Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

“I’ll try to—”

  “She’s fine, Luther. But maybe she should go back. She’s an old lady.”

  Mason thought for a moment. “Yes, she is. Would you check on flights this afternoon? She’s booked tomorrow. Maybe they can change it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Surely she’ll stay for the opening.”

  “I’ll see that she does. I know how important it is to you.” She looked fondly into his eyes.

  At one, an hour after the doors opened for the ticket-holding public to view the Caravaggios, Luther put his mother in a chauffeured car for her trip to National Airport. “Remember,” he said, “I’ll be taking care of all of Julian’s needs in Paris. No need for you to give him any money.”

  “I’m very proud of you, Luther. You are quite the celebrity.”

  “For today,” he said.

  In a little over a month he would be a celebrity of a different stripe. Would she live out the rest of her life ashamed of her only son, unable to face neighbors and friends? Would the media want to interview her? “What was he like as a child? Any signs of criminal behavior? Did he torture small animals?”

  “You take care, Mother. Thank you for coming. I love you.”

  “Thank you for having me, Luther. My, how impressed my friends will be.”

  He watched her leave, feeling at once pain and relief. He went back inside, where he was intercepted by Matt Miller, assistant director of personnel. “Got a minute, Luther?” Miller asked.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s about Ms. Marshall. The committee turned down your request for her to fill the opening on your staff. She’s obviously bright and talented, but there are others with credentials and seniority that better match up with the opening. Sorry.”

  “Yes. I’m disappointed, of course. She will be, too.”

  “Her future’s bright. Just a matter of time.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Mason hoped he could postpone telling Lynn the bad news, but she was at his side the moment Matt Miller walked away. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  Mason drew a deep breath. “Afraid—the personnel committee turned down my request for your promotion.”

  Her earlier adoring look turned to one of anger and suspicion. “They wouldn’t override you,” she said.

  “Afraid they would, and did. Matt says your future is bright and—”

  “Did you stand up for me?”

  “Yes. Stand up? There’s really not much I can do, Lynn. I tried my best for you. You’ll just have to have patience.”

  “ ‘I tried my best for you,’ ” she mimicked. “Like you did with my gallery showing?”

  “Lynn, stop being ungrateful. There is only so much I can do. Now I suggest—”

  “Suggest nothing. I’m going home. I don’t feel well.”

  Scott Pims and his crew left the Gallery at two. “I have to put tonight’s show together in a rush,” he told Mason. “I have a number of elements to weave into it. You will, of course, watch it with me tonight.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “Well, change your plans. I think you’ll find it immensely interesting. I-m-m-e-n-s-e-l-y!”

  “Really?”

  “An M. Scott Pims money-back guarantee. Be at my apartment at eight. I won’t have time to prepare a meal with my own hands, but I’ve already ordered in from the European Market in Rockville. My production assistant is picking it up and delivering it to the apartment at seven. Wonderful conveniences, production assistants. They’ll do almost anything to please. But then you already know that with Ms. Marshall. Their sardines are fiery good sprinkled with piri piri and grilled. And their presunto hams are better than prosciutto. Did you know, Luther, they let them hang for six months or more? And rub them with coarse salt and white wine and paprika and olive oil?” He slapped his large hand over his heart. “That, and more tonight for the curatorial toast of Washington, Luther Mason. Ta-ta. Mustn’t disappoint my panting public.”

  The exhibition closed at four. Fifteen minutes before, Mason stood admiring the Grottesca anew, along with the last group of spectators to enter the Gallery that day. As he felt himself drawn into the painting, a voice from behind snapped him out of his trance. He turned to look into the face of one of the two men from the Italian Embassy who Carlo Giliberti had said worked for Luigi Sensi. “A most unusual piece,” the man said in the same voice Mason had heard on the phone the previous evening.

  Mason went rigid. “Yes, it is. I’m Luther Mason. You are—?”

  “I know who you are, Signor Mason. Carlo spoke often of you.”

  “Carlo. What a tragedy. You work for the embassy.”

  “Si. Buon giorno, Signor Mason. You have done well.”

  “Have more ham, Luther.”

  Pims had grilled the sardines and set out the other dishes from the European Market. He served a red Portuguese table wine from a vineyard in Dao with dinner and a tawny port after.

  At ten, a sleepy Luther Mason watched as Pims turned on the television set.

  “I am M. Scott Pims, your benevolent host of this week’s Art Insider, brought to you through the extreme generosity of viewers like you who support this public station. Behind me is a work of art called the Grottesca.”

  The brief interview with Whitney played out. Pims now spoke from his familiar armchair on the set. For the studio portion he wore a white shirt, a broad tie with an image of the Mona Lisa on it, her breast adorned with a red ribbon indicating solidarity with the AIDS movement, and a vermilion silk smoking jacket with black lapels.

  “I have attended far too many openings to comment upon, or even remember, in my long and illustrious career. But I have never seen anything like this.”

  Visual images captured that morning at the National Gallery played on a large screen behind Pims.

  “Despite the National Gallery’s decision to issue tickets in advance for the first month of the exhibition, literally thousands of people showed up in a misguided attempt to enter on this first day of Caravaggio’s naked presence in Washington. Of course, the incredible events leading up to the discovery of one of the artist’s long-lost masterpieces, Grottesca, did nothing to quell public fascination with this exhibition, which will run for six months, but with Grottesca on display here for only the first of those months.”

  A closeup of Grottesca now dominated the screen.

  “This remarkable painting was discovered in a run-down former church outside the town of Ravello, Italy. The National Gallery’s senior curator Luther Mason came across the missing painting in that church and arranged for it to be brought to Washington to join some thirty other Caravaggio works. Circumstances surrounding this discovery—which might rank as one of the most important in the history of art—were unusual, at best. Living in the church was an old, retired priest by the name of Giocondi.”

  The mention of Father Pasquale Giocondi caused Luther to sit up straight and lean toward the large television set.

  “But perhaps Father Giocondi was not all he represented himself to be.”

  Luther’s eyes widened as the screen behind Pims filled with an exterior view of the small, decaying church in Ravello. “Scott, what are you about to—?”

  The big man held up his hand for silence.

  “According to official Vatican records, Father Giocondi was honorably retired from the priesthood. But rumor has it that this sweet, gentle little old man was actually drummed out of the spiritual corps for having taken money from his parishioners.”

  “Scott!”

  “Hush, Luther.”

  Father Giocondi was now on the screen talking to an unseen person, his remarks translated into English.

  “Vicious rumors,” he said. “Jealousy. What is important is that this work of art by the genius Caravaggio has been restored to its rightful owners, the people of Italy. Signor Luther Mason is a wonderful man. Grottesca will be at his famous museum in Washington, D.C., for only one month. Then it will be ret
urned to our country. I thank the Lord Jesus Christ for giving me the opportunity to serve him and mankind in bringing this important work to the attention of Signor Mason.”

  “Scott, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Luther fairly shouted, getting to his feet.

  Pims smiled up at him. “Relax, Luther. Sit and wait until the end of the program.”

  Pims signed off twenty minutes later:

  “A remarkable story, of course. Was the Italian cultural attaché to the Untied States, Carlo Giliberti, murdered over this long-lost Caravaggio? Possibly. Was Father Pasquale Giocondi dishonorably discharged by the Vatican? Perhaps. But that is not important. This humble little priest does not profit from the discovery of Grottesca. Nor does the esteemed curator who discovered it in Giocondi’s church, Luther Mason. The only profit derived from the discovery of Grottesca falls to the millions of people who will be inspired as they stand and gaze at it in a gallery in the West Building of the National Gallery of Art, right here in Washington. And then, the citizens of Italy shall bask in its glory for all time—provided, of course, that someone doesn’t decide to steal it again.

  “I am M. Scott Pims, your eyes and ears on the world of art. See you next week. And remember, ‘All passes. Art alone enduring stays to us. The bust outlasts the throne.’ Ciao!”

  He clicked off the set.

  “Where did you find Giocondi?” Mason asked, unable to discipline his anger. “Why did you have to bring up the question about his background?”

  “Dear Luther, please. Your glass is empty. More port is in order. Help yourself.”

  Mason did as he was told and resumed his chair. His hand shook; the liquid in his glass undulated in small amber waves.

  “Luther, I have done you a great service with this report. I was obligated to bring up the rumor. Time is running the story this week, and I hate to be scooped by some reporter from a magazine who knows less than I do. The fact is, I have debunked the rumor in my own inimitable fashion. As for finding your priestly friend, you know I have contacts everywhere. I must admit it wasn’t easy, but I reward my network of correspondents well for good information.”

  “I just wish you’d talked to me before you did this,” Mason said, attempting a sip from his glass. Some port missed his mouth and went down his shirtfront. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at it.

  Pims laughed. “You really weren’t made for a life of crime, Luther.”

  “Don’t ever refer to it as that,” Luther said. “I must go.”

  “Of course. Nothing like a good sleep after such a monumental triumph. My program aside, it was a splendid day for you, wasn’t it? You even had your mother here to share the glory. You say she left this afternoon? Terribly short stay.”

  “She was uncomfortable being away from home. I don’t think she’s left Indiana in twenty years.”

  “Julian took her to the airport?”

  “No. I hired a car and driver.” He was doing it again, answering every question put to him by his friend. “Good night, Scott. I’m sorry if I had too negative a reaction. I see your point. It was a good report.”

  Pims struggled from his chair and accompanied Luther to the door. “You still plan to switch the paintings in Italy?” he asked.

  Mason hesitated. “Yes,” he said.

  “I suggest you reconsider.”

  “Why?”

  “Too unpredictable. It will be chaotic there. Far better to accomplish the deed in familiar surroundings. Like the National Gallery.”

  “I see your point. But I haven’t given much thought to doing it there. I thought—”

  “Ah, my dear Luther, in a world of clods and louts you provide a refreshing ray of sunshine. Sit a few more minutes and allow me to outline how it can be done. Unlike you, I have given it considerable thought.”

  A half hour later Pims wrapped his sizable arms about Mason and hugged him. “Safe home. No detours through Rock Creek Park. One murder over Caravaggio is quite enough.”

  His answering machine was filled with messages when he returned to his apartment. Most were congratulatory calls, warm and glowing expressions of praise. He hoped Lynn was among the callers. Surely she’d realize how untenable his position was and apologize. Her voice was not among the callers. Nor was Julian’s. His son had stayed at the opening only briefly and had left without saying goodbye.

  He reviewed the report Lynn had left on his desk that morning regarding the return of Grottesca to Italy. It would be crated and transported there in thirty-two days. Luther consulted the calendar on his desk and circled a date one week after that.

  He went to the Virginia travel agent Saturday morning and booked his trip to Hydra, walking out with the ticket in his pocket. He then returned home and arranged for the moving company to pack up his apartment the day before he would leave the country.

  One month to go.

  One more month to survive in a lifetime of months.

  24

  ONE MONTH LATER

  Luther Mason and Courtney Whitney III sat alone in the director’s office, Whitney in a club chair, Mason on a matching sectional. An easel across the room held an Anne Vallayer-Coster still life recently acquired by the Gallery through the generosity of an anonymous donor. The window draperies were open. Night was arriving. Powerful floodlights bathed the Capitol in a soothing, peaceful glow that did not accurately reflect what went on inside during the day.

  “How do you feel, Luther?” the director asked.

  Mason shrugged, exhaled. “Drained. And exuberant.”

  “Drained I can understand. Exuberant? About having Grottesca leave us?”

  A smile crossed Mason’s lean lips. “You know me too well, Court. I left out sad. Yes, there is a profound sadness at having Grottesca leave the National Gallery.”

  “They’ve planned quite a homecoming celebration in Ravello. Feel up to it?”

  “I think so, although I could certainly do without this trip.”

  Whitney laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you complain about a trip to Ravello. But I know what you mean. There wasn’t any decision to be made. The Italian government, Minister Betti in particular, insisted you be present. Hands-across-the-sea sort of thing. Actually, you should be flattered. The Italians could have told us to simply send the painting back without fanfare.”

  “Maybe that would have been better.”

  Whitney went to the window. “Looks like a beautiful evening. What time is your flight tomorrow?”

  “Noon. I’ll accompany the painting to the airport.”

  Without looking back, Whitney said, “Luther, I hate to delve into anyone’s personal life, but I feel compelled to do that with you.” He turned to face him. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Your behavior since Grottesca arrived. Paul has expressed concern, too.”

  “Paul Bishop? Why would he be concerned about me?”

  “I know there’s little love lost between you and Paul, and a hell of a lot of professional jealousy. But Paul is a decent man. He has a personal fondness for you.”

  Mason wanted to laugh but didn’t. Instead, he said nothing.

  “I’ve also noticed what Paul’s referring to,” Whitney said. “I passed by the Caravaggio gallery the other day and saw you standing in front of Grottesca, staring at it as though mesmerized. I kept going. When I returned fifteen minutes later, you were in the same spot. You hadn’t moved.”

  Luther replied, “You might say I’ve taken every opportunity this past month to soak it up. It’s like knowing someone will die in a month and wanting to embrace that person for every possible living moment. I knew the minute it arrived that I would have this limited time to examine it, to revel in its detail. If that seems—well, if it seems weird to you and Paul, I can only say that it isn’t. The study of Caravaggio has consumed my professional life. The last opportunity I’ll have to appreciate the work is when they hang it in the church in Ravello.”


  Whitney sat on the arm of the sectional and placed his hand on the curator’s shoulder. “Luther, my only concern is your well-being. I expect many more years of outstanding service from this senior curator and would hate to think the emotional, and I suppose physical strain of this exhibition might have depleted you.”

  “I assure you that isn’t the case. But I appreciate the sentiment behind your words, Court.” He stood. “I’m fine. A good night’s sleep is all I need, and a pleasant flight tomorrow, accompanied by my friend, Signor Grottesca.” He laughed. “I talk as though I’m accompanying a child.”

  “The Italian ambassador and his staff will be with you,” said Whitney. “Richard and Maureen from Public Information. Annabel Reed-Smith representing the White House. The journalists who’ve signed on—I think there are four, including your friend, Mr. Pims.”

  “Yes. Scott decided at the last moment.”

  “I sometimes wonder, Luther, how you can remain friends with him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s so—he’s so—I’ll be direct—he’s so—”

  “Obnoxious?”

  “I’m glad you said it, Luther.”

  “Scott can be overbearing. But there are redeeming qualities.”

  “I suppose there are. Just hard to see. Well, it should be quite a party in Ravello.”

  “And I’d better get home to pack,” Luther said. “I can only thank you again, Courtney, for your kindness and professional support.”

  “All of it heartfelt,” Whitney said, his arm draped over Luther’s shoulder as he escorted him to the door. “You ought to take a few extra days in Italy. Relax. Soak up some sun. You’ll be in your favorite town.”

  “Maybe when the exhibition is finally over.”

  “You did a wonderful job, Annabel.”

  Annabel and Washington MPD art-squad chief Steve Jordan entered Dumbarton Oaks through the 32nd Street entrance, a block east of Wisconsin, and stood in the Veracruz Room, part of the wing housing the pre-Columbian collection. They then moved to the Post-Classic Room, stopping in front of a display case.