Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  Pims looked at him like a father catching a son in a lie. “Come now, Luther, you are not yourself. A tall man in a red beret? The Cold War is over.”

  “Damn it, Scott, I’m not paranoid! And Spagnola being there. What if he—?”

  “He won’t. Saison’s work will stand up. It will take a month of laboratory testing, and even that won’t be definitive. By that time you’ll be basking on a beach in—have you decided yet where to go?”

  “Greece, I think. I need time to think.”

  “At times a dangerous luxury for you, Luther. How long will you stay here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I would stay with you, but I must be in New York tomorrow. Call me when you arrive. And calm down, for God’s sake. The worst is over.”

  Mason checked in and sat alone on the balcony overlooking the Borghese. But after a few hours of aimless soul-searching, he checked out, to the surprise of the clerk who had just greeted him, and went to the airport in time to catch a flight to New York. The Amtrak train returned him to Washington.

  The director was standing on his terrace looking out over the Capitol when Mason entered his office. “Court?” Mason said through the open sliding glass doors.

  Whitney turned, his face as hard as his voice had been on the phone. He stepped through the open doors and went to a round table that served as his desk. On it were several sheets of paper. “Look at these,” Whitney said, returning to the terrace.

  Mason was almost afraid to pick them up, as though to actually read the words would seal his fate. He glanced at Whitney, then slowly picked up the first of the pages. It had come from Alberto Betti.

  Mason dropped that page onto the table and picked up the next, the document to which Betti had referred in his transmission to Whitney.

  As he read, Mason’s heart became so heavy he feared it might drop to his stomach. Its beat was thunderous. His throat had gone dry; his teeth were clenched.

  Whitney stepped back inside. “Well?” he asked.

  Mason stiffened, turned, and forced a smile. “Much Italian ado about nothing,” he said.

  “That may be true, Luther. I suspect it is. But it raises a thorny issue that must be dealt with.”

  Mason shrugged. It was a calculated body move. His smile remained. “A shame you have to even respond to such nonsense, Court. As far as I’m concerned, answering them only dignifies their stupidity.”

  “You know Spagnola,” Whitney said.

  “I’ve had the misfortune of meeting him on a few occasions. Conferences, mostly. He considers himself an expert. He isn’t. He’s a bureaucratic hack who has his job only because the Vatican keeps a bloated staff. He can’t hold a candle to the experts you brought in to evaluate Grottesca. And, of course—”

  “And, of course,” Whitney finished the statement, “he can’t hold a candle to you.”

  “I was too modest to say it myself,” Mason said, turning his smile into a gentle laugh to reinforce the casual, unconcerned posture he’d assumed.

  “Well, he might be holding a match. I’ll have to meet with Spagnola. So will you.”

  “I have no problem with that.”

  “Mrs. Aprile and Annabel Smith know. I briefed them this morning.”

  “Was that necessary?” Luther asked, his throat parchment.

  “Absolutely. Any expert suggestions on how to handle this?”

  Mason was relieved at how firm his voice was as he said, “My suggestion is that you welcome Spagnola. No hostility. Kill him with kindness. We can easily allay his concerns. After all, we have the National Gallery of Art to back up the authenticity of Grottesca. There is no more credible institution in the world.”

  “I’ll do just that. Where will you be the rest of the day?”

  “In my office. Out and about the Gallery.”

  “I’ll find you. Thanks for stopping by.”

  The minute Mason was gone, the director called in Paul Bishop for his evaluation of the documents and their potential ramifications. Bishop was not nearly as reassuring. He went so far as to suggest that he’d had a sense for months that something wasn’t right where Grottesca was concerned. “Think about it, Court,” he said after accepting a cup of tea. “This masterpiece, lost for centuries, suddenly shows up in a church in Italy. Luther Mason is led to it by an old, retired priest, although it seems that ‘retired’ might not be the right word to apply to Giocondi, at least not according to the reports. Scott Pims brought it up on his show last week. It’s all just too convenient, Court. And, of course, there’s Luther’s strange behavior over the past few months. If I were you, I’d take this very seriously and hope that it passes—but brace for the worst.”

  Later that afternoon, Whitney decided that his only course of action was the one suggested by Mason. Consider it a mistake, cordially invite Spagnola to come to the Gallery to discuss the matter, and hope to dissuade the Vatican curator from his contentions. The way he now viewed it, he didn’t have much of a choice. If the painting that had been returned to Italy was not the original Grottesca, the run of good fortune he’d been experiencing as director of the National Gallery could come to an abrupt and painful halt.

  M. Scott Pims had gone to New York that morning to investigate a brewing scandal involving a Soho art gallery. According to his inside information, the dealer had been the recipient of stolen Italian art for years, most recently three Mattia Preti paintings stolen from San Francesco di Assisi, in Cosenza. Pims’s source told him that the paintings had been brought to the United States by the slain Italian cultural attaché to Washington, Carlo Giliberti.

  Mason spent the remainder of the day secluded in his office, pretending to be busy but failing at the pretense. As he prepared to leave for home at six, his phone rang. It was Bill Wooby, owner of The Collector Gallery and Restaurant, who asked if Mason could drop off two paintings by the Impressionist Anthony Triano he’d taken a month ago to evaluate as a favor to Wooby. “Anthony’s doing a show in Kansas City,” said Wooby. “He’d like to take the works with him.”

  He delivered the paintings—“Excellent in my opinion”—and decided to have a drink and dinner before going home. He ate quickly and departed without saying goodbye. Wooby, observing Mason from the bar, turned to a friend, artist Judy Jashinsky, whose portrait of the restaurant owner greeted customers as they entered, and said, “Quite a coup he pulled off with Grottesca.”

  “Yes. An incredible story.”

  “I wish I’d find a long-lost masterpiece. If I did, I’m not sure I’d turn it over to anybody. Probably get on the next plane with it and live the opulent life in Brazil or on some remote island.”

  Jashinsky laughed. “You’d never last, Bill. Remote islands don’t have causes.”

  “Did you get to see the Grottesca when it was here?” he asked.

  “Of course. You?”

  “I certainly did. There was something distinctly magical about seeing that work hanging on the walls of the National Gallery. I had this weird feeling that Caravaggio himself was there.”

  “Maybe he was,” she said with a laugh.

  Mason felt the effects of the drink and made himself a cup of strong coffee in his apartment. Feeling better, he called Indiana. “Just wanted you to know, Mother, that my trip to Italy went fine.”

  “I’m happy that it did,” she said. “It was so good to see Julian again.”

  “Yes. He’s quite a young man, isn’t he?”

  “I gave him some money to help tide him over in Paris.”

  “You did? How much did you give him?”

  “A thousand dollars. I told him I would send more.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that, Mother.”

  “Why? He’s my only grandson.”

  “I know that. It was very generous of you, but I wanted to—”

  “I think you should help him, too,” she said.

  “I intend to. I told you that. How are you feeling?”

  “I have a cold. I hope it isn’t
the flu. The flu can be bad for someone my age.”

  “Did you get a flu shot?”

  “No. I don’t believe in them.”

  “Well, feel better. I’ll be in touch.”

  He allowed his anger at the conversation to dissipate before making his next call. Franco del Brasco answered on the first ring. “Mr. del Brasco. Luther Mason here.”

  “I read about Italy,” del Brasco said, the lack of affect in his voice now familiar.

  “It went quite well, Mr. del Brasco. I have the painting for you.”

  “I will arrange to get it. What would be a convenient time?”

  “I suppose any time would be fine. How do you want to do it?”

  “I will have someone contact you. Someone who is intimately familiar with the artist’s work.”

  Oh God—another expert, Luther thought. “Who?” he asked.

  “He will identify himself when he calls. He will need time to examine it.”

  “Of course. He can have all the time he wishes. And will he have with him the—money for me?”

  “Yes. If he says I am getting what I paid for, he will turn the money over to you.”

  “The entire million?” Luther had trouble getting the words out.

  “What we agreed upon.”

  “Yes. The million.”

  “You will be contacted in a few days. Good night, Mr. Mason.”

  After hanging up, Luther pondered what del Brasco had said. He hadn’t counted on a third party coming between them, assuming all along that he would have to travel to California and turn over the copy of Grottesca directly to the buyer.

  But as he thought about it, he realized that that was an unreasonable expectation. Del Brasco knew nothing about art. He’d probably stick Grottesca, or what he thought was Grottesca, in a vault and not look at it again for years. Mason, in fact, was counting on that. Surely even an evil boor like del Brasco would not show off a painting so recently in the news.

  The question was whether the person acting on del Brasco’s behalf would have sufficient knowledge of Caravaggio to raise a question about its authenticity. He doubted it. Men who worked for people like Franco del Brasco weren’t likely to be experts in much beyond extortion and murder. No, he decided, the copy was too good. It would fool anyone—except him.

  But then he thought of Joseph Spagnola, who’d been astute enough to have picked up something wrong with Saison’s forgery. The same could happen with the person examining it on del Brasco’s behalf.

  As of late, he was able to talk away such concerns. Time was on his side. It would take Spagnola months to prove that the painting hanging in the Ravello church was a phony. If del Brasco’s so-called expert were to raise a question, Luther was confident he could finesse his way out of it. The trick, he decided, was to limit the amount of time del Brasco’s man had with Grottesca. He wasn’t sure how to accomplish that but was confident he’d come up with a way.

  Although bone-tired, he couldn’t resist taking the original painting from the closet—he’d marked its brown paper wrap with a tiny pencil dot to differentiate between the two versions—drawing strength and resolve from it, wrapping it once again, and carefully returning it to its safe haven.

  The last thing he did before going to bed was to check the newspaper for the weather in Greece.

  Sunny, highs in the 80s.

  He fell asleep saying aloud a few simple Greek phrases he’d learned: “Kalimera. Efcharisto. Ne. Ochi.” Good morning. Thank you. Yes. No.

  Soon.

  27

  The phone’s harsh ring jarred Mason into wakefulness. His eyes went to the red glow of his bedside digital alarm clock: 3:10. He searched for the phone in the dark and put the receiver to his ear. “Hello,” he mumbled.

  “Signor Mason?”

  “Who is this?”

  But he already knew who it was—the same man who’d called him at his office a few days ago and who’d approached him the day of the Caravaggio opening.

  “Mr. del Brasco wishes to arrange a meeting with you tomorrow night.”

  Mason was still sleepy. Did he mean that night, or the next night?

  The caller anticipated the question. “Not this night, Signor Mason. Tomorrow night.”

  “Is Mr. del Brasco coming to Washington?” Mason asked, sitting up and turning on a lamp.

  “Mr. del Brasco will send representatives to see you. You will be called again tonight at seven. I suggest you be at this number.”

  Click.

  To attempt to go back to sleep was folly. He made coffee and mentally went over the telephone conversation a dozen times. He was certain the caller had said representatives would contact him. Plural. More than one. He knew someone was to be designated by del Brasco to examine the painting before turning over the money. But who were the others? Del Brasco’s henchmen? Blond Curls from San Francisco? Hired goons of the sort who’d murdered Carlo Giliberti?

  It had never occurred to Luther in all his planning that he would have to take steps to protect himself physically from Franco del Brasco. Physical violence hadn’t been factored into his thinking because violence wasn’t part of his world. Would that be what ultimately brought him down, his naïveté?

  Luther Mason had never been able to accept that child abuse took place because abusing a child was anathema to him. Just as bigotry was beyond his comprehension.

  But that didn’t mean, of course, that those things did not happen. It simply wasn’t part of his genetic and environmental mix.

  He also detested hypocrisy yet knew he was being a hypocrite. He was engaged in a criminal act no matter how he tried to sugarcoat it. And he was certain as the monochromatic early morning light rendered everything in his kitchen gray, including him, that naive criminals must always be the ones who were caught and paid the price.

  He told himself while showering that he must create a scenario for turning over the painting that would minimize physical risk. That meant two things: First, he had to be the one to determine where and when the exchange took place. Second, greed mustn’t be allowed to cloud his judgment.

  Luther’s deal with del Brasco called for him to be paid a million dollars for Grottesca. A fraction of its worth.

  But he didn’t need a million dollars to live the remainder of his life in modest comfort. If the opportunity presented itself, he might be able to offer some of his million to buy a positive report from del Brasco’s appraiser. Surely, anyone working for Franco del Brasco would not be a stranger to bribery.

  He also decided (along with the realization that planning a crime was the most exhausting mental exercise he’d ever gone through) that it might be possible to limit the amount of time the appraiser had with the painting. He could ask for a small down payment against the million dollars in return for allowing the appraiser to take Grottesca back to California to be studied more closely. If so, he would gladly waive the balance owed him. How much did he need? Half a million? Two hundred fifty thousand? His life was worth more than that.

  He was about to leave the apartment for the Gallery when the ringing phone stopped him. The man again? There was no sense trying to avoid him. He answered and heard the bombastic voice of M. Scott Pims. “Luther, my friend. Scott.”

  “I thought you were in New York.”

  “I am. About to leave. Thought I’d best check in with my favorite wayward curator.”

  Luther winced at the characterization.

  “Looks like your deceased Italian friend, Mr. Giliberti, was quite the artful smuggler.”

  “Was he? I wouldn’t know about that.”

  A guttural laugh from Pims. “How are things progressing? You’re nearing the culmination of your grand adventure.”

  “I can’t talk now, Scott. I was just leaving for work.”

  “Loyal up to the last moment. I like that. You sound—well, you sound slightly shaken. A new and unpleasant development?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Free for lunch?”

  “No.”

 
; “Then we’ll make it dinner.”

  “Call me at the Gallery when you’re back. Maybe we should get together.”

  The main entrance to the National Gallery was the scene of a commotion as Mason drove past. He pulled to the curb and narrowed his eyes to better read the message on signs carried by picketers: AMERICAN GALLERIES FOR AMERICAN ARTISTS. It was the same group of dissident local artists who picketed the National Gallery whenever a major exhibition featured a foreign artist. At least Julian wasn’t with them.

  He then noticed another picketer standing far removed from the group. Mason knew who he was, too. The Style Section of the Post had recently run a piece about an Italian-American who’d been picketing the Italian Embassy on Albemarle Street, acting on his complaint that the Italian government had allowed Grottesca to be first exhibited in the United States.

  Luther attended an eleven o’clock meeting of the Exhibition Committee, at which Paul Bishop’s proposed exhibit of British landscape painters, anchored by William Blake and Joseph Turner, with some Constable and Samuel Palmer thrown in to add spice, was discussed. Mason said that such an exhibition would be “characterized by a numbing sameness that would choke the spectator in detail.” His evaluation did not sit well with Bishop.

  Mason’s growling stomach told him he was hungry. Maybe Lynn would like to have lunch. It was an impetuous thought. They’d avoided each other since the confrontation about her promotion, but he was drawn to her office by a need to not give up all contact. At least not yet.

  Her office was empty. He was told that she’d called in that morning to say she was taking a personal day.

  Strange that she hadn’t called him, Mason thought as he walked through the East Building on his way to the employee exit. One rule of his department was that anyone calling in sick or intending to take a personal day inform him personally.

  After a fast, solitary lunch at nearby Jaleo, he returned to his office and called Scott, catching the rotund art critic just as he walked through the door.

  “Ah, Luther. Feeling better?”

  “I would like to catch up with you later today. I thought maybe a drink after work.”