Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “I will personally pass along your best wishes and salutations.”

  “Grazie.”

  It took Giliberti an hour to sober up Jacques Saison to the point where he understood the assignment. He examined Grottesca for a long time, his unshaven face grimacing as he came to recognize the work. “Caravaggio,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Jacques. No questions. All you must do is to create two perfect copies.”

  “Two! How long do I have?”

  “You will have the painting here for almost a month.”

  “Two copies? Impossible!” He poured himself another café calva with shaky hands, reversing the usual proportions of thick espresso and Calvados, and offered Giliberti the leftovers of a plate of pâté en croute. Giliberti declined, wincing at the tremor in the artist’s extremities. Hopefully enough alcohol would steady him, as it usually did with alcoholics.

  “Take photographs, Jacques. Use them after I take the original from you.”

  “And how long do I have to complete the copies?”

  “A few months. I will let you know in plenty of time when I need them. Bring in your assistants. There is enough money for whatever and whoever you need. More money than you have ever been paid before. Enough to leave Paris for a six-month vacation … more.”

  Saison now demonstrated more interest. He discussed the techniques he would use and listed those assistants whose talent was sufficient to help with the job, but who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  “One final thing, Jacques,” Giliberti said as he prepared to leave. “I mentioned enough money for an extended vacation away from Paris. You will take that vacation until told you may return here. And you will tell no one where you have gone.”

  “Oui. I understand.”

  Giliberti called his wife at their residence in Washington to tell her he’d be back the following day. He then hooked up with a friend from Italy, a willowy young woman who supported herself by working in a French bakery during the day and by offering her services as a call girl at night. His cross-cultural mission continued.

  The next morning, Giliberti decided that this project of Mason’s was becoming too complex, too time consuming, and most important, too expensive. If Mason wanted his continued collaboration, he would have to ante up more money. Lots more.

  “Sei la più bella ragazza del mondo,” he told his “cousin” as he prepared to head for Orly and his flight to Washington. He kissed her.

  “Come again soon, Carlo,” she said, not believing for a moment that he considered her the most beautiful woman in the world. Typical Italian male adulazione. She was a whore and knew it. Pretty, perhaps, but not beautiful. And good at her moonlighting trade.

  “Arrivederci, visetto d’angelo.”

  “Arrivederci, Carlo.”

  9

  Ordinarily, Court Whitney would have called a meeting of all department heads to plan the inclusion of Grottesca in the Caravaggio exhibition. But from the moment he committed himself to the terms of Luther Mason’s remarkable find and the delivery of the controversial painting, he realized it was necessary to establish a need-to-know system within the Gallery.

  Mason’s discovery would be formally announced in a month at the first of two dinners. In the meantime, Whitney established a series of restrictions on how interoffice correspondence was to be generated and distributed, and who would be invited to meetings. He wasn’t naive enough to think a lid on the project’s details could be securely closed and sealed for a month, especially not in the city of leaks, Washington, D.C. But he had to try. And he did.

  MEMO

  TO: The Director

  FROM: D. Fechter—Conservation

  SUBJECT: “Grottesca”

  Naturally, I join everyone in applauding the remarkable find by Luther Mason of this priceless lost Caravaggio.

  But I must raise serious professional objections to the way it is being handled.

  To allow such a masterpiece to be conserved and restored by an unknown person, and to be shipped across the Atlantic without careful consideration of its condition by this department, is, in my professional judgment, foolhardy.

  My respect for Luther has always been of the highest order. But he is not a conservator. I urge you to intervene in order that I, and my associates, be allowed to examine the painting before any conservation work is done on it and before it is shipped to this gallery.

  MEMO

  TO: Donald Fechter

  FROM: The Office of the Director

  SUBJECT: “Grottesca”

  I have read and considered your memo to me with great care. Under normal circumstances, Donald, you are quite right.

  But this is not a normal circumstance. My hands are tied. The conditions set for us to have Grottesca on display for one month are stringent and, yes, unconventional. But it comes down to a simple matter of doing it this way or not having the painting. Obviously, the latter option is unacceptable to me and the trustees.

  You and your department will, naturally, play a significant role in examining, determining provenance and authorship, and final conservation. In the meantime, we all must go along.

  MEMO

  TO: The Office of the Director

  FROM: Paul Bishop, Senior Curator

  SUBJECT: “Grottesca”

  I must protest in the strongest possible terms this outrageous display of grandstanding by Mason. To allow him to dictate the terms of bringing this work to the National Gallery flies in the face of every professional standard set by this institution.

  I must further advise you, Court, that if you allow this to go forward, I will have no choice but to tender my resignation.

  MEMO

  TO: Paul Bishop, Senior Curator

  FROM: The Office of the Director

  I suggest, Paul, that you calm down and accept the reality of this most unique situation. I don’t like it any more than you do. But the trustees have blessed it. That must be good enough for me, and certainly for you.

  Shall I place your threat of resignation in the folder with all the others you’ve sent over the years? All kidding aside, don’t you dare quit on me. I have a feeling that when the dust settles over this Grottesca matter, I will need your expertise, and steady hand, more than ever.

  Buy you a drink? Or dinner?

  It’s time we did that again.

  MEMO

  TO: Courtney Whitney III

  FROM: Wolff Grundig III

  SUBJECT: “Grottesca”

  I am certain that my fellow trustees will soon be lavishing additional funds upon the National Gallery and raising even more to support the incredible work done by you and your staff in bringing one of the world’s most magnificent masterpieces to this esteemed symbol of the nation’s artistic soul!

  BRAVO, Court!!!!

  To show my personal gratitude, please accept the enclosed check for $50,000, to be added to the Acquisitions Fund!

  You and Susan must come to the house for dinner soon. We have a magnificent ’71 J. J. Prum I promise to open for the occasion!

  10

  THE WEST BUILDING OF THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, WASHINGTON, D.C.—ONE MONTH LATER

  Mac Smith handed their engraved invitations to the uniformed guard at the West Building’s Constitution Avenue entrance, then he and Annabel passed through a metal detector. The attendance of Vice President and Mrs. Aprile dictated enhanced security; two Secret Service agents with dogs patrolled the perimeter. Mr. and Mrs. Mackensie Smith climbed the stairs to the Rotunda on the main floor, where the predinner cocktail party was in full swing.

  “Drink?” Mac asked.

  “A touch of white wine.”

  He slipped between elbows to place his order at one of the four bars set up in the West Sculpture Hall. A young tuxedoed man reached over him to snare a bruschetta from a tray being passed by a waiter. The small piece of toasted garlic bread, topped with chopped tomatoes and sprinkled with olive oil, disappeared into his mouth in one movement. He smacked his
lips and said to those with him, “I know what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”

  You know something about gluttony, Mac thought.

  The string quartet reached the section of a Corelli concerto marked appassionato, causing the young man to speak louder: “His name was Yakoto Kayami. Big-shot businessman, more money than God, one of the biggest art collections in Japan. Somebody got hold of the fact that most of the paintings he owned were trash, or forged, or stolen, or a combination of the above, so he did a hara-kiri on himself, big sword right through his gut.” He laughed. The woman winced. Mac took his wife’s elbow and herded her in the direction of another hors d’oeuvre tray skillfully balanced on the hand of a waitress.

  “Mac, Annabel,” a voice said as they were about to toast each other.

  “Hello, Scott,” Annabel said to the portly man with silken yellow-gray hair, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and chubby cheeks of high color. His bow tie and cummerbund were created from a multicolored Matisse print, a showy contrast with his black tux.

  “Dear lady Annabel,” M. Scott Pims said, kissing her hand.

  “Not me,” Mac Smith said, withdrawing his hand from reach. “I left my papal ring home.”

  “Pitty,” said Pims. “I need dispensation tonight from—from something.”

  “The food?” Annabel suggested lightly.

  “Oh, no,” Pims replied. “The food is heavenly. Like the crowd.” He made a face as if a foul smell had wafted into the room.

  M. Scott Pims was Washington’s most visible artistic gadfly. He wrote extensively on the arts, his articles and reviews appearing in a wide variety of publications. His books, although never reaching best-seller status, enjoyed splendid reviews and were staples in local bookstores. A weekly program on public television station WETA drew a large audience because of his flamboyant, irreverent, often choleric trashing of the art world. Pims’s reputation as a gossip monger and trivia lover was without peer.

  “Braced for the big announcement?” Pims asked.

  “Big announcement?” Annabel said, glancing at Mac.

  “I admire that in a woman, Annabel,” Pims said. “Practicing discretion until told it is all right to be indiscreet. Of course you know about it, being in the position you enjoy with the insiders.” He laughed and included the room in a sweep of his hand. “And we’re surrounded by insiders, aren’t we? Ah, well. I shall play along with your admirable façade and pretend you don’t know. You won’t hear it from me. Excuse me. Must circulate. Somewhere in this drove of pretension is a juicy story of lust, love, perhaps murder, or more. And, of course, I must be the one to reveal it. Pleasant evening, Smiths. And Annabel, congratulations on your new role as ambassador-at-large for the White House. Good luck with the Italians. And keep your eye on Luther. He may seem benign here at home, but once abroad he turns into a carnal beast. Ta ta.”

  “ ‘Drove of pretension’?” Mac said, laughing as they watched Pims embrace a woman who seemed to be made of jewelry. “He’s a drove of pretension unto himself.”

  “I like him,” Annabel said. “He’s fun.”

  “I suppose.” Mac leaned close to her ear. “Obviously, the big surprise about the lost Caravaggio isn’t such a big surprise.”

  “Which comes as no surprise in this town, or where Pims is concerned. With his network, he probably knew about it before Court Whitney. Besides, he and Luther are very close friends. Court did his best to keep it under wraps, but you know how those things go, especially in D.C., with its committees, networks, people who ‘need to know.’ It’s a wonder it hasn’t been in the papers.”

  “Or on Pims’s TV show. There’s Billie and Roy heading into that gallery. Let’s catch up with them. I need to ask Roy something.”

  As Mac and Annabel pursued their friends, Roy and Billie Kramer, and while other guests smacked and snacked and enjoyed the Italian wines, National Gallery director Courtney Whitney looked out over the Capitol from the terrace outside his seventh-floor East Building office. He was alone. Down the hall, in the seventh-floor boardroom, Luther Mason and Father Pasquale Giocondi were going over final details of how news of the Grottesca would be presented to those gathered.

  Whitney’s remarkable meeting with a bedraggled Luther Mason at Dulles Airport almost a month ago had spawned an equally remarkable series of events at the National Gallery.

  Upon returning to his office that day, and in violation of his commitment to keep those in the know to a small number—he knew that if he didn’t bring in the trustees from the start, he might not be around for the Caravaggio show—Whitney convened a meeting that night. Joining him in the boardroom were seven of the Gallery’s nine trustees. The two absent members comprised half of the four-person contingent decreed to come from government; the other five had no government connection. Whitney preferred dealing with the government faction, because not being collectors, they tended to defer more readily to his ideas than the others. Besides, the government had little control over the Gallery’s daily activities. Its funds were mandated by Congress—changes of administration meant virtually nothing where money was concerned. Of course, there was always the push by a new administration for patronage jobs, all of which were summarily rejected.

  Still, it was nice to have a White House like the Jeppsen-Aprile version demonstrating a particular interest in art. No sense turning one’s back on it. The executive branch might not exactly feed the Gallery, but there was nothing to be gained, and perhaps much to be lost, by biting its hand.

  The trustees placed no stumbling blocks in what had become, by that time, Whitney’s shared enthusiasm for bringing Grottesca to the National Gallery. There were the expected questions about the unusual circumstances of the painting’s discovery by Luther Mason, and the manner in which it would leave Italy for its brief residency in Washington. But Whitney urged that Luther, as a foremost Caravaggio expert, be given a free hand. Once the work was securely in the Gallery, he assured them, he, Courtney Whitney III, would take personal charge.

  He asked the trustees for public silence until he made the official announcement at the first of two dinners and ended the meeting with a final comment about the unusual conditions of bringing the masterpiece to Washington: “Unorthodox, perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, but no more so than the artist himself.”

  The following morning, he chaired a series of meetings, including one at which Annabel Reed-Smith represented the White House Arts Council. By that time there had been discreet communications between Mrs. Aprile and the council, the National Gallery, and Italy’s Ministry of Culture confirming the details of how Grottesca would travel to the United States.

  The rumor that a world-class announcement would be made at the dinner had resulted in a crush of media requests to attend. The public-information office urged that a press conference be held prior to the dinner, but Mason was squarely against that idea and pressed Whitney to quash it. “So much more potent, Court, to allow the news to emerge from the dinner. The more mystery the better. Build the suspense.”

  Whitney was persuaded. Only top dogs from carefully selected news organizations were invited to the dinner, and they were asked simply to enjoy the evening—no snooping, no questions, no reporting. But press releases were prepared in advance for handing out afterward.

  The question of who would make the announcement about Grottesca had also been a topic for debate.

  Whitney had thought carefully about it. If he made the announcement—which would be expected—it might appear that he was stealing Mason’s thunder, something he was perfectly willing to do, provided it didn’t look as though he were doing it. He had asked Luther if he would prefer being the bearer of good news. “After all,” he said, “it was you who made this possible.”

  Mason didn’t hesitate. “No, Court. It’s the director’s responsibility and privilege. Thank you for offering, but you’re the appropriate person to do it.”

  Whitney checked his watch. Time to go. As he slipped into h
is evening jacket and checked his appearance in a mirror, down the hall Luther Mason was in the midst of a heated discussion with the defrocked priest.

  “Absolutely not,” Mason said.

  Pasquale Giocondi, who wore his “uniform” for the evening—brown habit, sandals, and a large wooden cross suspended from a leather thong—shrugged and said, “I did not realize when I agreed to do this that so much would be at stake, Signor Mason. You are asking me to take part in a crime, si? But for so little money. I must weigh the risk.”

  “There is no risk,” Mason said sharply. “All the risk is mine. All you have to do is say a few words about—”

  “A few lies, you mean.”

  “From what I understand, lying is not alien to you, Father Giocondi. Nor is crime.”

  Another shrug from Giocondi. “I will not take your insult personally. And I will not go through with this unless you pay me more.”

  The door opened and Court Whitney poked his head into the boardroom, a practiced smile lighting his face. “Ready, Father?” he asked. “Your audience awaits.”

  Giocondi looked to Mason; arched dyed eyebrows asked a question. Luther’s face was tight as he nodded. “All right,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, I am ready, Signor Whitney. I look forward to meeting your honored guests.”

  Mason stood and waited for Giocondi to do the same. “Court, I think it would be wise to spare the Father from the media who are here. We’ll handle all the questions at a later press conference. Father Giocondi should be sheltered from that.”

  “Probably prudent, Luther. By the way, I’ve decided that after I announce the discovery of Grottesca, I’ll introduce you to say a few words and to introduce Father Giocondi.”

  “I really don’t think that’s—”

  “Spare me your modesty, Luther.” He slapped his senior curator on the back. “Come on. The hors d’oeuvres will be gone.”

  They rode down in the elevator and took the underground moving walkway connecting the East and West buildings. As they stepped off, Giocondi stopped to admire a waterfall created by twenty-four jets of water in the exterior courtyard that linked the buildings. The water spewed six feet into the air and then ran down multiple tiny concrete steps to an expanse of glass that ran floor to ceiling. “Bello! Bello!” he exclaimed.