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Guillaume CapitanPortrait of a Killing
A true story of power, art and crime in France
Chapter 5 : Possession Equals Title
Bernard Duminy sat in his quiet office on July 22, 1985, and studied the accusatory letter from Francois Pidoux. He resented this task, one more unwanted, unexpected complication in a delicate and dangerous affair. Even before this, there were no assurances that the deal would turn out all right, no point at which he could relax. What if the picture were damaged in transit from London to Paris, what if one of the Louvre's two acquisitions committees turned down the deal? There were just too many risks.
He forced himself to consider Pidoux's letter coldly, like a jeweler studying a diamond for its weight, facets, and flaws.
It's not exactly a threat, he thought. Pidoux doesn't say anywhere that he's been charged to file a claim, only that someone might want to someday. Nor does he say he holds proof that de Canson is the sole rightful owner of the Murillo.
She may have been at some point, he knew. But that didn't necessarily invalidate Pesnel's claims. There might be a family quarrel here. Heirs often fall out when pieces of an heritage go to market - especially when the objects are worth big money, like the Murillo.
But the fact remained: It would be very imprudent of Christie's to sell the Murillo to the Museums of France, without a guarantee that Pidoux's charges were groundless. Otherwise Christie's might be liable for damages, if this de Canson woman sued to recover the value of her picture. Yet another risk.
It was unfortunate indeed that Gregory Martin had never obtained hard proof that Pesnel owned the Murillo. But it was a comprehensible lapse. The simple fact that Pesnel held physical possession of the Murillo ought to be sufficient proof it was hers - at least, in the absence of other, documented claims. Very often, the inheritors of artworks could find no written titles to their new property among an estate's papers. French law recognized that fact; the Civil Code's famous section 2279, which every competent lawyer in France can recite from memory, says simply, "For portable property, possession equals title." But with Madame Pesnel, nothing was ever quite what it seemed to be.
The letter had to be taken seriously, decided Duminy. He and Christie's would have to react.
Something else about Pidoux's letter upset Duminy, beyond any property dispute that might arise. It was the sordid image of an impoverished, confused old woman, crying she'd been robbed. He could see her in his mind, and it placed him in an intolerable position. It was his duty as a gentleman not to let such things happen.
But he was no detective, and he couldn't confirm or deny such charges on his own. Pidoux, Celotti and de Canson had to prove them.
He hoped they couldn't, and not just for the old lady's sake. If the Murillo wasn't Pesnel's, after all, then Christie's couldn't deliver it to the Louvre. It was certain that Landais would be enraged. What he'd do afterwards was unforeseeable, but it wouldn't be amusing for Christie's.
Duminy telephoned Lombard and demanded: "Can you give us proof that Pesnel owns the picture?"
It occurred to him that he did nearly all his business with Lombard by phone. Duminy, who loved the precision of written words, considered this extraordinary.
"Talk to Didier Tornare, our notary in Geneva," Lombard replied. "He's working on registering the estate of Pesnel's late grandmother, Madame Chappuis. He'll give you an attestation of ownership, backed by his office."
A notary, in Switzerland and France, is a lawyer specialized in property transactions, franchised by the State, and hence endowed with its authority. His or her signature and seal on a document constitute official certification of its contents. So a notary's attestation of ownership could indeed serve Pesnel as a legal title.
"Please tell Tornare something for me," added Lombard. “Madame Pesnel wants the money from the sale to be transferred to him - after we take out Christie's commission, expenses and advances, of course - so he can pay the estate taxes."
Strictly speaking, instead of proving that Pesnel owned the Murillo, Lombard was confirming that she didn't own it yet. The Chappuis heritage, from which the picture descended, had not yet been registered. Not only that, but it could not be registered, until Pesnel paid the estate taxes. And Pesnel would only have the funds to settle her tax bill and take legal possession of the Murillo after she had sold it.
In legal terms, however, that was not necessarily worrisome to Duminy. Pesnel’s rights to dispose of her heritage were not dependent on its registration. What counted was whether or not it really was her heritage.
So Lombard's suggestion made excellent sense for Christie's. The company must be able to prove that it had always acted in good faith, and reasonably, in considering Pesnel as the Murillo's owner. An attestation of ownership from Pesnel's Swiss notary would constitute such proof. With that paper in hand, wrote Duminy to David Allison on July 25, "the liability of Christie's would be [eliminated]," in the event of a lawsuit following the sale.
But there remained another, separate danger, added Duminy: "Francois Pidoux still has the possibility of [filing suit], at London or Geneva, to block the sale." If he did, the Louvre would be prevented from buying the picture. Christie's would then lose both the $80,000 advanced to Pesnel, and -- if Hubert Landais decided to seek vengeance -- access to artworks in France. On every side, they were exposed.
Another letter from Francois Pidoux arrived in London near the end of July. Once again, it contained an unpleasant document - a handwritten note, written in a wobbly, heavy hand, and signed Suzanne de Canson. It was swiftly air-packed to Duminy in Paris.
He noted that the document was addressed to Joelle Pesnel. Client confidentiality might not be a very useful shield in this affair before long. Dated June 8, de Canson’s letter declared: "I revoke the powers I gave you" -- specifically, to sell the Murillo.
It was potentially very damaging, thought Duminy, but only if it were true. Anyone may write their wildest fantasies on a piece of paper. It remained to be proven that Suzanne de Canson was the Murillo's rightful owner, let alone that she had ever mandated Pesnel to sell her picture, or withdrew her mandate later.
If Pidoux had such proof, he wasn't showing it. Nor, it seemed, was Pidoux empowered by de Canson to begin legal action. On the contrary, Pidoux insisted in his cover letter: "I wish to underline that I take no sides in this affair. My only role, as has been asked of me by the persons aiding Madame de Canson, is to provide you with all the information in my possession."
Clearly, Madame de Canson herself had not asked him to defend her interests. There was still time to get that notary in Geneva to swear by Pesnel's heritage.
But when Duminy asked him for an attestation, the notary, Didier Tornare, refused. And Lombard had no better luck with him, after Duminy asked him to intervene.
The urgency of the situation moved up through Christie's hierarchy. Gregory Martin briefed David Allison on July 30, when Allison returned from a long trip. At seven the next morning, London time, Allison telephoned Lombard's associate, Marie-France Pestel-Debord, in Marseilles. "Why won't Tornare give us that attestation?" he demanded.
"In Switzerland a notary is personally responsible for any expenses - like taxes or the claims of other heirs - related to an heritage," she explained. "This is a rich estate, and he can't simply assume that risk. He wants a safety net."
Allison asked how much they were talking about. "One-half million French francs," said Pestel-Debord. Another $63,000. "Madame Pesnel is willing to let you take it out of the sale of the Murillo," she added.
"What if the National Museums don't buy it?" replied Allison.
"Duminy must already have answered your question," said Pestel-Debord. "But I'll repeat it: There's only one other possibility. We'll apply for an export permit, and you'll be able to sell the picture at your next Old Masters sale, in November."
That was hardly the only other possibility Duminy had described to Christie’s. Landais might never approve the Murillo's exportation - especially if somebody sued them all in the meanwhile. Pestel-Debord was pushing Allison to gamble another $63,000 on Madame Pesnel. He declined her offer.
It was time to look for places to cut the loss.
But as unexpectedly as Christie's had gotten into trouble with the Murillo, they seemed to be in the clear again. Francois Pidoux called Christie's in Geneva, to worriedly confirm that he had no mandate to file suit on behalf of Suzanne de Canson. The lady herself had vanished.
Duminy took his summer vacation. Just as he settled back into his work, at the end of the first week of September, still another letter about the Murillo arrived at King Street, and was frantically air-packed to Paris. It was as though the Murillo had a curse on it.
This letter was from a Parisienne named Madame R. W. Krieger, and addressed to Monsieur the Director of Christie's - a sign that Krieger, whoever she was, was no art world insider. "I have long reflected before writing to you," she began. "In November 1980, Madame Suzanne de Canson, whom I know well, came to see me and asked me to help her remove [the Murillo] from the Sogegarde."
Duminy knew the Sogegarde - a Parisian Fort Knox, owned by the Société Générale bank, on the Avenue Kléber near the Champs-Elysées. If the Murillo had really been kept there, the Sogegarde would have refused to let it go without making its owner sign and date a receipt for her property. Otherwise the company could be sued if the picture were later lost.
Which meant that this Krieger woman might eventually be able to produce formal proof that the picture was not in Geneva with Pesnel's grandmother in 1979. Which would mean, in turn, that her Swiss heritage might not be genuine.
"The painting arrived at my home," continued Krieger. Then, she claimed, she'd helped de Canson "to unframe and roll up the painting, and then carry it to a locker at Lyon Station...."
Sounds like a low-budget detective movie, thought Duminy. I hope they wore their trenchcoats.
"This picture has never been sold to anyone," insisted Krieger.
Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps the picture had indeed belonged to Suzanne de Canson at some point. She might nonetheless have sold it to Pesnel, without telling Krieger.
There were other questions posed by this document, however, that Duminy wouldn't want to answer.
What if de Canson did own the picture, and had indeed mandated Pesnel to sell it for her? And what if Pesnel's Swiss “heritage” was designed, precisely, to conceal those facts?
A Frenchwoman could make a lot more money selling her Old Master picture in London than in Paris, where the Law of June 23, 1941 scared away the major buyers. She would also pay far less in taxes on the sale, if she paid them in Switzerland, instead of in France. She could manage both those tricks by creating a fictitious Swiss estate, and listing the smuggled Murillo in the estate's inventory, before offering it to the market. In principle, it wasn't very different from creating a Panamanian corporation to conceal the origin of financial assets.
That would explain why de Canson had given Pesnel a mandate to sell the Murillo - if she had. Pesnel, and her conveniently dead Swiss grandmother's estate, might be de Canson's front. If so, that would also explain why de Canson hadn't asked Pidoux to file suit. She couldn't very well sue somebody for cheating her in a plot to defraud the French State.
But Duminy was not paid to speculate about de Canson and Pesnel's personal affairs; he was paid to protect Christie's. So far as he was concerned, he said later, the question of when, how, and with whom the Murillo left France was "totally without interest". What counted now, he wrote to Martin, was that Christie's finalize the sale to the Louvre, and leave any subsequent lawsuits to be handled by "the notary to whom the proceeds are to be paid, namely Tornare."
To do so, however, they still needed Tornare's attestation that Pesnel owned the picture. And that September, Tornare again refused to sign one.
It looked as though Tornare was worried about this deal himself.
The Murillo arrived in Paris, and on Oct. 10, 1985, Michel Laclotte presented it to the Consulting Committee of the National Museums. Present were Hubert Landais, Pierre Rosenberg, and eighteen other men and nine women, all heads of departments or directors of museums owned by the State. There is a ritual to these shows, wrote Magdeleine Hours in her memoir, A Life at the Louvre: Aspirants to an acquisition stress "the importance of the stakes, the quality [of the piece], its origins, and the glory of the Louvre." She added: "The limitations of the budget impose painful choices." So did personal tastes. It was common knowledge that Rosenberg saved his riskier presentations for the moments when his second-in-command, Jacques Foucart, was on vacation, because Foucart dependably tore his pitches apart.
Laclotte made it sound like the Louvre wasn't so much buying the Murillo, as receiving it in tribute from an obsequious subject. He told his colleagues how the picture left France illegally, and was spotted by Rosenberg. Pesnel and Christie's, "who ignored its clandestine exportation," he noted, were not parties to the crime, and thus worthy of mercy. He emphasized that they were willing to sell it for a sum "very inferior” to Christie’s estimated auction price, which was well over $1million.
Then he touched his peers' esthetic sense. The painting was "remarkable for the style of the personage and the richness of his dress, which could have inspired a Renoir or a Manet," he said. He was implying that the history of pictorial progress culminates in France, a notion that not every curator in the world would support. "It will greatly enrich the collections of the Department of Paintings, [which] doesn't have many Spanish portraits," he added. Finally, he played in-house politics: "The Minister [of Culture] has already agreed to pay for the picture from the Fund for the Patrimony." No man or woman in this room would be denied the money for another acquisition because of the Murillo.
When the secret votes were counted, there were 27 to buy the Murillo, and only three to let it go - a remarkable consensus.
Six days later, the Murillo was shown to the Artistic Council of the Reunion of National Museums, where Landais held a seat among representatives of great wealth, like the Baroness Elie de Rothschild, and great knowledge, including the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss. The Council's President, René Huyghe, a great retired curator, pointedly regretted the portrait's failings - such as a lack of perspective in certain spots, typical of Murillo. But he too could see why Manet and Renoir had liked Murillo’s work. Following his lead, the Council voted ten to three to buy the Murillo.
All that remained to do was write the check.
Unfortunately, no one was ready to accept it.
It was now equally dangerous for Christie's to sell the Murillo, because Pesnel's notary wouldn't guarantee her title, and not to sell it, because that would infuriate the Louvre. Duminy threatened Tornare: If the notary didn't provide an attestation of Pesnel's rights, "it won't be possible for Christie's to send you the net profits from the sale."
Duminy was bluffing. The Louvre had not agreed to make out the check to Christie's, so he couldn’t withhold it. He had been badgering Landais's aides on that point, to no avail. He was still worried that Pesnel would stiff Christie's if given the chance. And he was afraid that Tornare's silence meant that the notary was purely and simply incapable of writing that attestation. If so, then Tornare also lacked legal authority to pay Christie's when the deal came through.
Yet finally, incredibly, it seemed that Duminy's bluff won the game. At the end of October, Tornare forwarded to Duminy a document that offered a far stronger defense against future legal claims than any attestation the notary could have composed.
Written on the stationery of a lawyer from Pesnel's home town, Toulon, named Robert Boissonnet, and dated Oct. 21, it declared flatly:
No claim concerning the ownership of the Murillo is underway, neither at the request of Mr. Pidoux, nor at the request of anyone. Only Madame Pesnel is its owner and can prove it.
Madame de Canson, my client...
Boissonnet's client, not Pidoux's, noted the satisfied Duminy --
...has become aware of the letter dated 4 September 1985, addressed by a lady, Krieger, to Christie's in London. She nonetheless confirms that she gave her Murillo painting, which she inherited from her father, to the late Madame Chappuis in 1979.
This letter is written in the presence of Madame de Canson WHO WILL COUNTERSIGN IT.
And there was her signature, as promised -- the same staggered letters as on the handwritten note Pidoux had sent Christie's. At last, Duminy held a formal proof that Suzanne de Canson could and would take no action against the sale.
There was just one detail left to settle.
Duminy had requested a final meeting with Landais, to settle the question of whom would get the check. When the day came, Lombard appeared at the Louvre with him.
Duminy said: "Mr. Landais, the money for the Murillo must be paid to Christie's. We have advanced money to Madame Pesnel."
Not my problem, thought Landais. He shot back: "I won't pay you directly, and I don't understand why I should. After all, you haven't sold me anything."
That was exactly true. Christie's didn't own the Murillo, Pesnel did. But the remark was really addressed, obliquely, to Lombard. How could it be to the advantage of his client to let Christie's take the money, and pay themselves whatever they saw fit for their services, before passing along whatever was left?
Finally, Lombard spoke: "There's a will involved, and the estate hasn't been settled. A notary is working on it."
So that's it, thought Landais. Pesnel was in such a hurry to profit from her heritage that she'd sold it before the will was registered.
He had excellent reasons not to grant this request. What if Pesnel and Christie's fell out over the money, and she filed a complaint that named the Louvre as a conspirator in cheating her?
"Who's the notary in this affair?" Landais asked.
"Didier Tornare," replied Lombard. "In Geneva."
"In any heritage," Landais lectured him, "a notary is qualified to divide the assets and liabilities of an estate. That's his role, isn't it? So I'll pay the notary."
The rest of it, he left unsaid, was their problem.
No one mentioned that Landais was proposing to deliver five million French francs across the Swiss border to a French citizen - which happened to be a flagrant violation of France's currency export laws. But that was a matter for Customs to deal with, in the unlikely event that they ever investigated the House of the King.
Landais had his picture. Christie's would get their money. Lombard still had his reputation as a lawyer who could deal with the Louvre.
This time, it was really over.
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