Down at the dock he put on his skates. The thin layer of snow covering the ice had now been blown away, making it easier to skate. Several times over the past few days he had tested the ice along this stretch; he knew it would hold if he stayed close to shore.
It was extremely unusual for anyone to take this route on skates. Normally the ice was either too thin and uneven, or the snow cover was too thick. But right now it was possible, and the means of transportation that he’d chosen was perfect. No one would see or hear him coming.
The ice crackled and whistled under his feet as he set off. First he had to make his way along the canal. He skated at a good speed and then rounded the point of Biskopsudden out near the Thiel Gallery. There the ice opened up in front of him like an expanse of polished floor. He hoped that it would hold. Further out in the waterway, near the sea approach to Stockholm, a channel had been broken in the ice so that boats could pass through in the wintertime.
At the Waldemarsudde dock everything was dark. He skated past and didn’t stop until he was right below the castle. It was pitch dark, and his fingers were stiff with cold. Quickly he took off his skates, leaving them on the ice. He picked up his backpack and crept up towards the building, which stood on a hill in solitary majesty. Fortunately there were no other buildings nearby; the closest neighbour’s house couldn’t be seen from the sea.
There were no lights on in the building. He was dressed in dark clothes with a knitted cap on his head. He had all the necessary tools in his backpack. Nothing was going to stop him now.
Climbing up the fire escape at the back of the building, he reached a small landing and then continued up to the part of the roof facing the sea. That’s where he knew he would find a hatch to a ventilation shaft. In old blueprints of Waldemarsudde, he’d seen that the ventilation shaft led straight down to a storage room near the stairwell.
He opened the hatch and went in, wriggling down through the narrow duct by pressing his elbows and knees against the walls. It took only a minute for him to reach the grating, which he quickly unscrewed. He was inside.
He found himself in a cramped, dark space with no windows. The light of his torch helped him to find the door. For a brief moment he stood still, hesitating, with his fingers gripping the door handle.
The instant he opened the door, it was highly likely that the alarm would go off, and he prepared himself mentally for the racket. Then the question was how long it would take before the police made it out to Waldemarsudde. Since the museum was located at the very end of Djurgarden, he figured it would take at least ten minutes. Unless a patrol car just happened to be in the vicinity, but that would be the ultimate bad luck. He had calculated that the operation would take six or seven minutes, which gave him a certain margin. Very slowly he pressed down the handle and opened the door.
The sound was deafening, screaming from every direction. His eardrums felt as if they would burst as he raced across the floor, through the dark rooms, and over to the salon where the painting he wanted hung on the wall. Moonlight was shining through the tall windows, making it easier for him to find his way.
The painting was bigger than he remembered, and the scene looked ghostlike in the dim light. He steeled himself to maintain his focus, even though the noise was driving him crazy. From his backpack he took out a collapsible ladder. It teetered a bit as he climbed up, and for a second he was afraid that it would topple over.
The painting was so big that the only solution was to cut the canvas out of the frame. He stuck his upholstery knife in one corner and drew it along the edge as carefully as he could. He finished the top without mishap and continued around the canvas until it fell to the floor. Swiftly he rolled up the painting and stuffed it into the cardboard tube. It fitted in perfectly.
There was one more thing he had to do. He glanced at his watch and saw that so far he’d used up four minutes. Three minutes remained, at most. He dug inside his backpack and took out the object that would complete his mission. He set it on the table that stood in front of the frame where the painting had hung.
Then he dashed back through the rooms. It would have been easy to exit through a window or a balcony door, except that they were all equipped with steel frames and bullet-proof glass. Impossible to force open without a bulldozer.
His only option was to return the same way he had come, through the ventilation shaft. He carried the tube containing the painting in the sling on his back. When he came out on to the roof again, he stopped to catch his breath. He looked in all directions but couldn’t see a single person or any police vehicles.
Focusing all his attention on a swift escape, and with his heart pounding in his chest, he jumped down to the ground, rushed around the corner to the back of the building and stumbled down the steep steps towards the ice. With fumbling fingers he strapped on his skates. As he took off he came within a hair’s breadth of falling, but he quickly regained his balance and disappeared as fast as he could, taking long, gliding strokes on the ice.
Far in the distance he heard the wail of police sirens; the sound was getting closer. When he reached the canal he could see police cars speeding across Djurgard Bridge, on their way to Waldemarsudde.
He listened to his own gasping breath. His lungs ached from the cold and the exertion. At the same time, he felt a seed of happiness sprouting within him. Finally the debt would be repaid. The painting was on its way to its rightful owner, and knowing that gave him a sense of peace.
The tracks he had left behind would end on the rocks below the castle. They would never catch him. Not this time either.
F or the first time in the history of the museum, someone had broken in during the night. When the museum director, Per-Erik Sommer, arrived at three a.m. on Monday he felt as if someone had barged into his own living room. He’d been the museum’s director and chief curator for fifteen years. Waldemarsudde was like his second home, his beloved child. No one had ever imagined that a thief might get in during the night. The security measures were rigorous. Stockholm had experienced several big art thefts over the past few years. An armed robbery at the National Museum had taken place in broad daylight while it was open to the public, and a raid had been made on the Museum of Modern Art when the thieves got in through the roof. Naturally these events had affected what security precautions were subsequently taken in every museum in the city. At Waldemarsudde, millions had been spent to protect the prince’s home and his enormous art collection.
The police were on the scene with a canine patrol when the director arrived. The area had been cordoned off and the grounds were being searched. At the main entrance Sommer was met by police inspector Kurt Fogestam, who was in charge of the case and showed him how the thief had got in. After all the security measures that had been taken, he had brazenly entered through the ventilation shaft. Sommer just shook his head.
Then he and the inspector walked through the museum to see what was missing.
All of the rooms were now brightly lit. They started with the library. Nothing was missing there or in the conservatory. Sommer breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the living room was also untouched. A portrait by Anders Zorn of the prince’s mother, Queen Sofia, hung on the wall in that room. It was one of the prince’s favourite paintings, and it would have been disastrous if that particular work of art had been stolen. The other exceptionally valuable painting, titled ‘Stromkarlen’, by Ernst Josephson, was set into the wall itself, making it impossible to steal.
But then the museum director discovered what had been taken. Due to its size, the painting had dominated the entire dining room during the exhibition. Now that it no longer hung in its place, the wall seemed terribly naked. ‘The Dying Dandy’ was gone. Cut out of its frame, which gaped at them, empty and ominous, like a mute witness to what had happened.
The director needed to sit down, but the police officer stopped him from doing so, as he might disturb possible evidence. Sommer felt numb with shock, but he turned away to see if anything else had been stolen.
That was when he discovered an object that he hadn’t noticed at first.
On a table in front of the missing painting stood a small sculpture. It did not belong in Prince Eugen’s home. Sommer didn’t recognize it at all. Slowly he leaned forward to get a better look.
‘What is it?’ asked Kurt Fogestam.
‘This isn’t part of the collection,’ said Sommer.
He reached out his hand to pick it up, but the inspector stopped him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This statue doesn’t belong to the museum. The thief must have put it here.’
They both stared in surprise at the little statue that had been carved from stone. It was a nude bust with a long neck; the head was turned to the side and tipped back slightly. The facial features had been carved with simplicity; the eyes were closed, the lips pressed together, the expression one of melancholy or yearning. It was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Its androgynous image actually seemed well suited to the motif of
