Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “It was Luther?” Sue Whitney asked after Mason had told Whitney when his flight would arrive and had hung up. “What did he want? Too much vino?”

  “Damned if I know, but I think the man might be on the verge of a breakdown.”

  Mason cleared Dulles Customs and came directly to where Whitney stood. “Thanks for being here, Court.”

  “The question is why I’m here.”

  “Let’s go to the Delta Crown Room,” said Mason. “We can talk there.”

  Mason flashed his membership card, and they went to a far corner of the handsomely appointed room. They sat facing each other in twin maroon club chairs, and Whitney waited. When Mason said nothing, Whitney said, “You look like hell, Luther.”

  “I haven’t slept much,” Mason replied. His eyes were bloodshot; gray stubble on his cheeks had aged him a decade.

  Mason placed his elbows on his knees, bringing him closer to Whitney. He said in a fatigued voice, “Grottesca.”

  Whitney’s expression mirrored his confusion. “Grottesca?”

  Mason nodded solemnly.

  “Grottesca?” Whitney repeated. “The lost Caravaggio?”

  Another nod from the curator.

  “Luther, I understand something terribly important is on your mind, and I was willing to come here to find out what it was. But I have a heavy schedule. What about Grottesca?”

  Mason sat back and closed his eyes tightly. His lips trembled. Was he about to cry? Whitney wondered. “Luther, I—”

  Mason leaned forward again, eyes open. “Court,” he said, “I have found Grottesca!”

  Whitney’s smile was involuntary. He shook his head in place of words. “What do you mean, you’ve found it? Where did you find it? How?”

  Mason raised his eyes to the ceiling as though to place his thoughts in a logical sequence before beginning. “It has been in a storeroom in an abandoned Catholic church outside Ravello. You know my fondness for Ravello. I always try to get there whenever I visit Italy. Somehow, when I’m there, a feeling of calm comes over me.”

  “Yes, fine, Luther. But what about the painting?”

  “I met a friend for a drink in Ravello, and he introduced me to an elderly gentleman who is retired from the priesthood. His name is Giocondi. Father Pasquale Giocondi. A humble old man who has lived in an abandoned church ever since his retirement.

  “We chatted about many things. Eventually, my friend mentioned my lifelong interest in Caravaggio, and that I was curating a Caravaggio exhibition at the National Gallery.” He drew a breath to slow himself. “Father Giocondi waited until my friend left before asking me to come to his church—which is now his home—to examine something he thought might interest me.”

  “Go on, Luther, I’m listening.”

  “I went with him. It was only twenty minutes outside of Ravello. Terribly run-down, in dreadful repair.”

  “Luther, stick to the—”

  “Yes, of course. I suppose I have been rambling. He took me into a dusty storeroom littered with junk and had to pull away dozens of boxes and old pieces of furniture to get to the painting. It was flat against the wall, the canvas facing away from me. I helped him pull it out. We took it into the main room, which used to serve as the area of worship for his congregation. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve been studying the Grottesca and its disappearance for years. I’ve read every bit of scholarship ever written about it and had explored all avenues in the hopes of one day finding out what actually happened to it.

  “And there it was, Court. In front of me, in this humble former church, presented to me—placed in my hands—by this retired priest.”

  Whitney frowned. “Is this priest that astute about art to have realized it might be an original Caravaggio?”

  “Yes. Since his retirement, Father Giocondi has pursued the study of art. He’s extremely knowledgable. It’s like Italians and opera. They practically breathe it. I was impressed with what he knew.”

  “What said to you, Luther, that this was, in fact, the lost Grottesca?”

  “Many things. Every scrap of information I’ve learned about it came into play. For instance, Caravaggio’s 1597 Bacchus has always been considered the final painting he did in his famous series using the same young boy as a model. Remember? That, too, disappeared but was found in 1917 in a back room of the Uffizi. But my research has told me—and I say this without hesitation or reservation—that Grottesca was, in fact, the final work using that same youthful model.

  “I examined it carefully for an hour, went over every inch. There is no question that the same model was used. Court, the painting is so alive you can feel the thorns trapping the boy and beasts, hear the anguished cries. The medium appears to be walnut oil, although that can easily be determined by Donald’s lab.”

  “The craqueleure,” he said, referring to hundreds of minute cracks formed by the drying of the oil paints and shrinkage of the pigments, “is definitely what you would expect to find in a work this old. The paint was applied in that same sure, heavy hand that marks Caravaggio’s technique. I saw no sign of sketches beneath.” Caravaggio was known to avoid using preliminary sketches, attacking his work directly with his paints.

  “The brushstrokes are so sure, Court. The stark realism. The harsh, single source of light It’s all so—so—so Caravaggio. Believe me, Court, it is an original Caravaggio. It is Grottesca!”

  “A remarkable story, Luther. Perhaps too remarkable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Finding two lost Caravaggio masterpieces in one decade is just—well, too much to accept.”

  “The Taking of Christ? An important find, yes. But not of the magnitude of Grottesca.”

  Caravaggio’s The Taking of Christ, painted over four hundred years before and “lost” for most of that time, had been discovered in 1990 in the St. Ignatius Residence of Jesuit priests in Dublin, Ireland, by an Italian art restorer, Sergio Benedetti, when he was called in to clean a number of paintings hanging in the old Georgian building’s dining room. By the time it had been restored and given to Ireland’s National Gallery, its worth had been estimated at close to $40 million.

  “Perhaps,” said Whitney. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I am suggesting that we bring Grottesca to Washington to anchor the exhibition. A monumental coup for us. One of the world’s greatest pieces of art, lost for centuries, is now resurrected—by the National Gallery of Art.”

  “Whoa, Luther, slow down,” said Whitney, using his hand to emphasize the point. “Forgive me if I must inject the pragmatic view that it will take more than your opinion, as formidable as it might be, to authenticate its provenance.”

  “Of course,” said Luther.

  “And what makes you think the Italian government, to say nothing of the Vatican, will allow such a priceless treasure to be brought to Washington for exhibition?”

  Mason’s face said he’d been waiting for that question. His smile was smug. “It has already been arranged, Court.”

  Whitney said too loudly. “Arranged? What do you mean ‘arranged’?”

  Mason glanced about to see whether the director’s raised voice had garnered attention. Confident it hadn’t, he said in almost a whisper, “Carlo has arranged it.”

  “Giliberti?”

  “Yes. I contacted him immediately. Fortunately, he was still in Rome and was able to make an instant overture to his friend, the minister of culture. It will take some money, and there are conditions. The Italian government, in a gesture of goodwill, will allow Grottesca to be sent to the National Gallery as soon as conservation has been completed. We will have the work to examine until the exhibition. Plenty of time to further authenticate its provenance and authorship. Then, we will be permitted to include it in the show for the first month, but only for that one month. At the end of that time, it must be returned.

  “But think about it, Court. Think of how much interest will be generated in the entire exhibition by this one rare—rare, hell, virt
ually unseen—masterpiece. Grottesca’s glow will light up all of Washington, all of America. Its only appearance in the United States will be at the National Gallery. It won’t travel to New York or to London along with the rest of the exhibition. For one month, Caravaggio’s greatest painting will rest solely within our walls.”

  Whitney abruptly stood up, not because he wanted to end the conversation but because he didn’t know what else to say. If Mason was right, the National Gallery—under his leadership—would be responsible for perhaps the greatest find in the history of lost art. It could potentially generate huge donations to the museum. He wanted to get back to his office to think things out. An immediate meeting with the trustees would have to be called. With others, too.

  “I want to mull this over, Luther. Decide what direction to take. A lot of decisions will have to be made, by many people.”

  “Of course,” Mason said, walking with the director from the club and into the terminal.

  “Where is the painting now?” Whitney asked. “In the church with the priest?”

  “No. Carlo arranged for it to be taken into custody by a leading European conservator. He wants to arrange for private conservation and restoration while details are worked out with the government to allow it to come here.”

  “You mean I won’t have a chance to see it?”

  “Not immediately,” was Mason’s answer. “But I’m confident that conservation can be completed in time for it to be unveiled briefly at the dinner. At least the preliminary work. Carlo is certain he will receive permission for us to do more conservation once it’s at the Gallery.”

  “We’ll need private funds,” Whitney said. According to policy and congressional intent, federal funds could not be used to conserve and restore works not owned by the National Gallery.

  “That certainly shouldn’t be a problem,” Mason said. “We’ll have donors fighting over each other to fund the work.”

  Whitney knew his senior curator was right. “Did you take a picture of it?” he asked.

  Mason shook his head. “I was too excited to think about finding a camera. I don’t travel with them, as you know. I prefer to record my travels in my mind, not on film.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard you say that before, Luther. All right. When will we be able to examine Grottesca?”

  “As soon as Carlo tells us it’s ready to be transported. We’ll have it in time for the dinner. I’m sure of that. You know that Carlo and I have worked closely together over the years. He is very much in our corner on this. He’ll do what’s in our best interest.”

  “Then I suppose it will have to be that way,” Whitney said. “Come on, my car’s outside.”

  “No, Court, I need some sleep. I’ll call you at the end of the day.”

  “Fine. This Father Gicuzzi.”

  “Giocondi.”

  “Whatever. It might be wise to have him at the dinner. To tell his tale of the painting. Authenticate what you’ve told me.”

  “I anticipated that, Court. He’ll come. It’s an excellent suggestion. I would like to—I would like you to introduce Father Giocondi at the dinner and to announce the discovery.” Luther knew there wasn’t any chance that he, despite being the one to have unearthed Grottesca, would be allowed to make the announcement. It had nothing to do with ego on Whitney’s part. It simply was Gallery protocol for the director to break major news. In actuality, Mason didn’t want to be center stage. Having Whitney do it added an additional third-party endorsement.

  “We can work all that out later. Go home, Luther, and get some rest. You deserve it. And as I said before, you look like hell.”

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen over Paris as Jacques Saison, who’d been drinking all afternoon, slept on a cot in his studio on rue de la Huchette, above a Greek restaurant, on Paris’s Left Bank. He swore as the pounding on his door continued. “Go away!” he shouted.

  The door swung open and Carlo Giliberti stepped into the cluttered, foul studio, where the remnants of half-eaten meals had attracted an assortment of bugs, rodents, and other wildlife. They scattered when Giliberti snapped on a harsh overhead light.

  The master forger sat up, the words coming more rapidly now. “Imbécile! Tête de mule!”

  “Hey, my friend, wake up,” Giliberti said, ignoring being called a fool and blundering idiot and almost tripping over a toppled chair. “It’s important.”

  “Giliberti,” Saison mumbled. He stood, lost his balance, and fell back on the cot.

  Giliberti placed the wrapped canvas he’d picked up from the courier against a wall. “Sober up, Jacques. There is serious work to do.”

  Giliberti had found it easier than he’d anticipated to cut his deal with Alberto Betti, Italy’s minister of culture. And more expensive. His payment to the minister wiped out most of what Luther Mason had put into their joint account. He’d have to hit Mason up for more. You couldn’t deal on this level without plenty of lire behind you.

  Giliberti started the meeting by saying, “I bring you wonderful news, Signor Betti.”

  “I always welcome wonderful news, Signor Giliberti. What is it?”

  “Grottesca has been found.”

  Betti’s face was blank. Giliberti gave him a capsule history of the lost Caravaggio.

  “Of course,” said Betti. “I was thinking of other things when you mentioned the name. Grottesca. Of course. The lost Caravaggio masterpiece.”

  “That’s right, excellency. Your memory is excellent. Grottesca is no longer a lost treasure. It has been found.”

  Betti came forward, his face and voice demonstrating deep interest. “Where? How?”

  Giliberti went through his carefully scripted response. The painting had been found by the man Giliberti had previously introduced to the minister, Luther Mason, senior curator at America’s National Gallery.

  “He found it? The American?”

  “Si.” He went on to describe how Mason had met a retired priest, in whose humble church the painting had been discovered.

  “What splendid news,” said Betti. He stood and went to his large window, his bulk effectively obscuring most of the light. With his broad back to Giliberti, he said, “Where is this lost Caravaggio?”

  “With Signor Mason.”

  Betti turned. “And where is Signor Mason?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? How can that be? He has the painting?”

  “Si. But that is not a problem, your excellency.”

  “Explain.”

  “Mr. Mason is a fair and honorable man. He asks only that Grottesca be allowed to take its place in the Caravaggio exhibition at his museum.” Betti started to speak, but Giliberti kept going. “He has asked me to negotiate an arrangement with you. He has taken the painting to a trusted and expert conservator, who will bring the work back to its original excellence. Signor Mason asks only three things. First, that Grottesca be allowed to be flown to Washington directly from the conservator. Second, that the announcement of its discovery be made at a special formal dinner at the National Gallery a month from now, in concert with an announcement from your office. And third, that it remain in Washington until taking its place in the Caravaggio exhibition to be held there six months from now. It will be on display for only the first month of the exhibition. At the end of that month, it will be returned to Italy, where you can bask in the further glory of this incredible event.”

  “I see,” said Betti, lighting a cigarette. “This will not be easy, Carlo. There will be many questions here once we let this be known. Government officials. Our own museum people. The press. Maybe the Vatican.”

  “Yes, the press will ask many questions,” Giliberti said.

  “Rapaci!” was Betti’s reply.

  True, the press would be ghoulish vultures, and so Giliberti suggested that while the discovery of Grottesca be readily confirmed, all plans for its conservation, restoration, and travel remain a secret. “For security purposes.”

  “Of
course. Highly unusual way to do such things.” He lit another cigarette. “Signor Mason strikes a hard bargain. I could have him arrested.”

  “To what end, excellency? His conditions are small and reasonable. He wants to be recognized for his role in this remarkable discovery. Ego, you know? He has a very large ego.”

  “You assure me that at the end of the month in America, the painting will be returned here?”

  “Si.”

  “Not one day later. We must arrange to celebrate its discovery.”

  Pompous ass, thought Giliberti. He smiled and enthusiastically shook the minister’s fat hand, thinking that he cared no more about Italy than the rest of the greedy politicians. “You are a great man, Signor Betti,” he said. “I must go. I will keep you fully informed of every step.”

  “Be sure to do that, Carlo. There must be no surprises.”

  “No surprises, your excellency.”

  Betti waddled alongside Giliberti to the door. “This will not be easy for me,” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  “I will have to accommodate many others. Soothe their concerns.”

  “Naturally. You need only tell me what resources you will need.”

  “I will think about that and call you.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  “Your—contribution—will have to be substantial. This is a substantial undertaking. You say Signor Mason will make this announcement at a special dinner one month from now?”

  “Si. You see how important this is. Usually, only one dinner for the opening. In this case, two dinners. A two-dinner occasion.” He laughed. “And it is his intention to bring the priest to Washington for that dinner. The priest must remain in seclusion until then. I will alert Italian media in the U.S. that something special might be announced that evening. Simultaneously, you should have a statement ready to release from you and your office.”

  “I will do that.”

  “Good.”

  “Your friend Signor Mason is to be congratulated.”