Then she said aloud tentatively, “You are a thief, Mary Gardner,” and after a bit repeated, “Oh, yes. You are a thief.” But she did not mind at all. Nothing so portentous had ever been said about her before, even by herself.
She ate her dinner from a tray before the painting, having with it a bottle of French wine. Many times that night she went from her bed to the living-room door until she seemed to have slept between so many wakenings. At last she did sleep.
But the first light of morning fell on Mary’s conscience as early as upon the painting. After one brief visit to the living room she made her plans with the care of a religious novice well aware of the devil’s constancy. She dressed more severely than was her fashion, needing herringbone for backbone — the ridiculous phrase kept running through her mind at breakfast. In final appraisal of herself in the hall mirror she thought she looked like the headmistress of an English girls’ school, which she supposed satisfactory to the task before her.
Just before she left the apartment, she spent one last moment alone with the Monet. Afterward, wherever, however the Institute chose to hang it, she might hope to feel that a little part of it was forever hers.
On the street she bought a newspaper and confirmed the listing of Trees Near L’Havre. Although that wing of the Institute had been destroyed, many of its paintings had been carried to safety by way of the second-floor corridor.
Part of the street in front of the Institute was still cordoned off when she reached it, congesting the flow of morning traffic. The police on duty were no less brusque than those whom Mary had encountered the day before. She was seized by the impulse to post-pone her mission — an almost irresistible temptation, especially when she was barred from entering the museum unless she could show a pass such as had been issued to all authorized personnel.
“Of course I’m not authorized,” she exclaimed. “If I were I shouldn’t be out here.”
The policeman directed her to the sergeant in charge. He was at the moment disputing with the fire insurance representative as to how much of the street could be used for the salvage operation.
“The business of this street is business,” the sergeant said, “and that’s my business.”
Mary waited until the insurance man stalked into the building.
He did not need a pass, she noticed. “Excuse me, officer, I have a painting—”
“Lady…” He drew the long breath of patience. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Yesterday during the fire a painting was supposedly destroyed — a lovely, small Monet called—”
“Was there now?” the sergeant interrupted. Lovely small Monets really touched him.
Mary was becoming flustered in spite of herself. “It’s listed in this morning’s paper as having been destroyed. But it wasn’t. I have it at home.”
The policeman looked at her for the first time with a certain compassion. “On your living-room wall, no doubt,” he said with deep knowingness.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
He took her gently but firmly by the arm. “I tell you what you do.
You go along to police headquarters on Fifty-seventh Street. You know where that is, don’t you? Just tell them all about it like a good girl.” He propelled her into the crowd and there released her. Then he raised his voice: “Keep moving! You’ll see it all on the television.”
Mary had no intention of going to police headquarters where, she presumed, men concerned with armed robbery, mayhem, and worse were even less likely to understand the subtlety of her problem. She went to her office and throughout the morning tried periodically to reach the museum curator’s office by telephone. On each of her calls either the switchboard was tied up or his line was busy for longer than she could wait.
Finally she hit on the idea of asking for the Institute’s Public Relations Department, and to someone there, obviously distracted — Mary could hear parts of three conversations going on at the same time — she explained how during the fire she had saved Monet’s Trees Near L’Havre.
“Near where, madam?” the voice asked.
“L’Havre.” Mary spelled it. “By Monet,” she added.
“Is that two words or one?” the voice asked.
“Please transfer me to the curator’s office,” Mary said and ran her fingers up and down the lapel of her herringbone suit.
Mary thought it a wise precaution to meet the Institute’s representative in the apartment lobby where she first asked to see his credentials. He identified himself as the man to whom she had given her name and address on the phone. Mary signaled for the elevator and thought about his identification: Robert Attlebury III. She had seen his name on the museum roster; Curator of…she could not remember.
He looked every inch the curator, standing erect and remote while the elevator bore them slowly upward. A curator perhaps, but she would not have called him a connoisseur. One with his face and disposition would always taste and spit out, she thought. She could imagine his scorn of things he found distasteful, and instinctively she knew herself to be distasteful to him.
Not that it really mattered what he felt about her. She was nobody.
But how must the young unknown artist feel standing with his work before such superciliousness? Or had he a different mien and manner for people of his own kind? In that case she would have given a great deal for the commonest of his courtesies.
“Everything seems so extraordinary — in retrospect,” Mary said to break the silence of their seemingly endless ascent.
“How fortunate for you,” he said, and Mary thought, perhaps it was.
When they reached the door of her apartment, she paused before turning the key. “Shouldn’t you have brought a guard — or someone?”
He looked down on her as from Olympus. “I am someone.”
Mary resolved to say nothing more. She opened the door and left it open. He preceded her and moved across the foyer into the living room and stood before the Monet. His rude directness oddly comforted her: he did, after all, care about painting. She ought not to judge men, she thought, from her limited experience of them.
He gazed at the Monet for a few moments, then he tilted his head ever so slightly from one side to the other. Mary’s heart began to beat erratically. For months she had wanted to discuss with someone who really knew about such things her theory of what was reflection and what was reality in Trees Near L’Havre. But now that her chance was at hand she could not find the words.
Still, she had to say something — something…casual. “The frame is mine,” she said, “but for the picture’s protection you may take it.
I can get it the next time I’m at the museum.”
Surprisingly, he laughed. “It may be the better part at that,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
He actually looked at her. “Your story is ingenious, madam, but then it was warranted by the occasion.”
“I simply do not understand what you are saying,” Mary said.
“I have seen better copies than this one,” he said. “It’s too bad your ingenuity isn’t matched by a better imitation.”
Mary was too stunned to speak. He was about to go. “But…it’s signed,” Mary blurted out, and feebly tried to direct his attention to the name in the upper corner.
“Which makes it forgery, doesn’t it?” he said almost solicitously.
His preciseness, his imperturbability in the light of the horrendous thing he was saying, etched detail into the nightmare.
“That’s not my problem!” Mary cried, giving voice to words she did not mean, saying what amounted to a betrayal of the painting she so loved.
“Oh, but it is. Indeed it is, and I may say a serious problem if I were to pursue it.”