Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “I think I could arrange that. I have to dash from here to The Collector. Our gregarious innkeeper-friend, Mr. Wooby, is about to open his annual exhibition from Life Skills Center. Always a lovely event, heartwarming and inspiring.” One month each year, works by mentally handicapped artists belonging to Washington’s Life Skills Center were displayed at The Collector, the best becoming menu covers that sold for ten dollars as a fund-raiser.

  “I have to be home a little before seven,” Mason said. “Could you meet me at five?”

  “Yes. Why do you have to be home a little before seven?”

  Mason’s initial reaction was anger. What business was it of his? “I’m expecting an important call,” he said.

  “Concerning your little adventure? You’re coming down to the wire, aren’t you?”

  “Meet me in the lobby of the Four Seasons at five.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pims said, laughing. “Why do I have the feeling, Luther, that you are about to spring something dark and mysterious on me?”

  “Because—because maybe I am.”

  He decided to leave early and called Court Whitney to let him know.

  “Mr. Whitney is in conference, Luther,” said Whitney’s secretary.

  “No chance of speaking with him for thirty seconds?”

  “I’m afraid not. They just arrived, and—”

  “Who just arrived?”

  “Mr. Spagnola from the Vatican and two other gentlemen.”

  “I see. Please tell him I have a doctor’s appointment and won’t be back this afternoon.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “No. Just a stiff neck. I must have slept funny. Did Court say anything about me attending the meeting? I’ve been here all day.”

  “No.”

  He drove home on automatic pilot, unaware of the trip, entered his apartment at three-thirty, and poured a glass of red wine. He needed something to calm his nerves; the wine seemed a more benign prescription than the Valium in his medicine cabinet. As he sat in a chair staring out his living room window, a horrifying thought came to him. What if del Brasco’s representative, perhaps accompanied by two strong-arm men, insisted upon coming to the apartment? That was the last place he wanted to see them. It would be too easy to kill him there and walk away with the painting.

  He had an equally potent revelation. They wouldn’t kill him if he didn’t have the painting for them to take. His gut twisted; how could he have been so foolish as to keep the original Grottesca here? The worst possible place. If he didn’t have it, it would leverage his chances. He needed another safe place until he’d worked out arrangements with del Brasco’s men.

  “Of course,” he muttered, opening the closet door. But as he peered into its recesses, he sensed something was wrong. The paintings weren’t as he had left them. Or were they? He frowned as he tried to remember exactly how he’d positioned them. He was certain he’d lined them up one directly behind the other. But an inch of the original, which was behind the copy, protruded to the side. I must be wrong, he thought, as he pulled them out and put them in his large black leather portfolio, zipped it closed, went to his car, and drove to the Four Seasons Hotel on the fringes of Georgetown. “Calm down,” he silently told himself as he chose an oversized stuffed chair in a corner far removed from the nearest seating area and absently stirred a Bloody Mary with a skinny red plastic straw until Pims arrived.

  The large man paused at the lobby entrance, saw Luther, and laboriously made his way in his direction. “Started ahead of me, I see,” Pims said, slowly easing himself into the next chair.

  “I was early.”

  Pims’s eyes went to the black portfolio resting against Mason’s chair. “And what have we here?” he asked. The waitress requested his order. “Brandy and port, in equal amounts, in a snifter, no ice,” Pims said.

  The waitress asked him to repeat it.

  “Tell the barman to place in a large snifter equal amounts of brandy and port wine. Very good for the stomach, my dear. Very soothing. More effective than blackberry brandy.”

  She smiled and walked away, eyebrows up.

  “Now, Luther, my friend and irrepressible imp, tell me what has happened since I’ve been away. I told you about Carlo. He was obviously the perfect cultural attaché. Stealing culture from his native land to see that it received a wider audience. But I won’t bore you with that. You can watch it on my show next Friday. Drink your Bloody Mary. You look like you need something. You’re ashen. The gray face of a man in a dilemma—or about to have a coronary.”

  “I feel fine, Scott. I believe that tomorrow night will be the end of all this.” He continued to stir. “I received a call early this morning. They’re calling back again at seven to set up a time to exchange the painting for money.” He stopped talking as the waitress delivered Pims’s concoction, which Pims lifted in a toast: “To my dear friend and curator without peer, Luther Mason. May all the days of your life be sunny and warm, and may you drink from the well of beauty forever more.”

  Luther touched the rim of Pims’s snifter with his glass, placed it on the table, and said, “I want you to hold the two paintings for me for twenty-four hours.”

  The sudden worried expression on Pims’s face was exaggerated, Mason knew. The big man said, “I was right. You are indeed suggesting something dark and mysterious. What paintings might these be that I would be holding in escrow for you?”

  “Oh, stop it, Scott, will you!”

  Pims drank from the snifter. “Usually, this wonderful mixture of spirits, which I learned from a Scottish bartender in Wick years ago, after making an obscenely rough journey to the Scottish mainland from the Orkneys, works almost instantly. But today, Luther, my stomach seems to be getting worse.”

  “Forget I asked,” Mason said.

  Pims placed his hammy hand on Mason’s arm. “Don’t be so touchy, Luther. Of course I’ll do this favor for you. I just didn’t want you to think it was an insignificant one. I want you to know that it marks the depth of the commitment I have to you as a friend, to say nothing of being an admiring critic. You want me to walk out of here with that portfolio.”

  Mason nodded.

  “And to keep it safe until summoned by you to return it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then, when you meet with your esteemed client and turn over one of the paintings to him in return for a fat envelope filled with negotiable currency, you wish to have me present to lend weight to your claim that what you’re giving is the real McCoy, and perhaps more important, to lend my not inconsiderable physical presence to keep these same people from wringing your neck.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Luther to ask Pims to accompany him to the meeting. But why not? He’d been the one to suggest it. And he knew everything about the scheme anyway.

  A smile from Pims, and another reassuring placement of hand on arm. “Enough said,” he said, sitting back and finishing his drink. “I offer myself as your aide-de-camp. In fact, this is all delightfully camp. When do you think this meeting will take place?”

  “Sometime tomorrow night. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.”

  The waitress asked if they wished another drink.

  “No, but give my friend the check,” Pims said. When she went to get it, he said, “I think it appropriate that you pay for our drinks, Luther. But only because it will make you feel better. Make you feel less guilty about the awkward, dangerous position in which you place me.”

  “Jesus, Scott, will you please stop it. Either do this for me graciously or forget I asked.”

  They stood outside together. “Time for a quick bite?” Pims asked.

  “No. I must get home for that phone call. And please go directly home yourself and put that portfolio where no one will find it.”

  Pims laughed. “You have placed it in the most capable of hands, Luther. You know that, which is why you chose me. I’m flattered.”

  You might be flattered, Mason thought, but I’m feeling painfully empty-
handed at this moment. Don’t lose it, Scott. Don’t have me end up a pathetic member of the Dortmunder gang in a Donald Westlake novel.

  While Mason waited by the phone in his apartment, Pims dialed a number from his. He’d unwrapped both versions of Grottesca and propped them against chairs next to his desk. “Remarkable,” he said aloud. “Absolutely remark—Hello. M. Scott Pims in Washington calling David Decker.”

  Decker came on the line. “Scott. How are you?”

  “Splendid. Even better than that.”

  “How is the book coming?”

  “You would ask that, being my editor. I was just in New York but didn’t have a moment to call you. Tracking down another remarkable story having to do with a deceased cultural attaché from Italy who was more smuggler than attaché.”

  “Oh, yes, you mentioned Giliberti the last time we talked. Is that what you’re calling about?”

  “No. You know how delighted I am at having been brought into this inventive Caravaggio imbroglio. I mean, David, really being brought into it. Informed every inch of the way.”

  Decker sat in his cluttered office at the New York publishing house that had published Pims’s last book and that had signed him up six months ago to do another.

  “But just a few minutes ago, David, my inclusion on the margin of things suddenly put me in the midst. Things took a dramatic and unexpected turn. Can you keep a confidence?”

  The young editor said, “I think so.”

  “The work in question. No, make that the works in question, sit mere inches from me as we speak.”

  Decker took his feet down from the edge of his desk, placed his elbows on the desk, and lowered his voice. “Are you saying—?”

  “Yes, David. This is exactly what I am saying. You may have seen the best-seller potential when I first proposed this book to you. But that revered, albeit dubiously achieved status is now assured.”

  “When will I see the manuscript?”

  “As soon as this adventure has played itself out to its logical conclusion.”

  “I can’t wait. By the way, while you’re on the phone, I’ve been playing with titles. I really like The Caravaggio Conspiracy.”

  Pims laughed. “Good title, but unfortunately already taken. Peter Watson did a book about Caravaggio with that same title a number of years ago. Excellent work. I highly recommend it. Well, just wanted to touch base with my New York editor to let him know that his instincts for a good story are almost as good as mine. Ta-ta, David. We’ll be in touch.”

  Pims placed both the original Grottesca and its copy on the dining room table and carefully rewrapped them in the brown paper. Luther had told him that the small pencil dot on the paper designated that package as containing the original. As he folded and taped the paper with the dot over the Saison forgery, he paused and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Can you really do this to so fine a friend?” he asked himself aloud.

  Then, looking down at the table, he laughed and said, “Of course you can.”

  28

  As he waited for the call from del Brasco’s emissary, minutes turned into hours. Mason sat at his desk, his hand resting next to the telephone. But he’d decided to let his answering machine field the call first so that he could identify the caller before picking up.

  It rang. Mason tensed. He waited for the machine’s outgoing message to finish. Then, Pims’s voice rattled the tiny speaker.

  “Hello,” Mason said.

  “Heard anything yet?” Pims asked.

  “I thought it was him,” Luther said, exhaling breath he’d held in. “No. Will you be home the rest of the evening?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I’m planted here awaiting your call.”

  The next call validated Luther’s decision to let the answering machine act as a buffer: “Luther, this is Court Whitney. If you’re there, please pick up. Luther, when you get this message, call me at my office immediately. I’m here with Mr. Spagnola from the Vatican, Mrs. Smith, and others. We’re meeting about this controversy over Grottesca and will be well into the night. Call the moment you return.”

  Mason grimaced at Whitney’s icy tone. Nowhere was it written that he had to be on call day and night. Let Whitney think he was out to dinner. He could call later, if he wanted to.

  He looked at the clock again: 6:50. Ten minutes until the call from del Brasco’s representative. Because he expected the ringing of the phone, the brusque buzz from his intercom startled him. He pressed the button: “Your son is here to see you, Mr. Mason,” the doorman announced.

  “Julian?” Luther muttered. His timing couldn’t have been worse. “All right. Send him up.”

  He returned to his desk. 6:54. A knock. He drew a deep breath and opened the door. “Hello, Julian,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting—”

  What Luther really wasn’t expecting was to see the woman one step behind his son. “Lynn?” he said, face and voice mirroring his incredulity. “Why are you here?”

  “She’s with me,” Julian answered.

  “I can see that,” said Mason. “But why?”

  Mason looked into their eyes and read the answer. They were lovers. That night at the restaurant weeks ago. It must have started then.

  But they hadn’t come to announce their affair. It was something more important, he knew. Julian pulled Lynn into the apartment by the hand. She went directly to the closet and opened the door.

  “Don’t,” Mason said, forgetting for the moment that Grottesca and its copy were no longer there.

  “Where are they?” Lynn asked.

  “Where are what?” said Mason.

  “The paintings,” Julian answered for her. “Grottesca, and the forgery.”

  “Are you both insane?” Mason said. “Grottesca? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “This.” Julian pulled Luther’s airline ticket to Greece from his black leather jacket and waved it in his father’s face.

  “Where did you get that?” Mason asked, opening the desk drawer in which he’d left it. “Give that to me!”

  Julian tossed the ticket on the desk. “Where are the paintings?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luther said, knowing he’d been right. The paintings had been moved within the closet. He glared at his son. “You were in my apartment.”

  “I was in your apartment,” Lynn said. “This morning.”

  “How did you—?”

  Another question not needing an answer. He’d given her a key at the height of their affair and never asked for it back.

  “I came up here this morning,” Lynn Marshall said, her voice strangely bland considering the circumstances, “because I wanted to find out for myself what was going on.”

  “How dare you?” Mason was unable to generate the level of indignation he intended.

  “It’s all over the Gallery, Luther,” Lynn said. “They’re meeting now. Whitney. The curator from the Vatican. Police. Mrs. Smith from the White House.”

  Mason lowered his head and took a breath.

  “Paul Bishop told me he had a hunch that the Grottesca that went back to Italy was a phony,” Lynn said.

  “Paul Bishop,” Luther snarled. “Of course. Anything to tear me down. It’s ridiculous. Absurd. You know me. Do you really think I would have any part of such a—?”

  “If she doesn’t, I do,” Julian said. “Where are they?”

  The phone rang. Mason spun around and looked at the clock: 7:05. His outgoing message on the machine was heard, followed by Court Whitney’s voice. “Damn it, Luther, where are you? It’s imperative that I reach you. Call me at my office the moment you hear this.” He hung up with force.

  “See?” Lynn said.

  The phone rang again.

  Mason stumbled to the desk and turned off the answering machine. The phone continued to ring. “Please excuse me,” he said feebly. “I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

  He slammed the bedroom door behind him, sat on the edge of his bed,
and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Luther?”

  He’d used his first name.

  “Luther Mason?” There was no Italian accent.

  “Yes,” Mason said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Peter Lafroing.”

  “Peter?” Lafroing was one of two other Caravaggio experts brought in by Court Whitney to evaluate Grottesca.

  Luther cleared his throat. “Hello, Peter. I was expecting someone else. Hearing from you is a surprise. A pleasant one.”

  “Not purely a social call, Luther. I’ve taken on a freelance assignment that involves you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve been asked to appraise a certain work that I understand is in your possession.”

  Luther slumped on the bed as though the skeleton supporting his body had collapsed. Peter Lafroing working for Franco del Brasco? Outlandish!

  As outlandish as he, Luther Mason, becoming involved with such a man.

  “Del Brasco wants you to appraise the painting?” Mason said.

  “I would rather not identify my client,” Lafroing said, his voice filled with annoying lightness. “That wouldn’t be professional. But I have been asked to take a look before my client goes forward with the purchase. Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it on the phone. Can we arrange to get together? I’d enjoy seeing you again.”

  Mason’s initial reaction was that his dream was about to come crashing down on him. Given ample opportunity to examine the Grottesca, Lafroing was professionally capable of discerning differences that would brand the Saison version a copy. Show him the original and then try a switch? No. Pulling off one switch had been nerve-racking enough.

  But then he remembered one of the “rules” he’d formulated: Limit Lafroing’s access to the painting.

  “Of course, Peter. Tomorrow night? That was what I was led to expect.”

  “That’s been changed, Luther. My client is anxious for the painting. He insists that I do it tonight. Is it a problem?”

  “You have the money with you?”

  “I know nothing about your money arrangement, Luther. I’m with two other gentlemen sent by my client to bring the painting back to him. I’m sure they can resolve any questions of money between you and my client.”