Murder at the National Gallery (20 page)

One of many ethics rules for employees of the National Gallery of Art was that anyone contemplating the personal purchase of art had to give the Gallery first refusal, even if the pieces had already been paid for. Mason was not being quite honest. He’d already bought the paintings, which stood side by side next to him as he spoke to Whitney from his room at the George V. He judged the pair to be worth as much as ten thousand dollars in the United States. But he wasn’t buying them to make a profit. Good thing, he knew. Under the National Gallery’s ethics rules, if it decided to exercise first refusal rights, it was obligated to pay only what was actually laid out for the paintings—in this case, five thousand. Any increase in value would benefit the Gallery.

“Gaisser?” Whitney said sleepily, carrying the phone to the refrigerator, where he removed a package of English muffins. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Check with Paul Bishop. I heard him speak once of Gaisser’s work. As I said, strictly minor league, but of some scholarly value at a fair price. I would appreciate a ruling before going through with it.”

“I’ll check with him when I get in this morning. When are you coming back?”

“In a few days. I want you to know, Court, how much I appreciate your understanding. If I didn’t take this trip, I don’t know what might have happened.”

“You needed a rest.”

“Anything new on Carlo’s murder?”

“No. The police are still questioning anyone who knew him, but I haven’t heard anything new.”

“How is the testing of
Grottesca
going?”

Sue Whitney padded into the kitchen in robe and slippers, her quizzical expression asking who was on the phone. Whitney placed his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Luther Mason. From Paris.”

She made a disgusted face and headed for the coffeemaker.

“Grottesca?”
Whitney said. “The testing is proceeding nicely. Donald’s nose was out of joint over the way everything’s been handled. But he’s caught up in the excitement of it now. He told me yesterday that from everything he and his staff could ascertain, it might well be the original lost Caravaggio. But as you know, Luther, all the testing in the world can only rule
out
authorship. It can never prove it.”

“Of course. Well, Court, sorry to bother you so early in the morning. If all goes as planned, I’ll leave Paris for Washington tomorrow night. May I call you later today, or tomorrow, to get a ruling on the two Gaissers?”

“Sure. I don’t see any problem, but I’ll follow the rules, too. Enjoy your stay in Paris.”

“Thank you, Court. I already have.”

Mason hung up and looked at the paintings he’d purchased. He wasn’t interested in the artist, or his work, though what he’d said about the artist was true enough. When he went into the gallery he had only one criterion with which to judge what paintings to buy. They had to be the same size as the two copies of
Grottesca
. There’d been some modern works of the right dimensions in the gallery on Porte Maillot, but Mason knew that for him to buy such modern art would cause raised eyebrows. His scorn for most of it rivaled that of
60 Minutes
’s
Morley Safer, but on a more elevated, informed level. The Gaissers were perfect. What had Pissarro said?
“The most corrupt art is the sentimental, the art of orange blossoms which makes pale women swoon.”

The sentimental Gaissers suited his purpose.

As he climbed the stairs that afternoon to Saison’s studio above the Greek restaurant on rue de la Huchette, he was almost cooked in the conflicting odors of the narrow stairwell. I’ll have to get this suit cleaned the minute I get home, he thought.

Saison opened the door and narrowed his eyes.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Saison. Luther Mason.” Mason extended his hand.

Saison didn’t move to take it.
“Entrez,”
he said.

“Merci.”

The sight of Jacques Saison’s studio was as revolting to Luther as the odors emanating from it. He’d never seen such chaos. Canvases were piled up and tossed haphazardly. Filthy plates and glasses covered most exposed surfaces. The man himself was a monument to dishevelment, badly needing a shave and a haircut, if not first aid. It looked to Mason as though Saison hadn’t washed his hair since starting work on the Caravaggio knockoffs. Giliberti had sworn Saison was the best art forger in the world. How could he be? How could anyone do high-quality work in such surroundings?

Saison stumbled to where a half-filled bottle of whiskey stood on a dirt-crusted sink, poured some into a smoky glass, and lit a cigarette.
“Voulez-vous un verre? Cigarette?”

The thought of whiskey and a cigarette caused Mason to wince. He conspicuously checked his watch. He wanted out of the studio and away from its occupant. “You have the paintings?” he asked.

“Oui.”
Saison continued to lean against the sink, drawing on his cigarette and sipping his whiskey.

“I would like to see them,” said Mason. “I have a busy schedule.”

“The money. You have the money?”

“Yes,” Mason said, sighing. “I have the money.” He
retrieved a fat envelope from his inside jacket pocket and looked for a place to drop it. A pile of old canvases seemed as good a place as any.

Saison opened the envelope and did a fast count.

“I assure you it’s all there, Mr. Saison. And it is yours, provided the work you have done is satisfactory.”

Saison’s back was to Luther. He spun around, his face creased in a fuzzy anger. “You doubt my ability?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Luther said. “I have—I had great faith in Carlo. You heard about him, I assume?”

“Heard about what? He has been arrested?”

“You haven’t heard. He’s dead. He was murdered in Washington.”

Saison mumbled French obscenities.

“You know you are to leave Paris for at least six months?”

Saison ignored his reminder. He belched, rubbed his eyes, and pointed to a closet at the far end of the studio. “In there. They are in there.”

This was Mason’s moment of truth. He was afraid to open the closet door for fear that what he would find would not be good enough to withstand the scrutiny of people like Franco del Brasco, or the Italians to whom one of the copies would be returned.

“Go on, go on,” Saison said. “I don’t have all day.”

Luther opened the closet door, allowing light from the studio to spill inside. Leaning against the back wall, facing him, was one of the two copies. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was magnificent. A
remarkable
duplicate of Caravaggio’s original. The second copy was behind it.

Luther slowly turned. “They look quite good,” he said.

Saison guffawed. “It is better than good. I have worked day and night on them since Carlo brought me the original. Day and night. From the photographs. No rest, no food. It is not enough.”

“What is not enough?” Mason asked, spirits sinking, knowing …

“The money.”

“Nonsense! Caravaggio is not that difficult to copy, and you
know it. He had no trademarks, no subtle signature techniques to be considered. Everything is strong and direct.”

The anger flared up in Saison again. He advanced halfway across the studio to where Mason stood. “You tell
me
it is not difficult to copy Caravaggio?” he shouted. A torrent of obscenities passed his lips.

Mason held up his hands against what he thought was about to become a physical attack, “Please, Mr. Saison, no offense. The work you have done is splendid.
Magnifique!
But there is no more money for you.” Or for anyone else, he thought. “You have been fairly paid. More than fairly paid. Enough to go away for a year, to lie in the sun on the Riviera, to do what you wish.”

“Carlo is dead, huh? Maybe I am next. I want more.”

A familiar panic returned. Was this madman about to deny him possession of the copies? He didn’t have any more money to give. That was the simple truth. Whatever happened to honor? Then he remembered his resolve with the larcenous priest.

“No!”

Mason did something he never thought he could. He picked up the envelope filled with money, went to the door, placed his hand on the sticky knob, turned, and said, “Keep the paintings.”

Saison’s expression said he was stunned, confused. He spread his hands and smiled. A yellow, crooked smile. “The paintings are no good to me. What good are they?”

“That’s your problem,” Mason said. “Aw
revoir
, Monsieur Saison.”

He stepped into the foul hallway and slammed the door behind him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said aloud, softly, “What are you doing?”

The door opened. “Come in,” Saison said. “No need for anger. Take the copies. I never want to see them again.”

The sense of relief Mason felt was palpable. He followed the Frenchman back into the studio, went to the closet, and brought both copies to the center of the large room. “Do you have something I can wrap these in?”

Saison looked at him through bloodshot eyes. “You want something to wrap them with? That will cost you extra.”

Mason glared at him.

Saison said, “A joke. Just a joke.” He rummaged through a pile in a corner until coming up with two large pieces of cloth. He threw them at Luther, who immediately went to work wrapping the paintings, using masking tape to secure the flaps on the back.

“
Merci
, Saison.” Mason held a painting under each arm as he headed for the door. “Enjoy your holiday. You’ve earned it.” With that he was out the door and fairly running down the stairs.

He stopped on his way back to the George V to purchase a number of items, including framing tools in an art-supply store, then went to work in his hotel room. First, he dismantled the two Gaisser paintings. He carefully removed the
Grottesca
copies from their stretching frames, positioned them behind the Gaisser works, and put everything back into frames. He picked each up and examined every inch, front and back. It would work. He would get through Customs, even if one of Carlo’s friends in the Italian Customs Service wasn’t available to slide him through, as planned.

His call caught Court Whitney at the Gallery as he was about to leave. “Did you talk to Paul?” Mason asked.

“Yes. Frankly, Luther, Paul says you’ve been taken. He says Gaisser was worse than a minor artist. Sure you want to go through with this purchase?”

“Yes. I don’t intend to hang them in my apartment. They’re gifts.” Why he felt the need to defend his artistic integrity was lost on him. “They’ll make nice gifts. One for my mother back in Indiana. I’ll give the other to Julian.”

“Expensive gifts,” Whitney remarked.

“Nothing is too expensive for my mother. You must meet her one day, Court. She’s a darling woman. The Gallery has no interest in them?”

“That’s right, Luther. Go ahead and buy them.”

“Thank you, Court. As I said earlier, I’m feeling like the proverbial new man. Maybe minor, mind you, as I’m sure Paul would agree, but new.”

“You read this?”

Steve Jordan slid that morning’s newspaper across the desk to his assistant, Gloria Watson, who’d joined the Washington MPD art squad after graduating with a degree in art history from American University. Being a cop seemed more exciting than working in the musty back rooms of museums, provided she could even find such a job.

She read the article:

“Not easy being royalty,” Jordan said. “Especially when you’re in jail. The British tabloids should have a ball with this for the next two years, the Royals having quieted down.”

“It doesn’t say whether they recovered the art,” Gloria said.

Jordan laughed. “Probably being sold in Hong Kong or Beirut as we speak.”

“What tops the list this morning?”

“For me? A meeting. For you? Get everything in place over at the Atlas Building for the pre-Columbian sting.”

“Mrs. Smith still going through with it?”

“She hasn’t told me otherwise. What’s the matter? You look like you just sucked on a lemon.”

“The Atlas. I hate going there. It gives me the creeps.”

The Atlas Building, located on a decayed portion of Ninth Street populated by pornography shops and grim bars, near the National Portrait Gallery—and only a few blocks from the National Gallery of Art—had been a stately turn-of-the-century home to Washington’s most prestigious law firms. But as the once-genteel neighborhood declined, and the lawyers prospered, they moved out. In the 1960s, the building’s new owner turned it into a low-rent artist’s colony, home to more than two hundred area artists over the ensuing years. The owner’s decision to “support the arts” was not altogether altruistic. Renting to struggling artists meant few complaints about the building’s deteriorating interior and exterior and lack of services. There was no water, and only occasional electricity. Break-ins were frequent, although the few artists remaining in the building pointed out that thieves never stole their art, just answering machines and small radios. But you couldn’t beat the rent. Artist Richard Dana, a former intelligence officer friendly with Mac and Annabel Smith, paid $167 a month for a huge studio. Another Washington monument, in this case to decay.

Steve Jordan and his art squad sometimes rented space in the Atlas when they needed to front a sting. The building was seedy enough to be believable. It was known as an artists’ haven. And the occasional use of it wouldn’t threaten Jordan’s budget—at all.