Crimes of Paris_ A True Story of Murder, Theft, and Detection - Dorothy Hoobler [125]
This news turned the spotlight back to the Sûreté and brought uncomfortable questions for Lépine and Bertillon. It turned out that Bertillon’s massive files did contain a record card for Perugia, with fingerprints. He had been arrested twice before: once for attempted robbery, and a second time for carrying a knife. But Bertillon’s insistence that his own system was superior to fingerprinting had proved to be a crucial error. He could not match the thumbprint on the Mona Lisa’s frame to the one on Perugia’s arrest record because the files were not arranged according to fingerprint patterns but by the system of physical measurements called bertillonage. And since the police had no suspect to measure, they could not determine Perugia’s identity.
Some reporters recalled that at the time of the theft, all current and recent employees of the Louvre had been called in for questioning. Was that the case with Perugia? The records were checked, producing more embarrassing revelations: Perugia had indeed worked at the Louvre between October 1910 and January 1911, although no one could say for sure if he had really worked on the glass covering for the Mona Lisa. Worse yet, when he had not responded to a letter asking him to come in for questioning, a detective named Brunet had gone to Perugia’s room and interrogated him. Brunet had even searched the place, finding nothing. If Perugia was telling the truth, the Mona Lisa was actually there, in the false-bottomed trunk, during the detective’s visit. Brunet had dutifully noted in his report that Perugia had been at work elsewhere on the day the painting was stolen. However, when reporters tracked down Perugia’s employer, they learned that his records showed Perugia had been two hours late for work that morning. Perugia confirmed this, saying that after he stole the painting, he took it to his room before reporting for work.
Adding insult to injury as far as the French police were concerned, Perugia’s insistence that he was a hero found sympathetic ears, at least in Italy. Every day, people gathered outside the jail in Florence to cheer him. He received gifts of homemade food, wine, cheese, cigarettes, and even money. At the hotel where he had stayed, the proprietor found that the contents of the now-famous trunk were in demand. People offered to buy them as mementos — even the paint-stained rags Perugia had used to wipe his hands. A reporter for the newspaper La Nazione interviewed him in jail, where Perugia protested, “I have rendered outstanding service to Italy. I have given the country back a treasure of inestimable worth, and instead of being thankful, they throw me in jail. It’s the height of ingratitude.” 17
After a triumphal tour through Italy, where thousands of people stood in line for a look at the painting, the Mona Lisa resumed its old place on the wall of the Salon Carré on January 4, 1914. It had been gone for two years, four and a half months. In the next two days, more than one hundred thousand people filed past, welcoming back one of Paris’s icons. Outside, vendors sold postcards, including one that showed La Joconde in a Madonna-like pose, holding a baby. Standing behind her, as if he were a proud new papa, was Perugia.
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Almost like a father, the man who had kidnapped her was embellishing his story and enjoying the notoriety it brought him. “My work as a house painter brought me in contact with many artists,” Perugia said. “I always felt that deep in my soul I was one of them.… I shall never forget the evening after I had carried