Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  As the mayor continued to speak, Annabel thought how wonderful it was that this small church, in such an idyllic Italian town, would be the final showplace for a masterpiece. It also crossed her mind that great paintings were routinely stolen from Italian churches. She glanced at Luther Mason, seated at the end of her row. He looked to her like one of the statues dotting the piazza, ramrod straight, his face set in a stony grimace, in marked contrast with the ebullient mood of everyone else. Annabel couldn’t help but smile. When she’d agreed to join the White House Commission on the Arts, she’d never dreamed it would lead her to a tiny square in Ravello, Italy. She wished Mac were there to share the experience. Photographers hired by the town recorded the event; she would order a set of pictures to bring home to him.

  The mayor said, “We are honored to have with us today a representative from the White House of the United States, Signora Smith.”

  Annabel stepped to the microphone and read a short statement prepared by Vice President Aprile’s Press Office. Her remarks were repeated by a translator: “… and the president of the United States, and all Americans, thank the Italian people for allowing Grottesca to have spent a month in the United States at the National Gallery. And we praise Italy in constant astonishment for having contributed so much to the world of art.”

  Mason was next. He rose tentatively; from Annabel’s perspective he seemed unsure whether to go to the microphone. With that same frozen, pained expression on his face, he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and said in halting Italian, “This is where Grottesca belongs. With the people of Ravello. It is yours to treasure for all time.”

  Short and sweet, thought Annabel.

  The ceremony was climaxed by the playing of the Italian national anthem. Then, workmen took the crate from the platform and carried it to the church. The mayor had wanted to unveil Grottesca in the piazza, but the parish priests prevailed in their view that it was more fitting for it to first be seen in its religious setting than in a secular display. The actual hanging would be witnessed only by invited VIPs and town officials.

  As Pims’s cameraman captured the action, Grottesca’s protective wooden shell was carefully dismantled under Donald Fechter’s supervision, his instructions translated into Italian. Once freed, the painting was carried to the chancel rail, where the priests, dressed in black cassocks covered by white surplices, blessed it. The air was thick with incense; liturgical music came from an unseen organist.

  The priests beckoned those in attendance to come forward to admire close-up the now consecrated painting before it was lifted to its place of honor high above the altar. Annabel was the first to approach. She knelt at the rail—it seemed the appropriate thing to do—and stared into the face of Caravaggio’s young male model. She hadn’t experienced a visceral reaction to Grottesca during its residence at the National Gallery. But now, so close to it, the young boy’s anguish was palpable. She envisioned Caravaggio working on the piece, becoming one with the young male model. The impact on her was painful; she had to look away—directly into the cameraman’s lens.

  One by one the invited approached to pay their respects to Caravaggio and his work. It was a bit too ceremonial for Annabel’s taste, and it seemed to her that Christ was playing second fiddle to a violent painter. But then again, she’d never been a person to stand on ceremony or to insist on ritual. As she watched, her attention was captured by a man she’d noticed outside during the ceremonies. He wore a shiny raincoat the color of rust, its collar raised against wind and rain that weren’t there. His hat was a slouch-brimmed leather fedora from Hollywood gangster films of the thirties and forties. What most interested Annabel about him, aside from his getup, was that once on his knees, he withdrew a large, round magnifying glass and began to examine the painting through it. Strange, she thought, looking at Luther Mason, whose expression continued to be grim.

  Annabel looked again at the altar. The man with the glass continued to examine the painting until a priest whispered in his ear. He stood and retreated from the rail as the priests lifted the painting with great solemnity and carried it to the altar where workmen, ascending parallel ladders, hung it. The applause was spontaneous. Two spotlights came to life, bathing the painting in brilliant white light.

  “George Kublinski would have a heart attack if he saw those lights,” Don Fechter whispered to Annabel. “Feel the humidity in here? I may have a heart attack.”

  “Is that it?” Annabel asked Fechter. “It just hangs there? Not bolted to the wall?”

  “I give it three months,” he said.

  “Who was the man with the magnifying glass?” Annabel asked.

  “Joseph Spagnola. A Vatican curator.”

  “Really? What was he doing, making sure it’s the real thing?”

  “Who knows?” Fechter replied. “Luther and Spagnola hate each other. I was at a conference a couple of years ago where they both presented papers on Caravaggio. Luther really tore into him, said his research was faulty—no, I think the word he used was ‘shabby.’ I thought they might come to blows.”

  “Did Luther know he was going to be here?” Annabel asked.

  “Beats me. I’m just glad I work in conservation. These curator types can get a little too flaky for my taste.”

  Annabel laughed quietly.

  “You should have seen Luther this past month,” Fechter said. “Really acted strange. Bizarre.”

  “Well, Caravaggio, and especially Grottesca, mean an awful lot to him,” Annabel said.

  “I know,” said Fechter. “But there’s a difference between liking something and becoming maniacal about it. I guess I shouldn’t say that. I really do like Luther. Beneath that neurotic exterior is a very nice man. And smart. I never doubted that what he said to Spagnola at that conference was on the money. Excuse me, Annabel. I want to get that crate put back together before it ends up firewood in somebody’s house. Cost a bundle to make it. Hopefully we’ll get to use it again.”

  On the bus trip back to Rome, Annabel asked, “Where’s Luther?”

  “He went with Scott Pims in the limo,” a National Gallery staffer replied. “Said he had to get back to Rome right away. He sure seemed upset.”

  Originally, Annabel had planned to fly to Washington the next day. But once back in Rome, she decided to catch a flight that night. She missed Mac, missed Rufus, missed her home.

  The following morning, a jet-lagged Annabel and Mac sat in their kitchen reading The Washington Post. A small story appeared in the Style Section about the return of Grottesca to Ravello, illustrated with a photograph taken inside the church of Luther Mason shaking hands with Ravello’s beaming mayor.

  “Did you ever see Mason again in Rome?” Mac asked.

  Annabel shook her head. “He just disappeared along with Scott Pims.”

  “You seem worried.”

  “That business with the Vatican curator, Spagnola, or something, really upset him.”

  “You say they don’t like each other.”

  “According to Don Fechter. It sure looked that way to me. I must call Carole this morning, tell her how it went.”

  “Later,” Mac said, coming around behind, wrapping his arms about her, and allowing his hands to wander into the folds of her robe.

  “A little amorous for so early in the morning, aren’t you?” Annabel asked, jet lag falling away.

  “I missed you,” he said. “By the way, I stopped in to see Susan Shevlin. She can get us some wonderful deals on a trip to Italy. I left a note on your desk with dates that are good for me. If any of them match up with your schedule, I’ll book it.”

  “Wonderful,” said Annabel, pushing back her chair, which pushed him back, too. She stood, turned, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You once asked me to come up to see your tattoos. Is the offer still good?”

  “You bet it is, lady. Sure you’re not too tired from your flight?”

  “There’s always time for sleep.”

  26<
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  If timing is everything, Mac and Annabel had lost their touch, literally and figuratively. The ringing telephone saw to that. “Let it ring,” Mac said.

  “I can’t,” Annabel said.

  “Sure you can.”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “Not quick enough.”

  “Hello, Carole. You beat me to it. I was about to call you.”

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Oh, no. We’re just—talking. I wanted to give you a run-down on how things went in Ravello.”

  “That’s why I’m calling—to get your view of what happened.”

  Annabel frowned. To get her view of “what happened”? “What happened?” she asked.

  “You haven’t heard, of course. You just got back. Can you be here in an hour?”

  “At your house?”

  “Yes.”

  Annabel glanced at Mac. “I can be there,” she said.

  “Good. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Annabel said after hanging up.

  Mac looked up from his magazine and grinned. “I noticed,” he said, not referring to his wife’s phone conversation.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” she said, slipping into a robe.

  “I think you were right,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About there being a Caravaggio curse.”

  She laughed, dropped the robe to her feet—he gasped audibly—and got back in bed. Although Mr. and Mrs. Smith preferred their lovemaking to be leisurely, both were adept at responding to a sense of urgency.

  An hour later Annabel arrived at the Naval Observatory, home of Vice President and Mrs. Joseph Aprile. To her surprise, Court Whitney was also there.

  “Thanks for coming, Annabel,” Carole said after they’d settled in her office.

  “What’s wrong?” Annabel asked.

  Whitney handed Annabel a memorandum. The words SECRET—CONFIDENTIAL were written in big letters across the top. It was from Italy’s minister of culture, Alberto Betti, and was addressed to Whitney at the National Gallery. Annabel read:

  The accompanying letter was received by my office earlier today. The allegations contained in it represent a matter of monumental importance to me, my government, and to you, your museum, and the government of the United States.

  I urge you to give this your immediate consideration, and to reply to me at once.

  Annabel dropped it on the desk and looked to Whitney. “It refers to an accompanying letter,” she said.

  Whitney answered by handing her a longer document, addressed to Betti:

  As senior curator of the Vatican, it is my responsibility to oversee all works of art belonging to the Holy See. In that capacity, I have taken upon myself to closely examine Grottesca, which was recently returned to Italy, its country of origin, by the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Naturally, the examination I conducted cannot be considered definitive. But it is my considered professional judgment that the painting returned to us did not come from the hand of Michelangelo Caravaggio. The brush strokes lack the authority of the master. It is possible, of course, that it was painted by an apprentice, whose talent was sufficient to create a work approaching the standards of Caravaggio himself. But that is unlikely. It is well known that Caravaggio did not use assistants or apprentices. Therefore, if my judgment is correct, a fraud of extreme proportions has been perpetrated upon our nation, as well as upon the Vatican.

  Because Grottesca was found in one of our churches, it rightfully belongs to the Vatican. That the Ravello church was chosen as its place of exhibition further solidifies that belief. Consequently, I request your cooperation in having the painting removed from Ravello and brought to the Vatican, where our experts can conduct a more thorough examination of the work. Simultaneously, I request permission to travel to the United States immediately to confront those at the National Gallery who might have had a hand in this, should my suspicions be validated.

  Joseph Spagnola

  Senior Curator, the Vatican

  “My God,” was all Annabel could muster.

  “Court brought these with him after calling,” said Carole. “I suggested we keep the use of fax machines to a minimum.”

  “That’s prudent,” Annabel said. To Whitney: “What’s your read on this?”

  “I have to assume a large mistake has been made, that Spagnola is wrong in his assertion. Still, it’s bothersome, an unneeded complication.”

  “I told Court,” said Carole, “that the validation process Grottesca was put through by his staff would certainly rule out Mr. Spagnola’s contentions. Adding weight to that are Luther Mason’s credentials and scholarship.”

  “What’s the next step?” Annabel asked.

  Whitney replied, “I’m inviting Spagnola to come to Washington to discuss it. I’m sure once he does, he’ll realize he’s making a mistake.”

  “I’d like you to attend such a meeting, Annabel,” Carole said. “That is, if you can.”

  “I’ll make a point of being available. Any idea when he’ll arrive, Court?”

  “No.”

  “Did you pick up any hints in Ravello, Annabel, that all isn’t well there? Did you meet Mr. Spagnola?”

  “No and no. Spagnola was pointed out to me by Don Fechter. He made a show of examining Grottesca in the church with a magnifying glass.”

  Whitney snickered. “Sherlock Holmes.”

  Annabel smiled. “There was an element of that. Hints that something might be wrong? Luther seemed upset. He left our group without a word and went back to Rome with Scott Pims and his crew.”

  “Why?” Whitney asked.

  “I have no idea. But he and Mr. Spagnola are not friendly, according to Don Fechter.”

  “If they weren’t friends before, they won’t be now,” said Whitney.

  “Have you spoken with Luther?” Annabel asked Whitney.

  “Briefly. He’s at home. I asked him to come in this afternoon.”

  “Want me to be there?” Annabel asked both Carole and Whitney. Carole nodded but Whitney said, “No. Better I go over this with Luther alone. I’ll report back as soon as I have.”

  Annabel and Carole lingered in the office after Whitney left. “Level with me, Annabel,” the VP’s wife said. “Can you conceive of any way the original Grottesca might not have made it back to Italy?”

  Annabel shook her head. “Not unless the world’s greatest art forger went to work in the National Gallery while it hung there.”

  But on the way to her Georgetown gallery, Annabel had to mentally add to her answer: Or unless the forger made a copy before it ever got to the National Gallery.

  Luther had fled Ravello with Pims rather than return to Rome on the bus because he felt he might disintegrate on the spot. Crumble into a pile of smoldering cinereous flakes. “And your quaint honor turns to dust. And into ashes all my lust.”

  Was that his fate? he thought, as he tried to talk himself out of his agitated state. It was only normal to be anxious. What man wouldn’t be? The event was significant enough to put anyone on edge, even if it had been the authentic Grottesca delivered to Ravello that morning.

  But a forgery was being embraced and celebrated. Would it be discovered? Would he, Luther Mason, esteemed and respected senior curator of the National Gallery of Art—America’s Museum—be led away in handcuffs by Italian police, tarnished and disgraced, a pathetic criminal doomed to a life in a dank prison, the subject of snide articles in the art magazines? That possibility, as remote as he intellectually knew it was, went through him that morning like a diuretic cocktail.

  The imagery of how he might end up was bad enough: If all he had to fear was fear itself, fear was doing a good job.

  The reality had set in when he arrived in Ravello.

  As the bus pulled into the piazza, Luther saw the man in the red beret and black raincoat, a cigarette dangling from his mouth—the same man who’d followed him in Rome.
Who was he?

  Luther decided before exiting the bus that he would confront him. But by the time he got off, the man had disappeared. Luther searched for him in the crowd, in the church. Vanished. Just as well. What if it was Red Beret’s mission to kill him? Better to stay as far away as possible. Stick with crowds. Control yourself, Luther. Think! Trust reason, not emotion.

  And then Spagnola showed up. Bastard! A hack. A scholar wannabe with his silly hat and a magnifying glass to demonstrate authority. What if he suddenly shouted, “It’s a fake! A fraud has been committed and this is the criminal!” Fingers pointed at Luther. Police. The arrest. The pictures in the newspapers.

  Once again, Luther force-fed his denial system. The Saison copy was too perfect for someone with Spagnola’s limited talent to spot as a forgery. Unless, of course Spagnola knew something. Had been tipped. By whom? The old mafioso, Sensi? One of Sensi’s thugs? Or someone in Franco del Brasco’s employ?

  Luther was proud of himself for the aplomb with which he’d handled his short speech and the unveiling inside the church, Spagnola’s distasteful display be damned.

  But to have to ride back to Rome on the bus and sustain a façade of normalcy was asking too much.

  The presence of the crew members in the limo precluded any sustained conversation with Pims, so they passed the time with small talk. But when the limo pulled up in front of the Valadier Hotel, Pims accompanied Luther inside.

  “What’s wrong?” the jocular Pims asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m being followed.”

  “Oh? By whom?”

  “I don’t know. His name I don’t know. He was in Rome, then this morning in Ravello. Tall, black raincoat, red beret.”