Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  He awoke Saturday morning to find a fax from Rome on his machine. It read: Contact made. Awaiting next instruction.

  “Next instruction?” Pims mused over a hearty breakfast at a table set for one in his dining room. “Ah, yes,” he said aloud, opening a file folder marked DUMBARTON. In it was a report he’d typed after a friend on Dumbarton’s staff told him the story of the missing pre-Columbian pieces and of Annabel Reed-Smith’s role in helping Steve Jordan’s art squad recover them.

  “Of course,” he said, padding barefoot to the kitchen, carrying his dirty dishes. “Of course.”

  35

  The detective sitting in his unmarked car across the street from the Smiths’ home in Foggy Bottom seemed embarrassed when Annabel waved to him Saturday morning as she stepped through the front door. The air was crisp and clear at seven-thirty. A “fat day,” as Mac would say.

  She retrieved their blue Caprice from their rented garage a few doors down the block and drove quickly through Washington’s empty streets to the Naval Observatory on upper Massachusetts Ave., where two Secret Service agents waved her through the entrance gate. She pulled up in front of the home of the vice president. The detective, who’d followed at a respectful distance, parked across the street. Another agent escorted Annabel inside, where Carole Aprile was waiting. After a hug and some preliminary chitchat, they settled in the Second Lady’s small office at the rear of the house.

  “Another call?” Annabel said, accepting a cup of coffee.

  “Yes. Steve Jordan picked up the tape a few minutes ago.”

  “Who can it be, Carole? Is it some sick individual playing a hoax?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever it is knows a lot about what’s going on. He mentioned you.”

  “Mentioned me?”

  “Yes. Here. I transcribed his message.” She handed Annabel a neatly typed note:

  Now listen to me, Mrs. Aprile. If you and the government want this Grottesca mess resolved, you do exactly what I say. You’re a busy lady. But your friend, Mrs. Smith, isn’t so busy. Tell her to have her bags packed and be ready to go. More later.

  “Did he leave this on your machine at the White House?”

  “No. He called here on my private number. I picked up. The minute I realized who it was, I pressed a button on my machine that records both sides of the call.”

  “How did he get your private number?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was it the same voice?”

  “No. This time it was high-pitched, a whiny voice. Kind of a ‘dem and dose’ speech.”

  “No Italian accent?”

  She shook her head.

  “Steve thinks it’s someone disguising his voice, maybe using some sort of gadget.”

  “That makes sense considering it’s different each time he calls. Unless there’s more than one person making the calls. What’s Mac think of all this?”

  “He’s concerned.”

  “As well he should be. Annabel, when Steve heard the reference to you, he said he wanted to get us together, have a meeting, decide what to do if the caller gives instructions for you to follow.”

  Annabel frowned and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

  “Not that you’d have to do anything if you didn’t want to. But Steve made some comment about you being willing—no, he said you knew about this sort of thing.”

  “I suppose I do. Keep a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  Annabel told Carole about how she’d helped Jordan recover the missing artifacts from Dumbarton Oaks. Carole listened with wide eyes and a bemused smile on her lips. When Annabel was through, Carole said, “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t do anything except act like a silly schoolgirl by not telling Mac about it until after the fact. I promised to let him know if I contemplated doing something like that again.”

  “Bring him to the meeting.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “I told Steve I had an hour today at four. Joe and I are flying tonight to Colorado. A party fund-raiser. Back tomorrow.”

  “Four? I can make it. The new assistant I hired is a godsend. She treats the gallery like it was her own. You’ll call me?”

  “Yes. And bring Mac.”

  “Pims here.”

  “Scott, it’s Will Penny.” The White House curator, formerly with the Smithsonian Museum of American History, was calling from his apartment off Dupont Circle.

  “Ah, Wilfred, my friend. I was meaning to call you. We haven’t broken bread in ages. Free tonight?”

  “As a matter of fact I am.”

  “Splendid. As I recall, you’re especially fond of smoked trout.”

  “My favorite. But I wasn’t calling to arrange dinner.”

  “But you will come.”

  “Of course. Strange things going on at the big White House, Scott.”

  A jovial, knowing laugh from Pims. “When aren’t strange things going on there? I always think of Stuart’s portrait of George Washington in the East Room as symbolizing the nonsense that goes on there.” He referred to Gilbert Stuart’s copy of his original portrait of President Washington, the only object still in the opulent East Room dating from its completion in 1800. Stuart painted copies in order to make a living. In the original, one of two books leaning against a table near Washington is Constitution and Laws of the United States. In his haste to paint this particular copy, Stuart misspelled a word in the book’s title: Constitution and Laws of the United Sates.

  Penny laughed, too. “I’ve always thought Stuart might have done it deliberately. His private little joke. Mr. Jordan from the MPD art squad has been spending plenty of time there. Mrs. Aprile has another meeting with him this afternoon at four.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “Her archivist. We’re close. Mrs. Aprile is meeting with Mrs. Smith, Jordan, maybe others. Just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Oh, I do, Will, I do. You’ll have more to share with me at dinner?”

  “It must have to do with Grottesca.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “By the way, I loved your show last night.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Poor Luther. I miss him terribly.”

  “So do I. One of life’s truly decent people. And so knowledgeable. And I say, so what if he wanted to abscond with the love of his life? More power to him. But to die over it?” He sighed long and loud. “One day we must go to Indiana to lay a proper wreath on his grave. Sweet, his mother asking that he be buried there. I only hope Luther has found the peace he sought. Perhaps it is better to die at once, Will, than to lose one’s life a bit at a time, boredom nibbling pieces from you every day, frustration eroding your spirit, dreams dancing just out of reach. While we shall all miss our dear friend, we must celebrate his reach for his shining star.”

  Penny said nothing.

  “Amen,” said Pims. “Eight at my apartment. And bring good stories. You know how I love good stories. Must run. I have a difficult but necessary appointment this afternoon.”

  36

  Lynn Marshall sat in her office at the National Gallery of Art. She hadn’t wanted to work on Saturday, but Senior Curator Paul Bishop, who’d arranged for her transfer to his staff after Luther’s death, needed a long report typed and edited by Monday morning. Dumb secretarial work, she grumbled, as she labored to decipher Bishop’s scrawl. He’d promised her a more senior job in the near future; well, not exactly promised, but the hint was strong. Funny, she thought, how much she missed working for Luther. Bishop’s brusque, often demeaning style was in marked contrast to Mason’s gentler, albeit erratic, sometimes bristly approach.

  What she’d quickly come to resent were Bishop’s constant derogatory comments about Luther. He was obsessed with his colleague and competitor, even though the man was dead.

  “Didn’t you have even an inkling of what he was doing?” Bishop often asked. “You worked closely with him.”

  “I was as shocked a
s everyone else,” Lynn replied.

  “But you were personally close.”

  “Luther was like a father to me. A mentor.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “People are wrong if they think anything else.”

  Once: “Would you have dinner with me, Lynn? My wife is visiting her sister in Maine and—”

  “I’d love to, Paul, but I’m busy.”

  He hadn’t asked again since his wife returned.

  She worked faster to finish the report so she could leave to meet Scott Pims.

  Pims had called that morning as Lynn was leaving her apartment. She barely knew the man except for his public persona and from the few times Pims and Luther had been together in her presence.

  “And how are you this fine day?” he’d asked.

  “Fine, Mr. Pims.”

  “Call me Scott. Luther told me on more than one occasion that Ms. Lynn Marshall has considerable artistic talent.”

  “I—”

  “And I have always been vitally interested in nurturing young artistic talent. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I would like to meet with you to discuss what help I might be in furthering your career.”

  “That sounds—”

  “No gratitude necessary. The least I can do is pick up on my dear departed friend’s keen eye for talent and do what’s right. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “I’m on my way to work.”

  “As dedicated as Luther said you were. Surely you can break away for an hour. A relaxing drink at Adirondacks, in Union Station? Say six? They open then.”

  “I think so.”

  “ ’Til then. You’ll certainly recognize me. Hear from Julian lately?”

  “No. He’s—”

  “He’s busy setting himself up in Paris. Lucky lad. Well, Lynn—May I call you that?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Six. I’d offer dinner but I’m having guests this evening. Ta-ta.”

  Pims’s call was on her mind all day, slowing the hieroglyphic process of typing Paul Bishop’s notes. Was Pims serious about helping her? It probably wasn’t a pass. He didn’t look the type. Probably liked cuddling up with his teddy bear. Well, nothing to lose by meeting with him. He was, after all, the most influential art critic in Washington, and she’d recently read that a national cable network was negotiating to carry his program.

  She left the Gallery at four, drove home, showered, and changed into a pretty flowered dress. Should she bring some of her paintings with her? She decided not to. Too pushy.

  As Lynn Marshall prepared, Mac and Annabel Smith met in Carole Aprile’s White House office with Carole, Steve Jordan, and Courtney Whitney III.

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Mac said to Jordan, “but that’s assuming he’ll follow through. He could be—in all probability is—nothing more than a crackpot making mischief.”

  “You may be right, Mac,” Jordan said. “But let’s say he’s not that. Let’s say he was involved with Mason in the scam, knew everything that was going down, maybe even lent a hand. Maybe he’s the one who sent Luther down those steps at the National Gallery. Maybe he has Grottesca.”

  “Doesn’t add up,” Annabel said. “If he has Grottesca, he wouldn’t be calling us about it. There’s a ravenous underground market out there for valuable art. The Italian government would probably pay for its recovery. Why bring us along for the ride?”

  Carole Aprile, who’d been packing a small briefcase for Colorado, said, “Maybe because he knows how much we want to be instrumental in recovering Grottesca. The Italians have given us until next Friday to come up with it or they shut down the Caravaggio exhibition.”

  “And they mean it,” Whitney said. “De Montebello at the Met calls me every day. Twice a day. As though I have the ability to pluck Grottesca out of thin air and salvage the show. The Brits are talking lawsuit—against us for losing the damn thing and jeopardizing their Caravaggio show. De Montebello had the gall to say we aren’t doing enough to find it. Lord knows I don’t wish to be unkind, but when I think of the havoc Luther Mason has caused everyone, I want to—”

  “Every art squad in the world has Grottesca as its top priority,” said Jordan. “Anybody buying it—”

  The ringing phone stopped all conversation. One of Carole’s assistants picked it up in the outer office, opened the door, and said, “Him.”

  “Hello?” Carole said into her extension as Jordan activated an electronic device triggering a trace through C-and-P Telephone’s central switching center and slipped on a pair of earphones attached to a reel-to-reel tape recorder that started to spin. The others in the room could hear only Carole’s side of the conversation:

  “Yes, I understand”—“But how do I know you have the original?”—“Trust you? Why should I?”—“It’s not being traced.”—“Wednesday? That’s very short notice.”—“Two million. Unmarked bills.”—“Me? I can’t—”—“How is she to—?”—“No, wait. I—”

  Jordan rewound the tape and played it:

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Aprile. I will speak quickly. Do not interrupt. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I am giving you the opportunity to recover Grottesca—but only if you follow my instructions.”

  “But how do I know you have the original?”

  “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “Trust you? Why should I?”

  “I asked you not to interrupt. I know this call is being traced.”

  “It’s not being traced.”

  “Now listen. Grottesca will be available in Italy on Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday? That’s very short notice.”

  “Come to Italy with two million dollars in unmarked bills.”

  “Two million. Unmarked bills.”

  “Bring the money personally.”

  “Me? I can’t—”

  “Then send an emissary. The person I represent will deal only with someone representing the highest echelon of government. Mrs. Smith will do.”

  “How is she to—?”

  “Further instructions will be forthcoming. Goodbye.”

  “No, wait. I—”

  There was the click of his hangup followed by tape hiss.

  Jordan’s cellular phone rang. “Okay,” he said to the caller. “Good.”

  “What’s up?” Mac Smith asked.

  “They got a trace on it. The Atlas Building.”

  “The Atlas Building?” Annabel and Court Whitney said in unison.

  “They’re on their way.” He looked around the room. “So?” he said.

  Mac screwed up his face, walked to a window, and said, “He’s making it sound as though this seller of the painting is the Good Samaritan, willing to turn it over only to the government.”

  “For two million dollars,” Jordan said.

  “A bargain,” offered Whitney. “It’s worth thirty times that.” He took in each face. “I hope you aren’t debating whether to meet his demands.”

  Carole Aprile’s laugh was short and to the point. “Of course there’s debate about it. The government of the United States—the White House—isn’t in the habit of buying stolen art from criminals.”

  “I only meant,” said Whitney, “that considering the tenuous state of relations with the Italian government, two million dollars to patch things up doesn’t seem unreasonable.”

  “And to save your exhibition,” Mac muttered.

  “Is there anything wrong with wanting to do that?” Whitney asked.

  Mac didn’t answer. Instead, he sat next to Annabel on a yellow-and-white striped loveseat and said to her, “We haven’t heard from you.”

  “It’s not my call,” said Annabel. She looked to Carole Aprile. “You’re right, Carole. I can’t imagine the U.S. government authorizing payment to a crook to recover a painting that doesn’t even belong to us.”

  Carole nodded as she sat stoically behind her
desk, deep in thought.

  “The government has done worse things,” Court Whitney said. “CIA funds for drug runners. Paying the mob to do its dirty deeds.”

  Carole’s stern look silenced the Gallery director. “Let me run this past the appropriate people,” she said. To Annabel: “Obviously, I can’t follow through personally with this person. It would have to be someone without official capacity. You seem to be acceptable to him. He’s mentioned you on two of the calls.”

  Annabel looked at Mac. “Only if I’m with you,” he said.

  “I’m willing,” Annabel said.

  “It wouldn’t have to be federal funds,” Steve Jordan said. “We have sources of money for such things.”

  “Two million?” Mac asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah. I’ll check out availability. When will you know if it’s a go, Mrs. Aprile? And you, Annabel?”

  “Maybe by tomorrow morning, after I get back from Colorado.”

  “You don’t have to, you know,” Mac said, placing his hand on Annabel’s.

  “I know. Let’s go home and talk about it.”

  Carole Aprile said, “I don’t want to follow through, Annabel, unless I know you’ll do it.”

  Annabel stood. “I’ll do it,” she said.

  Jordan’s cell phone rang again. After a few nods and grunts from the art-squad chief, he said, “The call came from an artist’s studio in the Atlas Building. Nobody there. They’re trying to contact the artist who rents it. Why don’t we break this up and get back in touch with each other? Sorry,” he said. “Don’t mean to end your meeting, Mrs. Aprile.”

  “Feel free,” she said. “I’m running late. Talk to you in the morning.”

  37

  M. Scott Pims held his breath against the building’s odors as he hurried down the stairs, his voice changer cradled in a canvas shoulder bag. He sweated profusely as he waddled at full speed in the direction of his car at Pennsylvania and C Street, dropping down a grate the key he’d used to an acquaintance’s studio. He drove home with the air conditioning running full tilt, plugged the machine into his phone jack, and dialed San Francisco. Blond Curls answered. “I don’t have time for you,” Pims said, out of breath. “Put your master on.”