Murder at the National Gallery (36 page)

Benedetto, the new cultural attaché to Washington, swore softly in Italian.

Jordan continued: “My counterparts in Italy are still trying to determine through Customs how Mason, or someone acting on his behalf, got the original and copy back into the States.”

Carl Kelley interrupted. “That would be interesting,” he said. “But I’m more interested in how the paintings got switched here in the Gallery. There’s no question that what hung on the wall for that month was the real thing—is there?”

“Of course not,” Whitney said.

“So at some point between the time it was taken off the gallery wall and the crate went back to Italy, Mason managed to swap the original for a forgery,” said Kelley.

“I hate to play devil’s advocate,” Annabel said, “or be the lawyer again, but aren’t we assuming too much to be accusing Luther? I mean, from what’s been presented here so far, Carlo Giliberti took the original
Grottesca
out of Italy and gave it to this forger in Paris. You seem sure of that. You’re also certain that the
Grottesca
delivered to the church in Ravello is a forgery. But I haven’t heard anything that definitively links Luther Mason to those acts.”

Paul Bishop said, “It had to be Luther. Put all the pieces together and the puzzle forms his face. His obsession with Caravaggio, especially
Grottesca
. The frequent trips to Italy. His close friendship with Giliberti.” To Fechter: “Your people who crated
Grottesca
for the return to Italy told you that they left Luther alone in the room because he started to cry. Jesus,
that painting should never have been left alone for any reason, under any circumstance.”

Fechter started to say something, but Whitney waved him off. “The security guard has Luther’s signature entering that room at precisely the time
Grottesca
was being readied for shipment. He had those few minutes alone, more than enough time to make the exchange.”

“We all noticed,” said Paul Bishop, “how Luther spent the month
Grottesca
was on exhibition carrying paintings everywhere he went. Always a couple of paintings, sometimes wrapped, sometimes in that big portfolio he’s so fond of using. That must have been part of his plan. No one thought twice about his carrying art into the shipping room.”

“I know, I know,” Annabel said. “But we’re still dealing with supposition.”

“Go over again for us what Luther said when you showed him the correspondence from Betti,” Kelley said.

Whitney replayed the conversation as best he could from memory, concluding by saying, “He dismissed it as being a stupid mistake.”

“So did I,” Annabel said. “With all due respect, Mr. Spagnola, you’ve only performed a cursory inspection of the painting in Ravello. Surely, it will take longer than that to ascertain whether it’s a forgery.”

Steve Jordan said, “True, Annabel. But we have the added information that the original
Grottesca
was taken to Jacques Saison in Paris and that he made a copy. You don’t make a copy of a masterpiece unless you intend to lay it off on unsuspecting buyers. Or in this case a government.”

“Any idea who that buyer might be?” Whitney asked.

Jordan shrugged. “There are dozens of rich collectors around the world willing to spend millions to get their hands on an original Caravaggio, especially one with the aura of
Grottesca
. A few of them have a standing order with the underground: Deliver me a Caravaggio, name your price, no questions asked. One interests me in particular. A notorious collector out in San Francisco, Franco del Brasco. Notorious because he not only collects art, he’s connected—
mob connected. Rumored to be a major buyer of stolen art. But that’s all we’ve ever had, rumors, not enough to get a warrant to go in and search.”

“Luther started his career in San Francisco,” Paul Bishop offered.

“And we know he went out there recently,” Jordan said. “Stayed at the Westin St. Francis in a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-night suite.”

“On a curator’s salary,” Bishop muttered.

Anthony Benedetto cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, “all this conversation is good. But what is important now is not how it was done, but that the person responsible for this fraud perpetrated upon my people be found immediately. The original
Grottesca
is undoubtedly with him. Find him and we find the painting.”

Everyone agreed, and the meeting broke up. Whitney said he would continue the search for Luther, and Jordan said he would send officers to Mason’s apartment. If the senior curator hadn’t been found by morning, an all-points bulletin would be issued.

“Why not put out such a bulletin now?” Paul Bishop asked.

“Because I don’t think Luther Mason is the kind of man to simply disappear,” Jordan replied. “Too many strings to keep him here. His son, right? He has his connection to this gallery and his reputation to uphold. He’s probably out enjoying dinner somewhere and hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on.”

Jordan walked Annabel to her car. “What do you really think of this?” she asked.

“More than I let on in the meeting. I owe you one, Annabel. And I know you can keep a confidence.”

“I try.”

“I think Luther Mason did pull this off. Or almost. And I also think the buyer for the painting is del Brasco in San Francisco, based upon what my counterparts out there have managed to track down. Del Brasco sent two of his ‘assistants’ to Washington yesterday. Art appreciation isn’t their thing. Breaking knees is. Spagnola, from the Vatican, is no angel,
either. Before he came over to see Whitney at the Gallery, he met with people in the Italian Embassy. Some of the people working in the Embassy are not what you would call diplomats. They have another function. Some have ties with intelligence services, some with business, some with organized crime back in Italy. There’s an aging mafioso there, Luigi Sensi. Looks like the age of specialization hasn’t escaped the Mafia. Sensi, along with committing other crimes, is their point man for stolen art. It’s big bucks for the mob over there.”

“It’s my understanding that some people in our embassies aren’t exactly diplomats, either,” Annabel said.

“Everybody’s practicing diplomacy of a different kind,” Jordan said. “I played down looking for Luther Mason tonight. But the minute I leave you, I’m getting over to his apartment.
And
I’m putting out that all-points. If he has the original
Grottesca
, and everybody’s out looking for it, his health could take a sudden turn for the worse.”

Annabel bit her lip. “I hope you find him,” she said. “I know that if Luther’s behind this, he’s guilty of a crime. But not one worth losing his life over. By the way, Steve, what about the old priest, Giocondi, the one Luther claims had the painting in his parish all those years? He never showed up in Ravello.”

“Disappeared,” Jordan said flatly. “He could provide some answers—if anybody could find him. Gone. The Italian police are looking.”

Jordan opened the car door for her.

“I never dreamed the world of art could be so evil,” Annabel said. “I hope you find Luther before anything happens to him. Despite what he might have done—well, he’s a nice man.”

Mason was oblivious to everything around him as he left his apartment, got in his car, and headed for Pims’s place. He did not notice a car parked across the street. In it were the two men from the Italian Embassy. They allowed Luther to proceed a block before falling in behind. Their presence was not lost on Pims, however, who stood at his living room window overlooking the street in anticipation of Luther’s arrival. He saw his friend pull up to a vacant meter and park, get out, and scurry
across. He also saw the car that had followed, whose driver parked at a fire hydrant and turned off the lights.

“What have we here?” Pims wondered aloud as he closed the drapes and went to welcome his good friend.

Pims’s floor-length purple silk robe was worn over a white shirt, his favorite Mona Lisa tie, gray slacks, and purple carpet slippers with gold embroidery, whose toes curled up over his instep. Although he expressed keen disappointment that Luther wasn’t hungry, it didn’t interfere with his readying of that evening’s meal. Luther sat at the kitchen table as Pims removed leaves of radicchio from where they’d been soaking in extra-virgin olive oil in preparation for braising. “… which would mean giving up the dream that has fueled your plan from the very beginning,” he said, his words accompanied by the steady
chop-chop-chop
of a large knife cutting through garlic cloves.

Luther was in a state of almost total physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual collapse. He’d decided while driving there that he couldn’t go through with the final phase of his scheme. Instead, he would give the original to del Brasco, take the million dollars, and escape the country without his prized possession.

Pims was appalled at that resolution. “Luther,” he said, “money has never been the object. Not really. If it had been, I would have dissuaded you from the very beginning. If it was
money you were after, I would have suggested you rob a bank, or swindle some rich little old lady out of the proceeds of her late husband’s insurance. No! Your passion for Caravaggio, especially for
Grottesca
, is what enticed me to help you, to counsel you, to stand by you as you’ve gone through this remarkable exercise.”
Chop-chop-chop
. “All will have been for naught if you succumb to this moment of weakness—which I assure you is only temporary—and turn over one of the finest paintings the world has ever known to that lowlife in California.”

“I know, I know,” Luther said, his elbows on the table, face buried in his hands. “But I just don’t know if I can go through with it. When I discovered that Peter Lafroing had been hired by del Brasco to evaluate the painting, I almost threw up. And then learning that my own son was sleeping with Lynn Marshall, and that they know almost everything that’s going on, was too much to bear.”

Pims laid the knife on the counter. “And look at yourself, Luther,” he said, turning and facing the curator. “Sitting at my table sniveling like some pimply schoolboy caught cheating on an examination and fearing expulsion. Snap out of it, man!
Be
a man!”

Luther raised his head. “You’re right,” he said. “It isn’t the money. I can return the original to the National Gallery. All I want is peace.”

“Peace? Do you really think giving
Grottesca
back to Court Whitney and his bureaucratic cronies will buy you peace? It’s too late for that, Luther. As we speak, your boss, and Lord knows who else, are planning your public hanging. Your only option is to go forward. I’ve examined both paintings very carefully. Saison did a masterly job. Lafroing, despite his impressive credentials, will have a bugger of a time branding it a forgery.” His voice became louder. “Think of it, Luther. Think of having
Grottesca
hanging on the wall of your pleasant little apartment in Greece. Sunshine, soft breezes, no more groveling to the demands of the National Gallery and its artistic pretenders. Evenings on your veranda with nubile young women, a leaded goblet brimming with Metaxa in your
hand. And when you choose to be alone, there will always be the majesty of
Grottesca
in which to bask.”

Luther slumped in his chair. For the first time since launching his plan, he was incapable of making a decision. His internal reasoning circuits had shut down. That was why he’d come to Pims’s apartment in the first place. He needed another person to think through this final phase. There was no one else in the world to whom he could turn. Pims had been along for almost every mile of the wild ride.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Luther said again.

“Your ability to make rational judgments hasn’t been totally impaired. You had the wisdom to seek my counsel.” He pulled out a chair and sat opposite Mason. “Actually, Luther, things are not as grim as you think. Consider. While finding out that your own flesh and blood has been sleeping with your former paramour has battered your male ego, it doesn’t matter in the larger scheme of things. You’re better rid of both, which you are. They think you’re meeting these dreadful people representing del Brasco tomorrow night. But you’re doing it tonight. Which means they are out of the picture. By the time they discover what you’ve done, you’ll be on a plane to the Hellas, land of Homer and Hesiod, Demosthenes, Plato, Aristotle,
Iliad
, and
Odyssey
. Think of it, man! Greece! You and
Grottesca
.” He chuckled. “A fitting reward for having endured the parasites who’ve dominated your life.”

Detecting that his friend’s spirits might have picked up a bit, Pims continued his lecture.

“You’ve thought things out very nicely, Luther, despite your tenuous emotional state. The two choices you contemplate make sense.

“You meet Lafroing at the Atlas Building at the appointed hour. I shall drive you and remain in my car at a respectful distance. But never out of sight.

“You tell Peter you will hand over the painting to him then and there and that he has it for the next twenty-four hours. In return for this act of trust on your part, he is to give you a down payment on the million dollars. I rather think he will jump at the opportunity to walk away with the painting, probably cackling
to himself about what a fool you are to have given it up so easily and for such a meager amount. But you, Luther, shall have the last laugh. You will have the original
Grottesca
, as well as the down payment in your pocket.

“How much should you ask? As in all things, it depends on what the market will bear. I think asking for two or three hundred thousand dollars is more than reasonable. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know if Peter will have money with him. The others—”

“The others will be in close proximity, I assure you. All Peter has to do is step out of the building for a moment and get the money from them.”

Pims’s clear, forceful presentation served its purpose. Luther was calmer now. “Yes,” Mason said. “I see what you mean.”

Pims wasn’t finished. “Your other idea, of bribing Lafroing to give his client a false report, also has merit.”