The Duke of Wellington, Kidnapped! Read online

  The London Times gave the new ransom note prominent treatment, a sixteen-paragraph article that closed with a statement by a National Gallery spokesperson: “This may be a clue that will lead somewhere. On the other hand, it might just be another thing like the telephone calls of last year.”

  In fact, assuming that the author of this new note was indeed the person who penned the first ransom note eleven months earlier, and who had the painting in his possession, the letter contained at least two troubling items. First, whereas the original note made no threat, direct or indirect, to harm The Duke, this one arguably contained an oblique threat—the declaration “his future uncertain.” Second, the writer alluded to a February letter sent to Reuters, of which there was apparently no record.

  The original ransom note, sent just ten days after the theft, called for a “speedy conclusion” to the affair. That its writer (assuming he had the painting) was then unheard from for almost a year seemed surprising. But now he offered an explanation—he had not been silent in the interim. He had sent a second letter, in February 1962, that had apparently fallen between the cracks. The Yard asked Reuters to search its files, but nothing surfaced. The missing epistle was perhaps not crucial in itself—the thief fortunately got back in touch—but the Yard couldn’t help but wonder what other clues were lying in dumpsters or closed files in parts unknown.

  In part for that reason, police made a point of following up even the flimsiest leads. In mid-July, when an Essex businessman sought to arrange a meeting to provide information about the painting, police showed up at Barking Station, the proposed rendezvous spot. The would-be informant never arrived.

  Several months later, Lord Lionel Charles Robbins, elected chairman of the trustees of the National Gallery earlier in the year, received an anonymous letter (dated November 21, 1962) stating that there was now no chance that the Goya would ever be returned. Sixth months of silence followed, broken by receipt of two related ransom letters on the same day—one to Robbins and the other to Lord Rothermere, chairman of the Daily Mail. The two letters, both posted from Burlington and dated May 20, 1963, were typed on foolscap paper, unlike the handwritten ransom notes of August 31, 1961, and July 3, 1962. The unsigned short letter to Robbins read as follows:

  I have the missing painting of the Duke of Wellington—you may have it back at £5,000—this can be arranged providing you work quietly.

  It is suggested that Lord Rothermere of the Daily Mail be the intermediary—his word I will take—I am sure you can do same.

  Briefly this is what you do—contact Rothermere—give him your assurance the police will be left out, otherwise his position will be untenable—it will be impossible for him to act, and at the same time safeguard his integrity.

  The much longer and largely incoherent letter to Rothermere included several headings in bold type and all capital letters and set forth an elaborate procedure for the return of the painting and payment of the much-reduced ransom demand:

  IN CONFIDENCE

  I have the Goya portrait of the Duke of Wellington, and it is to be offered to you under certain guarantees, plus £5,000. You know why the painting was taken. I shall not try to convince you as to why £5,000 is needed now.

  If guarantees satisfactory, the Goya is to be, or shall we say abandoned into the care of editor of the Daily Mail in Manchester. YOU receive the portrait first, then on your accepted word, you pay.

  FIRST GUARANTEE

  Your photograph to appear one day in all editions of the Daily Mail, and underneath the words, not necessarily the same but similar to following.

  Lord Rothermere visiting me so & so place yesterday commented upon the position of the two journalists in the Vassal tribunal. He believes that a newspaperperson should to some great extent be entitled to treat a confidence as shared—personally he went on, that has always been my motto, and always will be, excepting perhaps in such cases as rape, murder, and other bestial crimes.

  Generally speaking, he continued, the successful men of this world, are the men who having given their word, stand by it.

  This notice will be taken to mean that you have studied the offer—that even though you may not like it—you will follow the instructions to the letter.

  THE PAY OFF

  You or your agent will drive up to a certain address which will be chosen at random (to be given later) at 10:30 PM on the same day as Manchester receives the portrait. Driver will sit in the parked car keeping lights ON for five minutes, and in that time will be contacted—asked a prearranged question of 5 words, at which without answering, he will hand over package containing £5,000 in used £5 notes.

  Two minutes after handover, driver can leave. Any slip up, same procedure, time and place, next night.

  The address of handover, plus password question, will be received by you on the day following your photograph guarantee appears.

  You must at once confirm receipt of place and password by placing the following in the personal column of the London Times—personal should give the approximate mileage from Manchester to the handover city, and should read ABOUT? MILES. YOUR GAMBLE SOUND. SQUARE DEAL ASSURED. L.R.

  This message will be taken to mean Money ready, will deliver same day as portrait returned.

  Exactly seven days to the day of the Times personal appearing—your Manchester office will get possession of the painting.

  I am a gambler sir, and I am putting myself completely in your hands, on the hunch that a top newspaper man will not break a confidence.

  Considering this deal to be based upon a gentleman’s agreement, I am making contact for the money personally.

  If you work with the police, you will be a loyal citizen, but the easy conquest will make for an uneasy conscience—journalism will take on a new aspect—your most junior reporters will wonder why & wherefore.

  Be careful sir—the painting is a much treasured piece—but do not let it make a scapegoat out of you.

  Only you can judge if the Gallery are working honestly with you—if you consider this so, then retrieve it for them.

  I am taking your word of honour—it is for you to judge if you can accept theirs.

  If you decide to work with me, it is imperative that you keep these instructions to yourself.

  Copy of letter to trustees chairman of Gallery encl.

  Robbins and Rothermere immediately turned the respective letters over to the police. Robbins later recalled paying little attention to the letter to him because, unlike the prior ransom notes, it evinced no evidence of actual possession of the portrait. That was hardly the only difference between the letters to Robbins and Rothermere and the prior ransom notes. As noted, the new ones were typed. In addition, whereas the other notes suggested that the writer was part of a “gang,” one of several “culprits,” the letters to Robbins and Rothermere referred to a single “I” throughout. Finally, and potentially most significant, the ransom demand, £140,000 in the previous notes, was now just £5,000.

  That dramatically reduced demand was either good news or bad, depending on one’s interpretation. It could be seen as decisive evidence that the new letters were in fact written by someone else. And since the new ransomer, unlike the writer of the previous notes, offered no proof that he had the painting, there was good reason to dismiss these two new letters as a hoax. On the other hand, the letter to Rothermere displayed some of the whimsy (“I am a gambler, sir”) that characterized the August 31, 1961, and June 3, 1962, letters. If it had in fact been sent by the same person, he had clearly grown frustrated, if not desperate, which could be seen as a promising (but also frightening) development.

  From the standpoint of any potential response, the amount of the ransom demand did not matter: the principle—no ransom negotiations—remained absolute. But if the culprit was getting desperate, perhaps he would be heard from again shortly. Alas, that did not happen, despite efforts to lure him out of hiding. In November BBC correspondent Richard Dimbleby brought on Philip Hendy and Lord Robbins, the
National Gallery’s director and chairman, respectively, who appealed to whoever had the painting to return it. No immediate response was forthcoming.

  The next month, Spike Milligan, a well-known comedian and writer (his television shows were said to influence Monty Python’s Flying Circus), took out a personal ad in the New Statesman, declaring that he “would like to contact those who have the missing Goya portrait in their possession. He sympathizes with them and would like to attempt to meet them with a view to raising money independently . . . to be donated to a charity of their choosing.” Milligan saw fit to add, “This is a sincere offer and done without the connivance of the police or the authorities.” Nothing came of the appeal, despite its shrewd effort to play to the thief’s apparent altruistic motives. The thief either never saw it or didn’t trust it. But he was heard from soon thereafter, sounding anything but desperate.

  A long letter, posted in Birmingham on December 30, 1963, and sent to the Exchange Telegraph, in the same block capitals as two prior ransom notes, not only reprised the steep original ransom demand of £140,000 but mocked the authorities and kidnap victim alike. The handwritten letter was titled “GOYA” at the center top and began by listing in a vertical column the prior correspondence, as follows:

  Com 1, To Reuters Asking Ransom and Pardon (Genuine)

  Com 2, To Reuters FEB 62 Suppressed (Genuine)

  Com 3 To Exchange Tel From Morecambe With Label (Genuine)

  This prelude to the new ransom note was noteworthy in two respects. First, it reiterated what the ransomer had stated as a PS in his July 1962 letter: He had written a letter to Reuters in February 1962. Second, it pointedly omitted mention of the May 1963 letters to Lord Robbins and Lord Rothermere. In any event, the long letter that followed began by declaring itself “Com 4” and then engaged in a combination of lamentation and a scheme for returning the painting even more detailed than the one proposed in the sprawling letter to Lord Rothermere six months earlier:

  THIS IS COM 4

  Terms are same. Rag students kidnap living person for ransom—they are not charged. An amnesty in my case would not be out of order. The Yard are looking for a needle in a haystack, but they haven’t a clue where the haystack is.

  Mr. Commissioner your men are clever, But do not ask the impossible of them. My scheme was meant to be a clean, humane antic—You have turned it into a much more serious affair.

  Will other paintings be safe if I get away with this? I think so—I would certainly not react same again—too much risk—too little thanks.

  I ask you in the position as it stands—have you the right To deny the Gallery the chance to regain the portrait? I ask you to make a special concession in this affair, decreeing that as the act has already been accomplished, all proceedings will be dropped if the Goya is returned. And now for the matter of £140,000. The Art World Has Made No Effort At Subscription—There Remains The Press—Will They Rescue The Duke? Here is my plan in brief—turn it down offhand, and I Go to sleep for another year. Full details will be sent if acceptable.

  On the night of the ‘borrowing’ I was hooded with a silk stocking. I propose to be picked up hooded in a dark London side street with Goya. Your pick-up car to have 3 guards. To safeguard me from interference from the photographers Assembled At The Gallery—I am Not To Be Questioned. Press men will take pictures of return of Goya after which I am to be secreted out of rear door, and driven to any London side street named. Guards to drop me without speaking and drive away. I to be hooded throughout. My identity to remain secret on your honour.

  The Press will now have some photos—will they be gentlemen? I am suggesting that each individual editor should pay 5 per 1,000 of his circulation. Editors to send money to a certain London Bank. Bank to issue full subscription lists to national press. Within 2 weeks bank to send full cheque to a certain London establishment of national repute. A committee of 5 to agree to my selection of charity, With rights to redirect money. Pinchpenny editors who do not print, to be sent to Conventry, print and don’t pay editors to be sent to Tristan. The Yanks like a lark—they will cooperate. There are gentlemen in the foreign press too. Mr. Robbins assert thyself and get the damn thing on view again.

  I am offering three-pennyworth of old Spanish firewood in exchange for £140,000 of human happiness.

  A real bargain compared to a near million for a scruffy piece of Italian cardboard.

  The “near million for a scruffy piece of Italian cardboard” clearly referred to the National Gallery’s recent £800,000 purchase of da Vinci’s cartoon Virgin and Child. Those trying to profile the thief could file this item in the same compartment as the fact that the theft had taken place exactly a half century to the day of the theft of the Mona Lisa. He apparently kept up with the arts.

  He also appeared to have a screw loose, or was having a grand time pretending to. Taken at face value, the latest missive suggested someone in major denial. After all, the previous ransom demands had been ignored, but he still felt it worth his while to trot out increasingly elaborate schemes for the return of the painting and dispensation of the ransom payment (including reprising the idea of a “committee of 5”).

  That the ransomer was getting nowhere with the would-be ransomee is suggested by a National Gallery document, “Report from the Director,” dated January 9, 1964. It noted receipt of the December 30, 1963, ransom note and how Scotland Yard and gallery officials “agreed that the letter came from the same source as two previous communications from the present holder of the picture” but further agreed that “there was no action which could usefully be taken.”

  As it happens, the December 30, 1963, ransom letter coincided with another development in the case: The next day, New Year’s Eve, an anonymous caller told the authorities at Victoria Station that a black-and-yellow box in the left luggage office contained the ashes from Goya’s Portrait of the Duke. Railway police rushed over and found the box in question, nine inches wide and two inches deep. It contained, along with ashes or rubbish that looked like compost wrapped in paper, a sheet of paper with an ominous message in newspaper type: “The last of Goya.” The man in charge of the office told reporters that “to me they were the ashes of something hard… I am no expert, but it might have been the painting.” (The luggage room assistant who received the baggage, a few minutes before the office closed at 11:30 P.M. the previous night, recalled that it was deposited by a young, heavy man in a light raincoat and a trilby hat.) Expectations were raised but quickly thwarted. Forensic testing of the ashes revealed no trace of either paint or canvas.

  With the authorities determined to outlast the idiosyncratic ransom note writer, 1964 was mostly quiet on The Duke front, apart from a flurry of activity early in the year. On January 6, the London Times ran a brief editorial suggesting that the thief take the opportunity to add the duke’s portrait to a Goya exhibition then on display at the Royal Academy. In a transparent effort at flattery, the Times observed, “To destroy the painting would give no real satisfaction. Any moron could do that and these are clearly men of intelligence.”

  The next day the Times ran a letter from academy president Sir Charles Wheeler responding to the editorial. Wheeler remarked that the “record-breaking crowds now coming to the Royal Academy would be delighted” if the thief handed over the Goya. He added, “I challenge those concerned with the Duke’s present safety to accomplish this ‘Rafflesian’ task.” (Raffles, the gentleman thief created by Arthur Conan Doyle’s brother-in-law, stole a gold vase from the British Museum, grew tired of looking at it, and put it in a cookie canister, which he sent anonymously to Queen Victoria’s secretary.) For good measure, Wheeler offered an alternative suggestion. In March the academy expected to receive more than seven thousand paintings for its summer exhibition. The man who had “so deftly stolen” the Goya might consider slipping it into the pile of received works, as the academy would “ask no questions.”

  Wheeler, in turn, received a letter from ANON dated January 7 and postmarked Lon
don. It praised his “well thought out scheme” but noted its fatal flaw—”You mentioned nothing about money being paid for the return. The disappearance of the painting was not conducted for fun and games, but for a specific reason—to obtain money for a good cause.” The letter writer implied that he possessed the Goya, stating that “we would not gain anything” from a voluntary return of the painting, and thus the very idea constitutes “madness personified.”

  Although this letter was never traced to the actual thief, later events (discussed in chapter 12) suggest that Wheeler’s letter to the editor did indeed get the attention of the man who possessed the Goya. Between that, the consistency of message (that the theft was designed to raise money for a good cause), and the insouciant language (“madness personified”), it seems likely that this letter was indeed penned by the man who had authored various ransom notes.

  The next day, January 8, the Daily Telegraph printed a lengthy article titled “No Yard Bargaining on Goya Return.” It included a quote from a Scotland Yard spokesman that police inquiries into the Goya “would probably be intensified rather than relaxed if it were returned anonymously” because such return would present “an opportunity for getting evidence that would catch the thief or thieves.” Similar sentiments were expressed on television; all of them prompted National Gallery officials to protest what they regarded as counterproductive comments that would only discourage the thief from returning the painting.

  The next month also brought a bizarre mini-intervention by Sir Gerald Kelly, a British portrait painter and former president of the Royal Academy, not to mention a man prone to controversy. In an interview with the Daily Express on February 1, Kelly opined that the portrait was a fake—it was not by Goya! Accordingly, “We should have whooped with joy when it disappeared. I for one certainly hope that it will never be recovered.”