Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  He took the elevator to the fifth floor, locked his office door behind him, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked a closet in which he kept personal effects and pieces of art he was in the process of evaluating. He placed the two Gaisser paintings against the back wall and covered them with the others, locked the closet, and sat behind his desk. If he had allowed himself, he might have nodded off. The previous night with Lynn Marshall had not been a late one, but tension had taken its toll.

  He returned to the West Building and went to the gallery in which the Caravaggio exhibition was being readied. A guard at its entrance signed him in. You went nowhere in the Gallery without signing a piece of paper, no matter who you were.

  Half the Caravaggios loaned for the exhibition had already been hung. Mason paused in front of each to admire the setting in which they’d been placed. His choice of a wan apricot for the walls was perfect.

  The west wall was reserved for Grottesca, which hadn’t been brought up to the gallery as yet. Mason wished it had. To be able to breathe in its beauty would provide the elixir he needed for a case of nerves that had started building during dinner with Lynn and that was still with him. Soon enough, he told himself. Grottesca would be hung on Wednesday.

  He chatted amiably with Tom Morris before leaving the Gallery and heading for his car. The morning sky was crystal clear; a gentle breeze from the west was refreshing on his face. He took a detour on the way home to buy magazines and to pick up his favorite glazed apple turnovers, called chasussons, and coffee at Bakery Potomac Metro.

  He ignored the message light on his answering machine, browsed that morning’s Washington Post and the magazines he’d purchased, undressed, slipped into pajamas, and returned to bed. He got up at four and spent the rest of the day and early evening going over material he’d been collecting on destinations to which he might “retire.”

  His initial consideration had been extradition laws. But he decided that if he chose a place to live based on that alone, he would be cheating himself of the pleasures of being where he wanted to be. Besides, at his age, and considering the fact that what he was about to do paled when compared to other crimes, it was worth taking a chance.

  Ravello was out of the question. South America or a small Caribbean island were also early considerations, but he ruled those out, too. Pedestrian choices. Nazis fled to South America. Unscrupulous investment bankers used the Caribbean to set up phony accounts in plaque banks. Distasteful.

  He made his final choice at seven that night. Greece. The island of Hydra, a relatively barren island with a picturesque, colorful harbor three hours from the port of Piraeus. Luther had fallen in love with the island ten years earlier. He’d taken a mule ride to a series of monasteries sitting high in the mountains that provided a spectacular view of the harbor below. Scattered about the island were stately homes surrounded by pretty smaller white houses, some of which had signs in front indicating they were for rent. Who would bother looking for me there? he thought. Who would look for Grottesca on the island of Hydra?

  That was it. He would check on travel to Athens and Hydra first thing in the morning. He wasn’t sure when he would make his ultimate escape. That would have to be after one of the forgeries of Grottesca had been returned to Italy. Plans called for Luther to accompany the painting back to its country of origin. He had tried to get out of that assignment but hadn’t been successful. He would go through with it, return to Washington, deliver the second forgery to Franco del Brasco, and then arrange for the original to be sent to Greece.

  Making the switch within the National Gallery was one of the more problematic aspects of his plan. But he’d thought long and hard about it and was confident that the plan he’d come up with would work.

  He returned his son’s calls—Julian had left three more messages that day. He needed money. Luther told him he was strapped, prompting increased arrogance. “All right, Julian, we’ll meet for dinner on Tuesday. I’ll see what I can do by then.” There was no thank you, no expression of appreciation.

  Mason loved his son deeply and dearly but ached at his inability to express it freely and without reservation. It wasn’t that Luther lacked the talent to demonstrate love. Feeding Julian’s insatiable demands for money seemed to be the only expression of “love” the boy was willing to accept from his father. Love on the barrelhead. No credit. Cash-and-carry love.

  Remarkable, Mason sometimes thought—and suffered guilt when he did—how one can, at once, love and hate one’s own son.

  MONDAY

  Mason called Court Whitney’s office first thing Monday morning to say he’d be a few hours late. He then drove to Alexandria, Virginia, where he went to a travel agency he’d never used before. After he told the agent he was thinking of taking a vacation trip to Turkey, or Crete, or maybe Greece and some of its 437 islands, she gave him brochures and a tentative itinerary she’d be “happy to book once he’d firmed up his plans.”

  His day at the National Gallery was abbreviated by other appointments. He was to address a luncheon of art history students from George Washington University at the Hay-Adams Hotel and to confer in the afternoon at the offices of a Washington publisher interested in having him write a new book on Caravaggio, incorporating the discovery of Grottesca. That evening there was a dinner at the White House hosted by President and Mrs. Jeppsen, although Mason had heard that the president and first lady might be called away to attend the funeral of Mrs. Jeppsen’s sister, who was close to death in a Wisconsin hospital. In that case, Vice President and Carole Aprile would host the evening. The guest list included Italy’s minister of culture, Alberto Betti; Court Whitney and his wife, Susan; the president of Alitalia; two members of the National Gallery’s Board of Trustees; and assorted others having to do with “Genius Comes to America: The Works of Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio.”

  He stopped by Lynn Marshall’s office on his way to the luncheon. “How are you?” he asked.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “About Saturday. I—”

  “I really don’t wish to discuss it. Frankly, I think there’s been too much talk and not enough action.”

  He stepped inside and closed the door. “What do you mean by that? Sounds like a threat.”

  “Take it the way you will. I’ve been strung along by you for six months. Lots of promises, nothing delivered. I have tremendous respect for you, Luther. You’ve been a wonderful mentor, and I owe my job to you. But we have a relationship that extends beyond this building.”

  “A relationship that provided both of us with what we needed, I thought.” That sounded weak, and Mason wished he hadn’t looked in on her.

  “Whatever,” she said. “Just keep me in mind for that promotion.”

  He was tempted to explain once again his principles about the vacant job but thought better of it. So he said nothing. He left her office and walked slowly to his car, a yoke of apprehension and sadness weighing him down.

  His talk to the students went well—they told him it had. So did the meeting with the publisher, despite his instant dislike for the editor, who seemed too interested for Mason’s taste in turning a book about Caravaggio into a commercial success. Of course, it was all academic. He had no intention of writing another book about Caravaggio, or about anyone else for that matter. But it was necessary to go through the motions, maintain a credible schedule, to keep people from thinking any radical change in his life was on the horizon.

  The lawyer for his ex-wife Cynthia called while he was struggling with his bow tie in preparation for the White House party. Struggle or not, no clip-ons for Luther Mason.

  “You didn’t return my phone call, Mr. Mason,” said the attorney in the same bored voice Luther had heard on his answering machine.

  “You are correct.”

  “Trying to avoid discussing this won’t help either party, Mr. Mason. My client, your former wife, your second ex-wife, intends to pursue part ownership of what she represents to be your impressive and valuable coll
ection of art.”

  Mason laughed. It felt good. “Let me tell you something.” he said. “The art I own is marginally valuable. It represents certain things that tickled my fancy along the way. But I’ll tell you what. I am extremely busy with an exhibition to open at the National Gallery this Friday. The first month of that exhibition will be especially stressful for me. When that month is over, I will call you and we will arrange to sit down. Frankly, I am not predisposed to give half of my art collection to Cynthia. I might give her all of it. But until the month is up, do not bother me again.”

  * * *

  Guests for the dinner entered the White House through the oval Diplomatic Reception Room. Mason was no stranger to special rooms in the White House. Prompted by Mamie Eisenhower’s efforts to return the presidential residence to its original state of decoration and furnishing—until she came on the scene, each administration simply got rid of most paintings and furniture and installed its own—President Lyndon Johnson appointed a standing Committee for the Preservation of the White House. Its members included heads of the Smithsonian Institution, the National Gallery of Art, and the Fine Arts Commission. The Committee was the final arbiter of how the public rooms were decorated; the first family was free to exercise its personal taste in the private quarters.

  Wilfred Penny, a curator at the Smithsonian’s Museum of American History, had been recruited by the Committee to curate the White House’s substantial art collection. Mason and Will Penny were good friends; Penny frequently invited Luther on private tours whenever new works of art had been acquired.

  Cocktails were served in the Blue Room, one of Mason’s favorites, oval-shaped and approximately the same size as the Oval Office. He stood with a glass of white wine in his hand and looked out soaring windows to the Washington Monument. He was deep in a private reservoir of thought when Mac and Annabel Smith approached. “Good evening, Luther,” Annabel said.

  Mason turned, smiled, and shook Annabel’s outstretched hand, then Mac’s. “I’d forgotten you were on the guest list this evening,” Mason said. “How nice to see you both again.”

  “You must be heady with anticipation,” said Mac. “How many more days is it?”

  “Three,” Mason replied. “Then Friday morning’s press breakfast. The show opens at noon. Never been such advance ticket sales for any exhibition in the Gallery’s history.”

  “You must be bursting with pride,” Annabel said.

  “That, and hors d’oeuvres, and exhaustion.”

  Alberto Betti waddled into the room, accompanied by the Italian ambassador to the United States and his deputy. The two trustees from the National Gallery arrived in tandem with their wives; Mason realized he was the only one without a spouse or guest. He was also aware that neither the president and his wife, nor Vice President and Mrs. Aprile, were on hand to greet their guests. He was thinking about that when a door opened and the Apriles appeared.

  The vice president, who always appeared taller on television than he was, moved from person to person, a large smile on his face, his handshake firm. “The president and first lady unfortunately can’t join us tonight,” he told people. “Mrs. Jeppsen’s sister passed away, finally. But the president let us borrow his house for the occasion.”

  Carole, Annabel noticed, didn’t seem as ebullient as her husband. She was gracious to each guest, of course, and made the requisite small talk. But when she reached Mac and Annabel—by this time, Mason had wandered away to another group—she said, “Annie, can I speak privately with you for a minute?”

  Mac and Annabel looked at each other. Carole laughed. “Nothing world-shattering, Mac. Just a girl sort of thing to straighten out. I promise I won’t keep her longer than a minute.”

  “You can have her for two, but no more than that.”

  “Promise,” Carole said, lightly touching Annabel’s elbow and guiding her from the room.

  The two women went up a narrow flight of stairs until reaching the State Floor, passed two Secret Service agents, and opened the door to the Red Room, a small formal parlor with, no surprise, crimson walls. Annabel crossed the room to admire two still lifes from the 1850s by Severin Roesen, then stepped back to better take in an Albert Bierstadt landscape. “The White House is an art gallery of its own, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes,” Carole replied. “Ever since Mrs. Eisenhower, and of course Mrs. Kennedy, there’s been a concerted effort to find the paintings and furniture that used to be in this house, buy them back, and reinstall each piece. We’re making pretty good headway. Come, sit.” She indicated an upholstered chair at a small, round Lannuier table and sat opposite. “I have my own office near Joe’s in the West Wing, but I sneak into this room after the tourists are gone. Somehow, I just seem to think better here.”

  Annabel looked around. “I can understand why. It’s lovely.”

  “Yes, it is. But I didn’t bring you up here to admire the Red Room. Look.” Carole slid a single sheet of paper across to Annabel.

  She read carefully. It was a confidential dispatch to Carole from the American Embassy’s Press Office in Rome, routed through the arts council office.

  SUBJECT: Press inquiry re: Future Caravaggio Art Exhibition at the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.

  Recent inquiries have been made of this office by a journalist from Time magazine. His area of inquiry is the exhibition of paintings by the Italian painter, Michelangelo Caravaggio, to open next Friday at the National Gallery. Said journalist claims that the Italian parish priest, Giocondi, was dismissed dishonorably from his priestly duties for theft, rather than having retired as previously stated. Said journalist, who is preparing a story to coincide with the opening of the exhibition, questions whether Father Giocondi’s veracity can be trusted, considering his background. Further, he speculates whether the authenticity of the painting purportedly discovered by a National Gallery curator in the parish once served by Giocondi should also be called into question.

  “What do you think?” Carole asked after Annabel had dropped the paper on the table. Annabel shrugged. “Maybe the good father was a disciple of John Dillinger, robbing the church because that’s where the money was. Sorry, Carole. Don’t mean to be flippant. It would be a shame for such a story to run in conjunction with the opening. But I don’t see any real damage to come from it, except to feed the skepticism of the already skeptical. If Father Giocondi had been the one to come forward with Grottesca, I would say the situation might be more serious. But Luther Mason was the one who found the painting in the church. With his credentials and credibility, the fact that the priest might have stolen something in the past, and was defrocked, doesn’t mean too much. At least that’s how I would respond, if we’re challenged by Time, or anyone.”

  “I agree,” Carole said.

  “Not only that, the experts who’ve examined it, with one or two minor exceptions—and even they haven’t ruled it out, just adopted a wait-and-see attitude—say it came from Caravaggio’s hand. No, I really don’t see any great harm from this, aside from having to explain it to another group of journalists who’ll want to follow up. Which means even bigger crowds, not to sound cynical.”

  Carole Aprile sighed deeply, spread her hands on the table, and smiled. “You’ve made my evening, Annabel. I needed reassurance.”

  “Of course, Carole, my first response could be conditioned by what I want to come of it. Mac always says a person’s hopes or wishes don’t make for perfect prophecy. Naturally, we’ll have to follow up. Do you intend to tell Court Whitney and Mason? Want me to do it?”

  “Court has to be told, of course. I’ll give him a call in the morning. No sense injecting this sort of thing into a pleasant evening. Thanks for leaving that handsome hunk of a husband. Even for two minutes.”

  “The old man does look stunning in a tuxedo, doesn’t he?” Annabel said, her voice cheerful. Both women wore evening dresses they’d purchased at Claire Dratch’s boutique on Connecticut Avenue, Annabel’s of guipure lace the col
or of sandstone, Carole’s dress a pale-blue silk.

  “Let’s get downstairs before we’re missed,” said Carole.

  If the Italian contingent to the party expected the White House to do what the National Gallery had done at its first black-tie dinner—create a menu to honor their ethnic tradition in food—they were to be disappointed. Few knew that Vice President Aprile’s dislike of pasta rivaled George Bush’s hatred of broccoli. It could have created an international incident if it got out, to say nothing of a serious drop in pasta sales, so popular was the VP. They dined on watercress soup with sesame seeds, roast tenderloin of beef in a truffle sauce, tiny roasted potatoes, haricots verts and baby carrots, and a mixed green salad with herb dressing. Lime sorbet with a wine mousse, fresh raspberries, and cookies constituted dessert. Accompanying the meal were three wines: a 1990 Cuvaison chardonnay, a 1970 Beaulieu Vineyards Georges de Latour cabernet sauvignon, and finally a 1987 Iron Horse brut, Summit Cuvée. Chianti never came into it.

  “A thoroughly delightful evening, Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Aprile,” Mason said as he was leaving. He’d been spared sitting close to Alberto Betti. Mac and Annabel Smith had had that pleasure.

  “So happy you could be here this evening, Mr. Mason,” said the vice president. “From everything my wife tells me, you have performed a remarkable service not only to the world of art, but especially to the National Gallery.”

  “I am honored to have been able to do so,” Mason replied. He turned to Mac and Annabel, who were next in line. “Good to see you again, Smiths. You’ll be at the press breakfast, Annabel?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied.

  Mason turned to head for the door while Annabel continued to talk with Carole. He was intercepted by one of the National Gallery’s trustees.

  “Donations are pouring in faster than ever,” the trustee said, smiling.

  Mason heard him. Simultaneously, he heard from behind what Carole Aprile was saying to Annabel: “I’ll call you tomorrow, Annabel, on this question of Father Giocondi’s background. I’d like to discuss it further with you before I call Court.”