Murder at the National Gallery

by Margaret Truman

  Annabel and Gloria Watson left the plane separately on Tuesday and took individual cabs into the city, Annabel going directly to the hotel, Gloria, whose large sunglasses, massive drop earrings, and red satin jumpsuit gave her the look of a jet-setting rock star, taking an hour’s tour of the city before checking in.

  The Raphael’s gloomy, dimly lit lobby was off-putting at first for Annabel. But although her room was small, it was sunny and nicely furnished, providing a splendid view of the piazza. She unpacked, undressed, and wrapped herself in a terrycloth robe provided by the hotel. Like Mac, she’d been instructed to remain in her room until contacted, either by one of her team or by the unnamed person who would give her further instructions.

  An hour later, Gloria Watson checked into a room at the other end of the hall. Jordan and his two borrowed detectives also had rooms on that floor, one by the elevator, one near the exit.

  Annabel received a call from Jordan. “Welcome to Rome,” he said pleasantly. “That husband of yours is driving me crazy wanting to see you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were on a honeymoon.”

  “We intend to make it a second honeymoon,” Annabel replied. “When can I see him?”

  “After dinner. You’ll each order separate room service. When you’re done, I told Romeo he can sneak in to see Juliet.”

  “I love it,” she said. “And thanks.”

  After dinner, and after carefully checking the hallway, Mac slipped into Annabel’s room carrying a bottle of wine, a miniature cribbage board, and a deck of cards. They embraced like lovers separated by war. Mac opened the wine and set two glasses on a small table by the window. “Better draw the shade,” Annabel said, doing so.

  “What’s the drill again?” Mac asked after they’d toasted, “To us.”

  She shrugged and said, “Wait until I receive a call.”

  “Tonight?”

  “I hope so. Now that we’re here, I want it to happen fast. The thought of sitting in a hotel room with Rome outside is depressing. Can you stay?”

  “With you in this room tonight? I don’t see why not. No one knows I’m here.”

  “Maybe you should clear it with Steve.”

  “I’ve cleared it with you. I’ll go back to my room first thing in the morning. I feel like a college kid in a coed dorm.”

  “It’s kind of exciting,” Annabel said. “The sex therapists always suggest making love in new and unusual surroundings.”

  “In your own pool or kitchen, maybe. This is different. Besides, I’m beat. You should be, too.”

  “Too filled with anticipation to be tired. Go to bed.”

  He stripped down to his shorts and T-shirt and slipped beneath the covers while she sat up for hours watching him sleep, thinking how much she loved him and their life together; wondering what the morning would bring; and falling victim to occasional thoughts of waking him, packing their bags, and running away—from Caravaggio and his seemingly cursed Grottesca, from art thieves and murderers and twisted lives. She dozed off in her chair thinking those things, moonlight casting shifting light and shadow over her face, until three, when she jerked awake and joined him in bed.

  They were awakened at seven by Steve Jordan’s call and the sounds of another day starting outside on Piazza Navona. “Nothing yet?”

  “I would have called you if there had been,” Annabel said sleepily.

  “I know. Christ, I hope this doesn’t end up the proverbial wild goose chase. An expensive one.”

  “Not to worry,” Annabel said. “It’s backed by the full faith and credit of the United States Government.”

  “Only if we succeed. If we don’t, they never heard of us. See Mac last night?”

  “Yes. He’s right—I did.”

  “Separate breakfasts in the room,” Jordan said.

  “Don’t remind me. I’ll call the minute I hear anything.” They whiled away the time playing cribbage. Annabel was about to win when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Signora Smith?” a man said.

  “Yes. Si. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Filippo Testa, Signora Smith. I believe you expected my call.”

  “I did.”

  “I have instructions concerning your business meeting.”

  “Good. What are they?”

  “I prefer to tell you in person. There is a church a few blocks from your hotel, the Church of Sant’Agostino, on Piazza Sant’Agostino. Only a few minutes’ walk. Meet me in the Cavalletti Chapel. Shall we say an hour from now? The last pew on the right.”

  “All right. How will I know you?”

  “I will be the only person in that pew. Until then, signora.” Annabel called Jordan and told him of the arrangements for the meeting. “Okay,” he said. “You stay in your room until we’re ready to move. I’ll call Mac.”

  “He’s here.”

  “He’s not supposed to be. Let me talk to him.”

  As Annabel dressed for her meeting, the team assembled in Jordan’s room.

  “So Testa’s involved,” Jordan said.

  “You know him?” Mac asked.

  Jordan and the Italian cops laughed. “Oh, yes,” said Colarulli. “ ‘Count’ Testa is well known to us. He bills himself as an art collector and dealer. Claims royal blood.” He laughed again. “He deals in stolen art, nothing major, fencing pieces stolen here in Italy to buyers in other countries. Considers himself a dandy, but always broke.”

  “You think he has Grottesca?” Mac asked.

  “No,” Colarulli said. “Functioning as a middleman.”

  “For who?” Mac asked.

  Colarulli replied, “Lately, he’s been associating with organized crime figures, one in particular, Luigi Sensi. Head of the Camorra, the Naples faction of the Mafia. Sensi is a major figure in art theft here, although he’s as insulated from that as from every other aspect of his criminal activities.”

  “You seem to know a lot about him,” Mac said.

  “Knowing about people and being able to prove what we know is the most difficult thing, si?” he said to Jordan.

  “That’s for sure. Okay, folks, here’s how we cover Annabel when she meets with Testa. Gloria, you and Jimmy play a sightseeing American couple. Get going now. Stroll past that church, take pictures, wander inside, but stay far away from the back right pew where Annabel and Testa are meeting. Hang around the altar. Then get out, but stay in the area so you can see the door.”

  As Gloria and one of the Washington detectives left the room, Jordan said to the other American cop, “Bob, go with Detective Tedeschi in his car. Follow Annabel all the way. Park where you won’t be seen but can see the door.”

  Paul Colarulli asked the remaining Italian detective, “Ready to join the priesthood again, Peter?”

  Peter laughed and said in a heavy accent, “It is against the law to impersonate a priest, si?”

  Colarulli said to Mac, whose expression was quizzical, “Peter makes a fine priest on demand. Come on, put on your clerical collar. You have official duties to perform in Sant’Agostino this morning.”

  They left the room, leaving Mac and Jordan alone. “What about me?” Mac asked.

  “You stay here.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Mac, this is a police matter.”

  “Annabel’s not a cop.”

  “I know, I know. But don’t make it difficult for me. Stay by your phone. I may need to get hold of you.”

  Mac sighed and said, “Okay. I’m trusting you, Steve.”

  “Good. I’ll say one thing for whoever’s behind this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He knows his Caravaggio. The Church of Sant’Agostino has one. Madonna di Loreto. Caravaggio’s model was a local woman who’d turned down a wealthy lawyer’s marriage proposal. This lawyer confronted Caravaggio and accused him of being a heathen, or worse, so Caravaggio got mad, which he did pretty often, and ran the lawyer through with his sword. Had to skip to Genoa until things cooled down.”

&nb
sp; “Another murder,” Mac muttered to himself. To Jordan: “You know your Caravaggio, don’t you?”

  “Been doing lots of reading. By the way, the party’s getting bigger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Got a couple of calls last night from home. M. Scott Pims, Washington’s gift to television, is in Rome. They say he’s here to do a documentary on the Museo Barracco.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “That’s right. Museums like the Barracco have never interested Pims. Egyptian artifacts and classical sculpture. Not his cup of tea. Besides, along with the crew he brought from the States, he’s hired two additional Italian video crews. Doesn’t take three to shoot the Barracco.”

  “I see,” Mac said.

  “And Franco del Brasco evidently enjoys Rome this time of year.”

  “Franco del Brasco. Annabel mentioned him. The collector from San Francisco?”

  “A very rich hood who also collects art—from any source. I’ve felt all along he might be the buyer Luther Mason had in mind when he grabbed the original and shipped the forgery back to Italy. Del Brasco flew here in a private jet with a couple of his goons.”

  “Do you know where he is in Rome?”

  “No. My info came from San Francisco. No word from this end yet.”

  Mac’s worried expression wasn’t lost on Jordan. The detective slapped him on the back and said, “Don’t worry, Mac. Nothing will happen to Annabel. That’s a promise you can take to the bank. Come on. Let’s brief her on what to expect before she heads out. I don’t want any surprises.”

  Annabel walked with purposeful strides in the direction of Piazza Sant’Agostino. Not too fast, not too slow. She was aware of the car following her, containing the detectives, and fought the urge to look back. She paused a few times to look at goods in shop windows, but the items didn’t register on her. She was too focused on the meeting with this wannabe count, Filippo Testa, whom Colarulli had described for her—tall and slender, slightly bent, balding but with wet dyed black hair swept back along his temples, charming, speaks excellent English (which she knew from their telephone conversation), mild in manner. She wasn’t nervous. Excited was a more apt description of what she felt. It was actually happening. Within minutes she would be told how to recover Grottesca.

  She passed an outdoor cafe on the piazza and was aware of male attention from some of the tables. She looked straight ahead, crossed the street, and stood in front of the Church of Sant’Agostino. The moment she climbed the short set of steps and entered, one of the men in the cafe got up and followed. He stepped inside the cool, dank church, removed his red beret, and looked to where Annabel sat in the rear pew on the right. She didn’t see him. Her attention was on the unusually high nave, barely as wide as the aisles, dominated by a dome. A priest standing in front of a rack of flickering offertory candles appeared to be rearranging them. Annabel suppressed a smile; it was the Italian detective Jordan had told her would be there.

  She sensed rather than saw the man sliding into the pew beside her. “Signor Testa?” she asked in a whisper, not turning.

  “Si. A lovely church, you would agree?”

  “Yes. Beautiful.”

  “Home of the Madonna del Parto, the Madonna of child-birth. Many women come here to pray to her for the safe delivery of their children. Couples without children pray to her to correct their situation.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Caravaggio is here, too.”

  Annabel swallowed and faced him. Was it to happen so fast? Did he have Grottesca with him?

  “Up there,” he said, pointing to a pillar near the altar. “The Madonna di Loreto. A tragic tale behind it. And Raphael is represented, too. The Prophet Isaiah. So much art in Italy, si? So much beauty.”

  Annabel noticed as he pointed that the cuff of his blue double-breasted blazer was frayed. He needed a haircut. He smiled at her; his teeth were yellow and had suffered neglect.

  “What is it you wish to tell me?” Annabel asked, looking again at the altar.

  “You have the money with you? Two million American?”

  “Yes. Not with me, of course. Back at the hotel.”

  “And you have traveled to Rome alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the exchange will be made this evening, at six, at the Palazzo Madama.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Only a few steps from your hotel. Across the Corso Rinascimento. The northwest corner at six.”

  “All right. I’ll be there. Will you?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It would be my pleasure to see such a lovely lady again, but my duties will have me elsewhere.”

  “Who will meet me?”

  “In due time, Signora Smith. But he will know you. Such a striking beauty. I must leave. Grazie. It has been my pleasure. Enjoy my city. It has much to offer.”

  Annabel watched him leave the church before going to the nave, where the priestly detective continued to pretend to be busy. He smiled and walked away. She went to the pillar on which hung the Caravaggio and thought of Court Whitney’s comment about the havoc caused by Luther Mason. “You’re an accomplice, Mr. Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio,” she said to the painting. “And I hope you’re satisfied.”

  “The Palazzo Madama,” Steve Jordan said after they’d all gathered in his room.

  “A problem with that?” Annabel asked.

  Jordan laughed and shook his head. “Just another quaint Caravaggio connection. A cardinal named Del Monte lived at Palazzo Madama back in the mid–fifteen hundreds. He latched on to Caravaggio and gave him a studio and living quarters in his home. He painted a lot of his important works there.”

  “So now we sit and wait until six,” Mac said.

  “That’s about it,” Jordan said. “At least we have time to get everybody in place.”

  “I want to be there this time,” Mac said.

  “I figured you would,” said Jordan. “There’s an outdoor cafe on the opposite corner. You can watch from there.”

  Annabel smiled at Mac, who, after a moment, smiled back.

  “Strange,” said Detective Paul Colarulli.

  “What’s strange?” Jordan asked.

  “Choosing such a public, well-guarded place as Palazzo Madama to exchange the painting for money.”

  “Well-guarded?” Mac said.

  “Yes. The Palazzo del Senato is there, an important government building. A great deal of security.”

  “Glad to hear that,” said Mac.

  “But why?” Colarulli asked, as if to himself.

  “Stop trying to be logical, Paul,” Jordan said.

  “I suppose you’re right, Steve.” The detective smiled. Still, why?

  39

  “Signor Mason?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Filippo Testa.”

  “What’s going on, Mr. Testa? I’ve been sitting here all day waiting.”

  Testa laughed. “Ah, youth. So impatient. You have the product with you?”

  “Product? Oh. Yeah. I have it.”

  “Good. Across the street from your hotel is the Church of Sant’Agnese. Be in front of it at five forty-five with the product. Be on time. A car will take you from there to your buyer.”

  “Hey, hold on a second. If you think I’m going to—”

  “Mr. Mason, the last time we met turned out to be quite unpleasant. I am glad to see you’ve come to your senses.”

  “Where’s Pims? I want to talk to Pims.”

  “Mr. Mason, please don’t strain my patience. I understand you have agreed to the terms I previously laid out for you.”

  “You’re stealing it.”

  “One, I am not the purchaser. Two, two million dollars is a great deal of money for such a—how shall we say it?—for such a controversial product. Five forty-five in front of the church—if you know what is good for you. Buon giorno.”

  “Signor del Brasco?”

  “Yes.”

  “A
re you ready to own one of the finest works of art ever created by man?”

  “Get to the point. Who am I talking to?”

  “A Mend about to fulfill your greatest wish. A car will pick you up in front of the Raphael at five-thirty. Have your money and the other version of the painting with you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You will see. Don’t be late. The driver has been instructed not to wait.”

  Filippo Testa hung up after making his second call to guests of the Raphael Hotel, on Piazza Navona, having stuck to the notes provided him by his client-master. He poured himself a large negroni—bitter Campari, sweet vermouth, gin, and Angostura bitters—from a pitcher he kept in his refrigerator, and downed it.

  After checking his appearance in a mirror, he donned his red beret, went downstairs to where he’d parked his battered Fiat, and headed east on the A24 toward the Abruzzi region. He had to hurry. He didn’t want to be late. As amusing as M. Scott Pims could be, Testa had seen his ugly side.

  40

  Annabel Reed-Smith stepped through the front door of the Raphael onto the Piazza Navona. She was the last to leave the hotel; everyone else had departed at staggered intervals to take up their assigned positions. Mac would be seated in the outdoor cafe from which he could see the northwest corner of Palazzo Madama. Gloria Watson and one of the American detectives were again playing the touring couple. The other American and his Italian counterpart were in a car parked just off the square, on via Chiaca. Steve Jordan and Paul Colarulli idled in an unmarked police vehicle at Palazzo Madama’s southeast corner.

  Annabel’s adrenaline drove her pulse. Her biggest fear at the moment was having two million dollars in marked currency in her oversized purse. What grand irony should she be mugged on her way to the rendezvous.

  She crossed Corso Rinascimento and observed the street action by Palazzo Madama. It was relatively quiet. Two uniformed soldiers provided sleepy sentry in front of the Palazzo del Senato. Traffic was light, although there were many parked cars.