“Well, Doreen,” Quackenbush informs the telepromptress, “as you know, there has been a tremendous increase in art theft in recent years. It’s not a new phenomenon—the total dollar value of art looted during the Holocaust is put, conservatively, at twenty-five billion—but I think part of the reason for its recent surge in popularity is the media coverage of the record hammer prices we are seeing for various single works. If a thief can rob a bank for, say, a hundred million dollars, he must contend with the logistics of carting away all that cash. Hardly a one-man job. A hundred-million-dollar painting, on the other hand, is a tempting, and portable, prize.³⁴ Traditionally art thieves have been bunglers or, at best, opportunists—the hapless thieves who damaged Munch’s Scream so severely come to mind, as does the Louvre worker Vincenzo Perrugia, who literally walked out the door with the Mona Lisa under his coat. The work of the Rat Burglar, however, is meticulous and precise. It shows an intimate familiarity with security systems of all sorts and, as we saw in Paris two years ago, he has considerable physical prowess.³⁵

“I don’t think it would be inappropriate to look to someone outside of the art community. Perhaps with a military background. It is not inconceivable that the Rat Burglar could have experience in espionage. Or, perhaps, a branch of law enforcement.”

“Fascinating,” Doreen says.

“Forgive me,” says the academic. “The who might be in law enforcement?”

“The Rat Burglar.”

“I believe you mean the Polecat, Arthur.”

Quackenbush groans.

“What do you mean, Dr. Spivey?” says Doreen.

“Unbelievable,” says Charlie.

In that mayonnaisey voice Spivey adduces reasons why everyone has it wrong about the Rat Burglar.

“The sobriquet ‘Rat Burglar’ derives from the calling card, as everyone knows. But the popular claim that the hairs are from a rodent is erroneous; the hairs actually come from a Mustela eversmanii—a steppe polecat.”

“Same thing as a rat,” says Quackenbush.

“Actually, it’s a different family altogether. Different genus, different species. It’s more closely related to a cat than to any kind of rodent.”

“Well, Janice, a rat by any other name is just as rotten. The upshot is that the Rat Burglar, the Polecat, whatever you want to call him, is one thief who needs to be put out of business.”

“This may come as a surprise to you, Arthur, but the Polecat has never stolen anything.”

For the first time, Quackenbush and I share something: a feeling of outrage. I can’t help unplugging the towels and opening the door to stare at the TV as Dr. Spivey goes on. Charlie, naked and garmented flowerlike in the folds of sheets, sailcloth-white against her skin, like a Christo wrapped in cotton, is also agog. She looks personally affronted by the TV, as if it has just slapped her with an antenna.

“This is ludicrous,” says Q. “He’s stolen hundreds of millions of dollars of art!”

“Such as?” inquires Spivey.

“Ashurbanipal Hunting Lions was in the British Museum before it was stolen—”