It was one of the first things he had noticed while walking around the National Gallery of Art this past week—massive, ornate iron grates on the walls in the main hallways and in many of the galleries. Art remembered thinking that the space behind the grates looked big enough for a man to crawl around comfortably. The layout reminded him of the hidden passageways at Windsor Castle—yet another secret waiting to be revealed. Late one afternoon, while waiting on his father to finish up for the day, Art had seen one of the museum’s maintenance workers removing one of the grates in the East Sculpture Hall. The boy had immediately started asking questions. It turned out that the grates, and the spaces they covered, were part of the museum’s ventilation system. The thick walls of the museum were, in many places, hollow. Depending on the season, either cool air or warm air circulated through the massive vents built into the very structure of the huge museum.
Art had also learned that there were several points in the museum where maintenance staff could enter the ventilation system to clean it out and remove the occasional mouse family that might make itself at home. One of those access points was near the west stair landing on the main floor. The door—barely four feet tall—was hidden in the back of a maintenance closet near the stairs leading to the ground floor. The entrance led to a ventilation shaft that ran down an interior wall of the museum and through several galleries—including Gallery 30, the area in which the painting of the Pantheon by Panini was located.
Art now sat inside that ventilation shaft—within the wall of Gallery 30. The painting of the Pantheon was on the opposite wall. The boy had no idea what time it was or exactly how long he had been sitting there. Warm air drifted slowly through the ventilation shaft. Art felt as if he could simply lie down and go to sleep—but sleep wasn’t an option.
He knew what his father would have said. Arthur Sr. would have told him to call the police—protect himself, turn over the journal. But Art knew exactly what would happen then—the men who had been chasing the boy would disappear into the wind, and his father would never be seen again. Art wasn’t going to let that happen.
And so he sat in the ventilation shaft and waited.
A few minutes later he heard footsteps echoing in the distance and the indistinct murmur of voices. He closed his eyes and listened for any sign of his father’s voice. The footsteps stopped.
Maybe it was just a security guard.
Art held his breath. For what seemed like an eternity, there was only silence.
And then suddenly the voices returned—but this time far more distinct and clear.
They were close.
The footsteps started again.
From the boy’s vantage point, hidden deep in the shadows of the ventilation shaft and behind the thick iron grate, he had a perfect view of the painting—and his little gift.
As if out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared. Short and balding, he shuffled across the room and stood in front of the painting. Art recognized him as Dr. Belette, his father’s primary contact at the museum.
“This one,” Belette said.
Another man appeared—this one young and thin.
Still no sign of his father. The boy started to wonder whether his father was still alive.
The young man turned to Belette. “What does that mean?” he asked. He sounded angry.
Belette shrugged. “I have no idea,” he replied. He sounded nervous—almost on the verge of tears.
The young man stood there for a second and simply stared at the painting.
“Get him over here,” he finally said to someone standing on the far side of the room, outside of Art’s view.
A moment later a tall blond man limped over and stood next to Belette. The tall man took one look at the painting and laughed.
Even if he had not seen the man, Art would have known the laugh.
It was his father, and he was still alive. Art’s heart thumped in his chest. He was sure that everyone in the room could hear the sound resonating through the echoing chamber of the ventilation system. The boy took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. The plan was falling into place. He had done everything he could do—it was now up to Camille. Art slowly started sliding himself back down the dark ventilation chamber and away from Gallery 30.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Dorchek Palmer.
Arthur Hamilton smiled at the small note taped to the bottom of the painting by Panini. It read simply: “Le journal est avec le poète vertueux.”
“It’s from my son,” he said. “He wanted to make sure you brought me to the museum tonight.”
“So it’s a trick,” said Palmer.
“No,” said Hamilton. “It says exactly where the journal can be found. But my son knew the note would be useless unless I was here to decipher it.”
Hamilton suspected his son was watching or listening to him as he spoke—but where and how?
He continued. “The French means ‘The journal is with the virtuous poet.’”
“The journal I understand,” said Palmer. “But who is the poet?”
Hamilton smiled. “It’s a reference,” said Hamilton, “to another painting in this museum. I suspect that even Belette could have figured it out—given enough time.”
“Now, wait a second,” replied Belette. “I know the paintings in this museum better than—”
“Better than me?” interrupted Hamilton. “Then please feel free to explain what this means.”
Belette remained silent. His face turned beet red.
“Enough games,” said Palmer. “Explain.”
“Virtutem forma decorat,” said Hamilton. “That’s Latin for ‘beauty adorns virtue.’ It was the poet’s motto.”
Belette gasped. “Leonardo!” he exclaimed.
“Leonardo?” asked Palmer. “Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Yes,” replied Hamilton. “The journal rests with Leonardo da Vinci.”