(2 of 4)
Unless the thieves are caught in the act, stealing art and then selling it is remarkably easy. Ill-gotten Greco-Roman sculptures, Renaissance Bibles or friezes from an Egyptian Pharaoh's tomb can be iced away for a time and realize a generous return. In Switzerland, which treats goods in storage with the same discretion as bank accounts, a work can come out of a bonded free- port warehouse in Zurich or Geneva with clear legal title to the possessor after five years. In Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands, the term is seven days.
Police suspect the involvement of insiders in many artful scores. Early this year the Grand Palais in Paris spent $1 million on extra security and $590,000 on insurance for a major retrospective of Georges Seurat. The exhibitors grouped sketches together in cases and bolted paintings onto the walls. But a small Seurat drawing, Le Cocher de Fiacre, vanished after video and alarm systems had been turned off and before guards had started their rounds. The smell of a rat is even more pungent in raids on storage rooms. According to a police survey, 57.8% of all thefts of paintings and drawings from public collections in France between 1979 and 1989 were from storage spaces, usually with no sign of forced entry.
If it were only a simple case of crooks vs. cops, art theft might be easier to control. But complicity is rife within the art world. Richard Volpe, who was an ace art detective with the New York City police for 25 years, contends that "the least guilty of all parties are the thieves." These "mules," he insists, "couldn't do it without the cooperation of gallery owners, flea- market purveyors, auction houses, museums, insurers, security companies, collectors and finally law-enforcement agencies. Everyone else either knowingly or through neglect gives the thief a leg up."
As investigators tell it, if a spectacular find comes with even the most thinly plausible paperwork documenting its origins, dealers generally leap at the chance to buy. Museums, those bastions of traditional culture, can also be compromised. Lowenthal points out that the Getty Museum, endowed by the late oil billionaire J. Paul Getty, has "enormous funds" and does not have to solicit donations to build its collection virtually from scratch.
Since 1988 the Getty has been embroiled in a dispute over a 7-ft.-tall marble beauty: a magnificent early 5th century B.C. Greek statue of a goddess, perhaps Aphrodite. Italy claims it was furtively unearthed in 1979 from the archaeological dig at Morgantina, Sicily. Some experts doubt that Morgantina, a onetime Greek colony, was the specific origin, but Italy is convinced the statue came from somewhere under its soil.
The Getty bought the Aphrodite for an undisclosed -- certainly thumping -- sum. Beforehand, it insists, it had sent out form letters reporting the acquisition to various Mediterranean countries. When Italian authorities later heard what the sculpture looked like, they blew a loud whistle. Since they had no conclusive proof, however, the Getty put its goddess on display. Says Jack Josephson, chairman of the U.S. Information Agency's Cultural Property Advisory Committee: "The museum's holier-than-thou attitude is in contrast to the facts. Where do they think it came from?"