finder's fee. Ten per cent was the number that Paul had told me dealers received as a hooky price for high-profile stolen items. Like Paul, Müller was a middleman, but he had decided to play a much higher-stakes game than Paul ever would. As Paul pointed out, “You don't want to do anything that will attract the attention of law enforcement, or the media.” The Rembrandt theft had already done both.

“I'm not used to dealing with stolen property,” Müller told Waterfield. Müller said that he had been contacted by an intermediary but that even the intermediary did not have the picture. Someone else did—someone he didn't know.

“I've now seen reports in German and Dutch newspapers suggesting that the value of the painting is one million pounds. One hundred thousand pounds seems like a suitable sum,” Müller said.

“Is that your price?” Waterfield snapped a little too quickly. The director was repelled.

“Yes,” Müller answered. “We must hurry as the American buyer coming this weekend is prepared to pay one million dollars. This should be sorted out by the weekend. I would prefer you to have the painting because of my concern for the gallery.”

Waterfield probed, just as
DCI
Evans had instructed him: “I need proof that the picture is available before I can persuade my chairman and bursar to pay out. I am willing to believe you, but it is not in my hands. I cannot make out large cheques. I need to know what is on the back of the picture, and I also need a photograph.”

Müller was irritated. “I do not see the necessity, but I will make a telephone call.” Müller mentioned that he was thirsty. Waterfield felt obliged to buy him a drink. Müller ordered a tonic, Waterfield an orange juice—non-alcoholic choices. Both men wanted to stay sharp.

Waterfield watched the German businessman leave the lounge to make his phone call. He came back ten minutes later and said, “I can tell you what is on the back of the picture this evening. I don't think it's essential for you to have photographs.”

Waterfield replied, “I think I will need them to persuade my chairman and bursar.”

Müller said, “I will telephone you this evening with a description of what is on the back of the picture.”

The two strangers sipped their little drinks across from each other. Waterfield probed again, this time for personal details. Müller said he had graduated from Harvard Business School, had gone on to Cambridge to study English literature, and spoke five languages. He had been an investment analyst. One of his partners had been involved in criminal activities of a vague nature, and Müller had lost a lot of money. It was because he'd lost so much money that Müller wanted the 10 per cent.

It became obvious to Waterfield that Müller wanted him to leave the Hilton first. Müller suggested that he catch the next plane to London, but Waterfield had other plans: he was scheduled to meet with police. He told Müller he wanted to see the treasures of the Rijksmuseum. So when he left Müller, that's exactly where he went.

At the museum Waterfield didn't quite know how to act. He suspected he was being followed, so he started to walk quickly up and down flights of stairs, looking over his shoulder. He'd turn corners sharply, retrace his steps. He'd walk into a washroom and then leave immediately. Nothing. At the cafeteria he tried to choke down a sandwich, but his appetite had vanished. Finally he used the phone number he'd been given for Detective Constable Bosworth Davies, another British detective who had followed him to Holland.

The
DC
was boiling with impatience. “What happened!”

Waterfield refused to get into details on the phone.
DC
Bos-worth Davies gave him the number for the Dutch police contacts. Waterfield called them from the same phone and arranged to meet them at another hotel, the Prinsengracht. Evans and Sibley would be there as well.

It was a sunny afternoon, which felt odd to Waterfield. He couldn't enjoy the weather. He strolled along a gorgeous canal to the hotel, where a stranger lounging outside shot Waterfield an almost imperceptible smile then disappeared. Evans and Sibley were waiting upstairs in a room. Waterfield told them what he'd discussed with Müller. The detectives said he should go back to London and wait it out. He took a flight back. At eleven o'clock that night the phone rang and he turned on the tape recorder. It was Müller.