Murder at the National Gallery (35 page)

Mason grimaced at Whitney’s icy tone. Nowhere was it written that he had to be on call day and night. Let Whitney think he was out to dinner. He could call later, if he wanted to.

He looked at the clock again: 6:50. Ten minutes until the call from del Brasco’s representative. Because he expected the ringing of the phone, the brusque buzz from his intercom
startled him. He pressed the button: “Your son is here to see you, Mr. Mason,” the doorman announced.

“Julian?” Luther muttered. His timing couldn’t have been worse. “All right. Send him up.”

He returned to his desk. 6:54. A knock. He drew a deep breath and opened the door. “Hello, Julian,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting—”

What Luther really wasn’t expecting was to see the woman one step behind his son. “Lynn?” he said, face and voice mirroring his incredulity. “Why are you here?”

“She’s with me,” Julian answered.

“I can see that,” said Mason. “But why?”

Mason looked into their eyes and read the answer. They were lovers. That night at the restaurant weeks ago. It must have started then.

But they hadn’t come to announce their affair. It was something more important, he knew. Julian pulled Lynn into the apartment by the hand. She went directly to the closet and opened the door.

“Don’t,” Mason said, forgetting for the moment that
Grottesca
and its copy were no longer there.

“Where are they?” Lynn asked.

“Where are what?” said Mason.

“The paintings,” Julian answered for her. “
Grottesca
, and the forgery.”

“Are you both insane?” Mason said. “
Grottesca?
What in the world are you talking about?”

“This.” Julian pulled Luther’s airline ticket to Greece from his black leather jacket and waved it in his father’s face.

“Where did you get that?” Mason asked, opening the desk drawer in which he’d left it. “Give that to me!”

Julian tossed the ticket on the desk. “Where are the paintings?” he repeated.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luther said, knowing he’d been right. The paintings had been moved within the closet. He glared at his son. “You were in my apartment.”

“
I
was in your apartment,” Lynn said. “This morning.”

“How did you—?”

Another question not needing an answer. He’d given her a key at the height of their affair and never asked for it back.

“I came up here this morning,” Lynn Marshall said, her voice strangely bland considering the circumstances, “because I wanted to find out for myself what was going on.”

“How dare you?” Mason was unable to generate the level of indignation he intended.

“It’s all over the Gallery, Luther,” Lynn said. “They’re meeting now. Whitney. The curator from the Vatican. Police. Mrs. Smith from the White House.”

Mason lowered his head and took a breath.

“Paul Bishop told me he had a hunch that the
Grottesca
that went back to Italy was a phony,” Lynn said.

“Paul Bishop,” Luther snarled. “Of course. Anything to tear me down. It’s ridiculous. Absurd. You know me. Do you really think I would have any part of such a—?”

“If she doesn’t, I do,” Julian said. “Where are they?”

The phone rang. Mason spun around and looked at the clock: 7:05. His outgoing message on the machine was heard, followed by Court Whitney’s voice. “Damn it, Luther, where are you? It’s imperative that I reach you. Call me at my office the moment you hear this.” He hung up with force.

“See?” Lynn said.

The phone rang again.

Mason stumbled to the desk and turned off the answering machine. The phone continued to ring. “Please excuse me,” he said feebly. “I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

He slammed the bedroom door behind him, sat on the edge of his bed, and picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Luther?”

He’d used his first name.

“Luther Mason?” There was no Italian accent.

“Yes,” Mason said in a hoarse whisper.

“Peter Lafroing.”

“Peter?” Lafroing was one of two other Caravaggio experts brought in by Court Whitney to evaluate
Grottesca
.

Luther cleared his throat. “Hello, Peter. I was expecting someone else. Hearing from you is a surprise. A pleasant one.”

“Not purely a social call, Luther. I’ve taken on a freelance assignment that involves you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve been asked to appraise a certain work that I understand is in your possession.”

Luther slumped on the bed as though the skeleton supporting his body had collapsed. Peter Lafroing working for Franco del Brasco? Outlandish!

As outlandish as he, Luther Mason, becoming involved with such a man.

“Del Brasco wants
you
to appraise the painting?” Mason said.

“I would rather not identify my client,” Lafroing said, his voice filled with annoying lightness. “That wouldn’t be professional. But I have been asked to take a look before my client goes forward with the purchase. Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it on the phone. Can we arrange to get together? I’d enjoy seeing you again.”

Mason’s initial reaction was that his dream was about to come crashing down on him. Given ample opportunity to examine the
Grottesca
, Lafroing was professionally capable of discerning differences that would brand the Saison version a copy. Show him the original and then try a switch? No. Pulling off one switch had been nerve-racking enough.

But then he remembered one of the “rules” he’d formulated: Limit Lafroing’s access to the painting.

“Of course, Peter. Tomorrow night? That was what I was led to expect.”

“That’s been changed, Luther. My client is anxious for the painting. He insists that I do it tonight. Is it a problem?”

“You have the money with you?”

“I know nothing about your money arrangement, Luther. I’m with two other gentlemen sent by my client to bring the painting back to him. I’m sure they can resolve any questions of money between you and my client.”

Mason wondered how much Lafroing knew. If he knew everything and was willing to become part of it, he might be open to a bribe (he mentally changed it to “honorarium”) to
give a false report to del Brasco. If del Brasco was acting honorably, the men he’d sent would have a million dollars to give Luther pending Lafroing’s examination of
Grottesca
. He could take Lafroing into his confidence, offer him a bigger fee than del Brasco was paying him. How much would it take del Brasco to buy someone like Peter Lafroing? Ten thousand dollars? Fifty thousand? Luther would give him double that. No, more. He’d offer him a half-million dollars.

“I would prefer that you examine the painting alone,” Mason said. “Without these other men.”

“I’m sure that will be acceptable to them. Where can we meet tonight? Say, eleven o’clock?”

Mason tried to organize his thoughts. Invite Lafroing to his apartment? Out of the question. It would have to be a neutral place.

“Luther?” Lafroing asked. “Are you there?”

“Yes. Just thinking of a place to meet. Not here. At my apartment. Too many people around. Maybe a restaurant.”

Lafroing laughed. “Hardly the place to appraise a painting. Excuse me a moment.”

Mason strained to hear a muffled conversation in the background but couldn’t make out the words. Lafroing came back on the line. “Why not the Atlas Building?”

“The Atlas Building?”

“Yes. A dreary place, agreed, but we can be assured of being alone. A friend has a studio there. I have a key to it and to the building. Eleven o’clock sharp? I’ll be inside the front door on the ground floor. I don’t dare leave it open for you in that neighborhood.”

“I suppose—”

“I must admit, Luther, that when I learned it was you who had the painting, I was—well, I suppose shocked is the word. I’m anxious to hear how it all came about.”

“I—”

“There will be no problem, of course. I’ve already spent considerable time with the work when it was at the National Gallery. No question of its authenticity. Still, I have an obligation.”

“Of course.”

“It will be good to see you again. Eleven. The front door of the Atlas Building.”

“Yes. But come alone, Peter.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Hold on.” More muffled background conversation. “I’ll be by myself,” he said.

“You’ll have the money with you?” Mason asked. “I can’t turn the painting over without the money.”

“I told you I have nothing to do with your financial arrangements. But I’m sure the gentleman is fair and honorable.”

“You haven’t met your client?” Luther asked.

“Not personally. We can go over all of this tonight when I see you.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Rest assured, Luther, your mischievous little secret is safe with me. My lips are sealed.”

“Peter, perhaps you’d prefer to take the painting with you for a more prolonged examination. That would be acceptable to me, provided a good-faith advance was paid.” Lafroing said nothing. “In the neighborhood of, oh, a hundred thousand dollars. I trust your client. Once you’ve validated the work’s authenticity, he can send me the balance.”

“That certainly sounds fair, Luther. I’ll ask about it.”

“Fine. Good. Eleven tonight.”

Mason slowly lowered the receiver into its cradle.

Julian did the same with the desk phone.

When Mason returned to the living room, Julian and Lynn were sitting close together on the couch.

“Who was that?” Julian asked.

“Just a friend. Now, let’s get back to this nonsense you were talking about before we were interrupted.”

Julian stood and approached his father. “It’s not nonsense and you know it. That Caravaggio you sent back to Italy was a phony. You have the original. Lynn saw it.”

Mason turned to her. “If you were so sure I had the original
Grottesca
, why didn’t you just take it when you broke into my apartment?”

Lynn, too, stood. “ ‘Broke in?’ I had a key. You gave me the key.”

“Because we were close.”

“You were lovers,” Julian said.

“And now
you
are,” Mason said, barely able to contain his anger. And hurt.

“I didn’t take the paintings because I didn’t think it was right,” said Lynn. “I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“You didn’t think it was
right
? What is right for you, Lynn? Using me to get ahead at the National Gallery? Sleeping with my son?”

“Why don’t we just stop the BS?” Julian said. “Where are the paintings?”

“That is none of your business,” Mason said.

“We’re making it our business.”

Mason felt weak, thought he might faint, and sat in the desk chair. It was incomprehensible to him to be confronted by his son this way. Like some lowlife extorting money from him. Of course, Julian had been doing that for years. The difference was that now, all pretense of subtlety had been abandoned.

“What do you want?” Mason asked, his thin voice mirroring his defeat.

“Let us in on it with you,” Julian said.

“What do you mean?”

“Cut us in. You must have a buyer for the painting or you wouldn’t have bothered with all this. It’s worth, what, forty million? Fifty? How much are you getting for it?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Lynn said, “You obviously had two copies made, Luther. One went back to Italy. The other one was in the closet along with the original. What are you planning to do, pawn the forgery off on a buyer and keep
Grottesca
for yourself?”

“I—”

“Don’t be stupid,” Julian said. “We can sell the original in Japan. Or South America. Why mess around with giving a phony painting to somebody in return for a few bucks?”

“Or,” Lynn said, “for more than a few bucks.”

Mason stood. “I’ll have to think about it.” They would never
understand, he knew, that everything he’d suffered, all the scheming, planning, the pain and the fear, had nothing to do with money. Yes, he wanted enough on which to live nicely. But he hadn’t stolen
Grottesca
to become rich. It was the work itself he coveted. These two greedy, ambitious young pups would never understand that. No one would.

“I’m meeting with people tomorrow night,” he said. “After I do, we can talk about this.”

Julian and Lynn looked at each other, knowing he was lying. His meeting was that night, four hours from now. “Where will we meet tomorrow night?” Julian asked.

“Right here.”

“You’re sure you’ll be here?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Julian?”

“Maybe you’re lying to me now.”

Mason had had enough. “Get out!” he shouted. “Just get out of here. The sight of you disgusts me.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow night,” Julian said. Then he gave one of his small laughs. “Jesus, I never figured you had it in you—Dad.”

Mason bolted the door behind them and called Pims. “I have to see you right away, Scott.”

“I’m here, dear friend. I’m in the process of whipping up a lovely batch of
cape sante in tecia conchiglie dei pellegrini in umido
. I bought some delectable bay scallops, coral and all. I shall set the table for two.”

“I’m not coming for food, damn it!”

“Of course not. But man must eat. Besides, nourishment is good for the brain, and I have a feeling you’re going to need every gray cell you possess. Come on over, Luther.”

“The forgery was done by a drunken French genius named Jacques Saison.”

The meeting in Whitney’s office on the seventh floor of the East Building had been going on for hours. Present were Whitney; Senior Curator Paul Bishop; Chief of Conservation Donald Fechter; head of the National Gallery’s Public Information Office Philip Simone; Annabel Reed-Smith; Vatican
senior curator Joseph Spagnola; Anthony Benedetto from the Italian Embassy; Steve Jordan, chief of Washington MPD’s Art Squad; his assistant, Gloria Watson; and the National Gallery’s head of security, Carl Kelley. Jordan had the floor.

“According to the information I’ve received from a colleague at Italy’s Delegation for the Recovery of Missing Works of Art—they have fewer people working for it than there are words in the title—Carlo Giliberti personally delivered the original
Grottesca
to Saison in Paris. Saison, it seems, copied it, and Luther picked up the original and copy, although that isn’t written in stone at this juncture.”