Page 31 of The Stolen Queen

The director of the Met Museum, Mr. Lavigne, sat behind his desk in his expansive office overlooking Fifth Avenue and offered Charlotte a patient smile. He was well-liked by the staff, considered to be fair and approachable. He moved about the museum with a catlike efficiency and was known to appear out of the blue when you least expected him, a quality that Charlotte found unnerving.

She hadn’t spent much one-on-one time with Mr. Lavigne before today, although they’d mingled at several of the Met’s social events and openings and spoken on the phone briefly about his friend’s daughter’s reference. Charlotte had brought it up when she’d first arrived, and Mr. Lavigne had thanked her profusely, but when she’d changed the subject to the loan, his cordiality had dissolved.

“I can’t reveal that,” he told her. “Anonymous donors must remain exactly that. I’m sure you understand.”

She’d been waiting for days to have this conversation, and immediately pushed back. “I have firsthand knowledge that the broadcollar belongs to the Egyptian Museum, so it makes no sense at all that some private owner is lending it to the Met.”

“What exactly is that firsthand knowledge?”

Charlotte tried not to get distracted by her rich surroundings. Underneath her feet was a Savonnerie knotted-pile carpet; oversized tomes on art history were neatly arranged on the bookshelves. The paneled walls featured first-rate artwork by the masters, including several small Goyas, and a Roman statue of young boy stood beside the doorway. She wondered if Mr. Lavigne rotated the art depending on his mood. “I was there when it was found, in December 1936, in a tomb in the Valley of the Kings.”

“And you say it was destined for the Egyptian Museum after that?”

“Yes. But my guess is the broad collar never made it that far. It was stolen.”

“It may be as simple as the Egyptian Museum sold it but never kept a record. We both know the Egyptian authorities had a difficult time keeping track of the riches they acquired from the American and European excavations.”

“Maybe in the early ’20s, but by then they’d straightened up and were more careful, at least in terms of what they let leave the country and what they kept for themselves. Egyptian inspectors from the Department of Antiquities were present at every tomb opening, documenting exactly what was discovered.”

“Still, I assure you, we vetted the broad collar carefully before accepting the loan.”

“I’d love to take a look at the documentation. I’m curious to see if the Egyptian Museum is missing on the provenance papers. That’s a big red flag, I would say.”

Even though Mr. Lavigne kept his expression neutral, his nostrils flared slightly. She was pushing him too far. “I can’t show the papers to you, I’m sorry,” he said. “Doing so would reveal the names of thedonors. However, I can assure you that the Met Museum follows the guidelines of the Association of Art Museum Directors.”

Designed to curb the import of stolen items, the guidelines discouraged the acquisition of any object without a documented trail of provenance before 1970. “Does that apply to objects loaned by thieves?”

“We are not allowed to be in possession of any objects that are stolen.”

“That wasn’t always true.” She couldn’t help needling him. “It’s amazing to think that Luigi Palma di Cesnola personally stole over thirty-five thousand objects from the island of Cyprus, handed them over to the fledgling Met Museum, and was made director in return.”

“Not the most auspicious start, I agree.” Mr. Lavigne cleared his throat. “But times have changed, and best practices have as well, for the better. May I ask, why is this piece of such interest to you? We’ve had many items on loan to the Egyptian Art collection over the years, and none have warranted such a strong response.”

Once again, there was no way to explain what it meant to her. Why she so desperately needed to know where it had been for the past forty-one years. “I was there,” she said weakly. She could still recall the smell of the interior of the tomb—of sandstone and stale air—years later.

“Yes, you mentioned that already.”

She’d wasted her time coming here. Even worse, now Mr. Lavigne thought she was some silly, emotional woman making vague accusations. Which, when she looked at it from his perspective, she was.

“Charlotte, I admire everything you’re doing in the Egyptian Art collection, and Frederick speaks very highly of you. Please, let the curators and board handle the legal matters of the museum. They know what they’re doing, I assure you. After all, you certainly haveenough on your plate these days with the King Tut exhibition opening.”

The meaning behind his statement was clear: She should stop causing trouble and stay in her own lane. “Can I make one request?” she asked, stopping at the doorway.

“You may.”

“The broad collar has been snapped up by Diana Vreeland for the upcoming Costume Institute exhibition, where it will be unprotected and unmonitored. I’m very worried.” Annie Jenkins’s awkward appearance at Charlotte’s desk yesterday hadn’t done anything to calm her fears.

“I have great faith in our security team. You should as well. No one’s going to steal the necklace from the Costume Institute exhibition, I assure you.” He lifted his chin. “I have an idea. Why don’t you write an essay about the discovery of the broad collar for the museum’s newsletter? It would make a marvelous piece. ‘Recollections of a Woman Egyptologist,’ or something like that. What do you think?”

She thought that was a terrible idea, but knew enough not to say so.

Charlotte wasn’t about to give up. She knew museums sometimes used specialized detective agencies to track down missing works, but she was pretty certain they couldn’t be found in the phone book. Instead of going back to her office, she stopped on the mezzanine floor. An unmarked door led to the small office space where the Met’s chief security officer and his assistants worked. A floor plan of the museum was tacked up on one wall, and the room smelled of tobacco and aftershave.

Charlotte had last spoken with Mr. Fantoni earlier in the year during the preparations for the Tut exhibition. He was an ex-cop,fast-talking but smart, and under his command, the treasures of the Met had been kept safe and sound.

“Ms. Cross, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

If she told the truth—that she was inquiring about a possibly suspicious loan—Mr. Fantoni would no doubt go straight to Mr. Lavigne, which wouldn’t help her case at all. “I’m here because a friend of mine is writing a book on art provenance, and she was trying to find out who is the top expert on art theft, tracking down stolen items, that sort of thing.”

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