Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  “There it is,” Jordan said.

  Annabel shifted her perspective to avoid encountering glare on the protective glass. Peering back at her was a gleaming gold monkey. She smiled. “Nice to see it back where it belongs,” she said.

  They admired a were-jaguar and a black basalt serpent in other cases.

  Annabel said, “I can’t believe this actually happened. It actually worked.”

  “Sometimes it does. Most times it doesn’t. We got lucky, no small thanks to you.”

  “I did nothing. All I did was call to tell you that someone had left that message on the machine in the Atlas Building and then made one phone call to the—‘perp.’ Right? End of involvement.”

  “Which makes it even better.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your cover wasn’t blown. We never used your name, just put out the word that an important dealer in pre-Columbian was in the market, no questions asked. We did indicate it was a woman. If we’d been pressed, we would have used your name or had you do it. Frankly, the guy wasn’t very smart. He knew nothing about art, didn’t even ask for your name when you called back to arrange the meet. When we arrested him, he asked who you were. I told him you were a South American collector temporarily living in Washington.”

  “You never told me who he was.”

  “A fence who took the items off the hands of the pair who stole them. They weren’t employed by Dumbarton. Outside contractors with access.”

  Because the theft had not been made public, the return of the items to Dumbarton Oaks was also kept quiet. As far as anyone knew—aside from Jordan, Annabel, a few other law-enforcement people, and Dumbarton Oaks management—the items had never left.

  “Drive you somewhere?” Jordan asked as they stepped outside into crisp sunshine.

  “Thanks, Steve, but a walk will do me good. Such a lovely day. I have to ask you one thing, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When you said that my cover hadn’t been blown, what did you mean by that? No, strike that. I know what you meant literally. But I have the sinking feeling you’re pleased my identity wasn’t revealed because you might ask me to do this again.”

  “Would I do that to a beautiful woman like you? Especially such a tall one?”

  She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head. “You know something, Steve. I think you would.”

  “Enjoy your walk, Annabel. Best to Mac. What does he think of his wife’s fling with crime?”

  “He—no problem.”

  There hadn’t been a problem with Mac because Annabel hadn’t told him.

  Why? she pondered as she took her time returning to her gallery, stopping to admire the pretty homes nestled together on Georgetown’s narrow streets, laughing at one garage on which signs in six languages warned against parking in front of it, seemingly on pain of death.

  Why hadn’t she told her husband?

  It wasn’t a matter of deciding not to tell him. She had every intention of doing that. From the beginning, one of many bedrocks upon which their wonderful marriage was based was the absence of secrets. They didn’t tell each other everything, of course. Their Constitution allowed for a reasonable amount of individual liberty, as well as strict adherence to the First Amendment.

  But her cooperation with Steve Jordan was something she should have shared with Mac before she became involved, and she knew it. She envisioned the range of responses he might have had. Foolish of her to lend her name and reputation to criminal activities. Foolhardy to place herself even potentially in harm’s way. She was busy enough as it was, with the White House arts group, running her gallery, keeping up with friends, tracking down a madman who smashed pre-Columbian objects and ex-wives—busy enough being a wife.

  All arguments she’d raised over the course of their marriage when he strayed from his latter-day quiet, genteel life of college law professor to lend his name and reputation to solving murders or helping friends prove they hadn’t committed them.

  Placing himself in harm’s way. Adding an unnecessary entree to an already full plate.

  Being a husband.

  She stopped at the French Market to pick up the makings of a salad, and French bread. She was on her own for dinner that night because Mac was dining out with an old friend. He’d asked her to join them, but she’d begged off. She needed an easy night at home with a low-calorie dinner and the chance to pack carefully for her trip to Italy the following day. She had the whole evening ahead of her. Mac was off after dinner to a monthly low-stakes poker game with high-stakes friends at the National Press Club. Shades of Harry Truman’s famous gatherings.

  The rest of the afternoon went quickly and smoothly, aside from an infuriating conversation with a representative from the insurance company who wanted to give her even less than the Tlatilco had been insured for because, he claimed, “Your security was not up to standards.”

  She returned home at six, slipped into a favored knock-around-the-house purple sweatsuit, walked Rufus, and prepared her salad. Silly, she thought as she washed lettuce and placed it in a plastic salad spinner, that she hadn’t told her husband about her part in Steve Jordan’s sting. Especially now. It had been a success. The pieces were safely back at Dumbarton Oaks, and she was safe and sound. “How childish,” she said aloud, cutting an Israeli tomato into wedges. Chances are Mac would get a kick out of her adventure. She’d tell him the minute he got home.

  But by the time he returned from his poker game at midnight, Annabel had been asleep for an hour. And then, somehow, in the bustle of the following morning, the opportune time didn’t present itself. Mac had an early meeting at the university and was out the door by seven-thirty. He embraced her in a bear hug before leaving, kissing her softly on the lips, then harder. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  “I’ll miss you too,” she said. “Damn. Here I am making these all-expenses-paid trips to Italy, but every time I do you have a conflict.”

  “Don’t make me feel guilty,” he said. “The hell with expenses being paid. Let’s make plans to go to Italy together. We’ll sit down when you get back, compare our calendars, and pick a time that works for both of us.”

  After a stop at the gallery to brief a young part-time employee who would mind the store in her absence, she was driven to Dulles Airport in a Lincoln Town Car sent by Carole Aprile.

  “All set for the hero’s welcome?” Annabel asked Luther.

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “And well deserving of a hero’s reception,” Scott Pims boomed. The cameraman and soundman traveling with him sat off to the side on large black equipment boxes.

  “And you’re capturing it for posterity,” Annabel said to Pims.

  “Of course. Does a falling tree in a forest make a sound if no one is there to hear it? Luther is a stout redwood in the art world. I intend that everyone hear the noise he makes.”

  When he falls? Annabel thought. And then wondered why she had thought that.

  Mason appeared to Annabel to be uncomfortable with the conversation about him. “All I want,” he said, “is to live a life of beauty and calm.”

  “And so you shall,” Pims said. “Come. Time to board.”

  Everything had gone so easily.

  When Mason had first formulated what at the time seemed an outrageous fantasy—making off with an original Caravaggio—he had no idea how to go about it. But as things began to fall into place—Carlo Giliberti’s discovery that the Italian Mafia, led by Luigi Sensi, actually had Grottesca; a source of funding with which to buy it, or, rather, pay off the intermediaries, provided by the unscrupulous collector Franco del Brasco; and the availability of master forger Jacques Saison to create the necessary copies—the biggest obstacle was how to physically spirit the original from the National Gallery after it had been authenticated and exhibited.

  When he’d told Pims that he intended to make the swap in Italy, he was being truthful. At that juncture, it had seemed the most sensible approach. If something went
wrong, it would be easier to extricate himself from any resulting brouhaha while far from the National Gallery.

  But Pims was right. He wouldn’t be able to predict the situation in Italy when the painting was returned. And so he changed his plans. The switch would be accomplished at the National Gallery itself.

  Mason’s reputation for being obsessed with Grottesca, at times to a point of irrationality, proved valuable; he played that card throughout the month, standing in front of it for hours after the tourists were gone. Everyone in the Gallery started talking about his infatuation with the work. Early on, Luther wondered whether it would be better to adopt an aloof stance where Grottesca was concerned, make it seem that he didn’t care that much about it.

  But again it was Pims who suggested that to be half-crazed about the painting would work to Mason’s advantage. “Like not picking a fight with a crazed man in a bar,” Pims had said. “We don’t mess with crazy people.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Luther had countered.

  “A matter of opinion. Controlled craziness, Luther. Slightly crazy about Grottesca.”

  That was the way Mason played it, although it didn’t take much playacting. He was “crazy” about Grottesca, about almost all of Caravaggio’s work.

  Another ingredient of the plan was for Luther to make a point of always carrying other paintings with him wherever he went in the National Gallery. “Now that the exhibition is underway,” he told colleagues, “I can finally get around to studying these other paintings.” And so he moved from West to East buildings, in one gallery and out the other, arriving at meetings and leaving them with at least two works of art under his arm or in an oversized leather portfolio.

  He also made a point of spending an increasing amount of time in the crating and shipping rooms, which fell under Don Fechter’s jurisdiction, becoming especially friendly with those who worked there. At the same time, he deliberately became a minor meddling nuisance about how Grottesca would be handled once its month at the National Gallery was up.

  “Stop worrying, Luther,” he was told, never harshly. Mason had working for him his sterling reputation and gentle manner; his occasional histrionic outbursts were considered part of his eccentric charm. And he was the National Gallery’s most dedicated and famous curator.

  From the moment Grottesca was taken down from the wall, Luther never left its side, shepherding it through every detail of preparing for its packing and shipment back to Italy. He knew that there was one final element of the plan that would be crucial to its success. Timing. Timing was everything, it was said. That was certainly true here.

  An hour before the original Grottesca was to be placed in its climate-controlled crate built by Don Fechter’s staff, Mason signed in and entered the secured area. With him was one of the framed forgeries sandwiched between two other works. He went to where Grottesca leaned against the crate, lowered the three paintings he carried to the floor, and let out a long, audible sigh.

  The other two people in the room were members of Fechter’s staff. Mason had noted during his frequent trips there that the guard at the door sat facing out into the hallway, more concerned with who might enter than what went on in the room once they were inside.

  “I can’t bear it,” Luther said aloud.

  “Can’t bear what, Luther?” asked one of the staffers.

  “That it’s leaving.”

  “You really love that painting, don’t you?” the other staffer said.

  “More than you can ever imagine.”

  “Well, Luther, take a final look. We have to get it wrapped up and ready to go.”

  “Of course. Just give me a few minutes to stand here and take it in. One last impression to carry with me for the rest of my life.”

  The staffers glanced at each other, gentle smiles on their lips. Luther Mason was a strange bird. A nice man—but strange. How could anyone be that enamored of a painting?

  Mason didn’t know if he could cry on cue. He’d practiced in front of his bathroom mirror, feeling foolish but pleasantly surprised to find that he could. He applied what he knew of “method acting”—recalling a particular time in his life and applying it to the moment. He thought of Julian. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping tears from his face with a handkerchief. “It’s just that—”

  “Sure, Luther,” one of the staffers said, motioning with his head for his colleague to follow him into a small supply room.

  They gave him a couple of minutes for a final swoon; he needed less than one to switch paintings. When the staffers returned, they looked at Grottesca. The Jacques Saison version.

  “Sorry, Luther. Time to put it away.”

  “I understand. Thank you for that courtesy. At least I’ll get to see it one more time when they hang it in the church over there. Yes, thank you so much for those few minutes. Sorry for losing myself like that. Silly.” He stepped closer to the forgery, gently placed his fingertips on the twisted face of the androgynous boy snared in thorns and serpents, and said, “Go in peace.”

  He quickly signed out as the staffers giggled and began securing the painting in the crate.

  Mason went to his office, where he hid the original behind other works in the locked closet.

  Later that night, he returned to his office, removed the original Grottesca’s frame, and concealed the painting behind one of the Gaissers he’d bought in Paris. The following day, with Tom Morris on duty at the employee entrance, he signed out.

  “How did you make out with those paintings you bought in Paris?” Morris asked.

  “Oh, those. Bishop said they weren’t worth very much, but I’m pleased with my purchase.” He unwrapped the package and again showed Morris the Gaisser.

  “I kind of like it, Luther,” Morris said. “I think you made a good choice.”

  “I think so. Well, have a good day, Tom.”

  He replaced the paper around the painting and went to his car, his heart threatening to burst through his ribs, rivulets of perspiration running down his nose.

  He called Franco del Brasco that night from home. “Mr. del Brasco, Luther Mason. I just wanted you to know that the most difficult part is over. The original is in my possession. I’m leaving for Italy tomorrow. When I return in a few days, I’ll see that it’s in your hands.”

  “Good.” Del Brasco hung up.

  “Bastard,” Mason said into the dead phone. “You’ll get only the art you deserve.”

  His dreams that night transported him from Washington to a small, pleasant house on Hydra, the turquoise sea far below his balcony. Grottesca hung on the stark white living room wall. Anyone observing Luther Mason sleeping that night might have wondered why a smile kept forming on his lips. A sexual dream? A fond recollection of a childhood incident, or a special meal? Simple pleasure at contemplating a long vacation in a lovely place?

  In fact, all of the above.

  25

  RAVELLO, ITALY

  The buildings that defined Ravello’s central piazza—a church with large black doors dating back to the eleventh century; a white-and-pink government building flying the Italian and the Ravello flags; a small hotel the color of fresh limes, with white wrought-iron railings defining tiny balconies on the front rooms; a market with freshly killed pheasants, ducks, and rabbits hanging from a red, white, and green canvas canopy; two restaurants, their outdoor cafes packed tightly with onlookers; and some private residences—had all been additionally decorated for the event with garlands of flowers, flags, and crude signs. The requisite fountain in the center of the piazza sent water into the air through the mouths of wild animals. Pretty schoolgirls in colorful costumes performed traditional folk dances to the dissonant music of old men in red uniforms with silver buttons, the music from their drums, tuba, trombone, cornet, and saxophone sounding as though each musician played a different song. The swelling crowd included press, priests, politicians, and townspeople.

  In front of the fountain, facing the open doors of the church, was a platform on which stood
two loudspeakers, a microphone, and a dozen folding metal chairs. Annabel looked up from the church steps into a cerulean sky marked only by an occasional puffy white cloud moving fast on unfelt upper-atmosphere winds.

  “This is really exciting,” she said to Don Fechter.

  “And tiring,” he said.

  They’d been picked up before dawn at their hotel in Rome by a sleek, modern bus on which an elaborate continental breakfast was set up; the coffee was the strongest Annabel had ever tasted. And good. She felt as if the caffeine had been injected intravenously.

  The crate containing Grottesca took up most of the vehicle’s rear bench. Two armed guards assigned by the Ministry of Culture sat to either side of it. “You are never to take your eyes off it,” Alberto Betti had instructed them. One slept for most of the journey; the other read popular magazines. The crate was placed on the platform along with the chairs and amplification equipment, flanked by the two sleepy guards. Pims, who’d traveled from Rome with his camera crew in a hired limousine, directed the taping of the event from a vantage point directly in front of the platform.

  Ravello’s mayor raised his arms and said, “Signore e signori. Your attention, please.”

  “Time for you to get up there,” Fechter told Annabel.

  She joined the others on the platform, looked out over the faces, and saw Luther Mason step from the dark recesses of the church into the bright sunshine. With him were two priests, followed by representatives from the National Gallery’s public information office. Workmen in white coveralls brought up the rear. The only conspicuous absentee was Father Pasquale Giocondi. When Annabel asked, she was told he had a previous commitment in Rome. “Signor Mason,” the mayor said into the microphone. “Please. It is time.”

  Mason and the priests descended the church steps, threaded through the crowd, and joined the others on the platform. Once seated, the mayor said in Italian, “My dear friends, my fellow countrymen, I welcome you to Ravello on this most joyous of days. We gather here to celebrate the return of a magnificent painting by one of Italy’s most honored geniuses, Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio.” The crowd applauded. “It is fitting, I believe, that this work, lost to us for so many years, was discovered here in our beautiful village. Ravello and its people are things of beauty, just as Caravaggio created things of beauty. It is appropriate that our lovely village be home to this important work of art for the next century and beyond.” More applause.