Murder at the National Gallery (41 page)
Read Murder at the National Gallery Online
Authors: Margaret Truman
She placed her feet on the floor and leaned forward. “Yes?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “I might rise to the challenge.”
“Why is it different with me?” She didn’t allow him to answer. “Because I’m a woman?”
“Hmmm,” he muttered, biting his lip. “Because you’re my wife. My love.” He paused. “Maybe that is what’s behind my objection. Surprised at how chauvinistic I can be?”
She laughed. “Frankly, yes. Tell you what. If Steve, or Carole, or whoever asks me to help, I’ll tell you immediately and inform you of every move I make. No exceptions, no secrets. That way, we’ll be doing it together. As a team. We always talk about what a great team we are. Is it a deal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, leaving the couch and kneeling next to where he sat. She touched her fingertips to his cheek and turned his face to her. “I really want to do this if asked,” she said softly, offering her lips. He kissed her and caved in. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “But if there’s the slightest hint of anything that puts you in physical danger, we call it off. Right?”
“Right.” She offered her hand the way a partner would. He shook it, smiling. “By the way,” she said, “Steve has assigned some officers to keep an eye on me. Us. There should be one parked outside right now.”
“Terrific.”
“Just a precaution,” she said. “Just until this is resolved.”
“I have one more request,” he said.
“Which is?”
“That we agree to stop shaking hands. There are better ways—for us—to make up.”
“I am M. Scott Pims, your benevolent host of this week’s
Art Insider
, brought to you through the extreme generosity of viewers like you who support this public station.”
Mac and Annabel settled back in their study to watch Pims’s weekly television show. The tall, obese critic wore a red-satin smoking jacket over a black T-shirt on which, in white, was a line drawing of himself. He smiled at the camera as it zoomed in for a tight shot of his face.
“As you know,” he said, “recent events at the National Gallery not only have threatened to close down the splendid exhibition of Caravaggio works now on display, but appear to have rather stunning political implications as well. Naturally, you have kept up with this sordid tale through your conventional channels of disinformation—what a lovely word that is. But unless you join
me
each week, the true story will never be yours to know and understand.
“Here is what is at the
root
of it.”
Footage previously taken of
Grottesca
and the crowds ran as Pims talked over it:
“This is the original masterpiece called
Grottesca
, painted hundreds of years ago by an Italian madman named Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio. Mad, yes. Talented? Without peer. You know, of course, that this lost gem hung in our National Gallery for a month after having been discovered in Italy by a man who was not only senior curator at the Gallery and an acknowledged Caravaggio expert, but who was my friend. Luther Mason. His untimely death shocked us all. I was especially devastated by it.
“Before his unfortunate demise, Mason was accused of having stolen the original of
Grottesca
and of having had a copy made—obviously an excellent one—which he returned to the Italian government in place of the original. Because of my close friendship with him, I find it incomprehensible that he would stoop to such chicanery. But if he did—and let us for the moment assume that he did—the monumental question remains:
Where is the original?
”
Mac scratched the groove between Rufus’s eyes and muttered, “I really can’t stomach him.”
“It’s only a half hour,” Annabel replied. “Part of his charm, the reason people watch. He’s smart and funny along with bizarre and outrageous.” Rufus yawned and sprawled at Mac’s feet.
“He’s like an extra-large Truman Capote. Your last two adjectives could get him elected to Congress.”
“Sad to report,” said Pims, “that evidence recently uncovered lends a certain credence to the allegations against my dear deceased friend.”
“Pims is a friend nobody needs,” said Mac.
“Sssssh.”
“Luther had in his apartment an airline ticket to Athens, Greece, and additional travel documents from that city to the idyllic isle of Hydra, off the Greek coast.”
“I didn’t know that,” Annabel said. “Steve never mentioned it.”
“Probably because he didn’t want it public,” said Mac. “But Pims obviously knows. It’s public now.
If
it’s true.”
“I have also learned exclusively that Luther Mason had arranged for a moving company to empty out his apartment, all of it to go to his first wife, Juliana, in Paris.”
Another tight shot of Pims, whose eyebrows went up unnaturally high.
“Hardly the sort of a thing a man does unless—”
He shook his head sadly.
“Unless he was planning a swift and unannounced flight, perhaps with a work of art worth many millions of dollars on the open, albeit criminal, art market.”
“He’s playing judge and jury,” Mac said.
“But what else does he know?” asked Annabel.
Pims answered her question:
“It has come to my attention through my impeccable sources that the original
Grottesca
has already left the country, Italy its final destination. Furthermore, although our well-meaning local police—particularly what is known as its Art Squad, headed by a charming gentleman named Detective Jordan—refuse to verify it, Luther Mason’s death is being held open as a homicide. Which means, of course, that his assailant is the individual who has taken the original with him to Italy. Find that person and you find
Grottesca
—which is exactly what I intend to do, in your service.”
Pims turned to other matters to round out his half hour, including an update on Jean-Baptiste Oudry’s
The White Duck
, stolen in 1990 from Houghton Hall, the Norfolk house of the seventh marquess of Cholmondeley, England, and valued at more than $6 million. According to Pims, his “unimpeachable sources” were zeroing in on that painting’s whereabouts, too.
“I am M. Scott Pims, your eyes and ears on the world of art. See you next week. And remember, ‘All passes. Art alone enduring stays to us. The bust outlasts the throne.’
Ciao!
”
As Mac clicked off the TV, Annabel answered the phone. “Did you watch Pims tonight?” Steve Jordan asked.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Is it true about Greece and the movers?”
“Yes. It’s looking more every day like Mason really did try to pull this off.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What about our tape?” She’d given him the tape from their answering machine the day after it had been left.
“Our tech people say it sounds like someone disguising his voice.”
Annabel laughed. “Like putting a handkerchief over the phone?”
“Something a little more sophisticated. A favor?”
“What?”
“Mrs. Aprile has been very cooperative. But she’s a busy lady, has more on her mind than Caravaggio and stolen paintings. I guess that goes with being the Veep’s wife.”
“Certainly
this
Veep’s wife.”
“The problem is, I need her clout with other art cops. Especially the Italians. With her on the case, they tend to be a little more attentive.”
“What can I do, Steve?”
“Step up your involvement with her and the arts commission. Be my daily conduit into her. Not that you don’t have a full plate, too. It’s just that—”
“No explanation needed. I’ll be as involved as Carole allows me to be.”
“Good.”
“Do you think Pims is right about the painting already being in Italy?”
“It’s a good possibility. Those diplomatic pouches get fatter every day. Like Pims. I intend to talk to him again today. How’s Mac?”
“He was fine until we watched Scott. Not his favorite television personality.”
Jordan laughed. “The pompous bastard—pardon me—is out to show us up, solve the case by himself.”
“I’m sure you’ll take all the help you can get.”
“That’s right. But if you think Pims is insufferable now, imagine what he’ll be like if he finds
Grottesca
on his own. I’ll be in touch, Annabel.”
Scott Pims watched in his apartment. He was pleased with the show, although he made notes during it about certain production values he wanted changed. Too many crowds, too little art. Too tight on him in the closeups. Lousy lighting.
His phone rang a half-dozen times after the show, calls from friends congratulating him. “You’re very kind,” he said to them. “But one day, when I’m with a real network with money to back me up, you’ll really see the art of investigative art reporting. Ta-ta.”
At midnight, he placed a call of his own. It was nine o’clock in San Francisco. The call was answered by a man. “Del Brasco,” Pims said through the voice-altering telephone, enhancing the change by adopting what he considered to be a mobster’s voice, hoarse and guttural, word endings clipped.
“Who’s calling?”
“Somebody who can make things right with your boss. Come on. I don’t got all night.”
“Sorry. He’s not here.”
“Not there, or don’t want to talk to me?”
“Hey, look, I told you—”
Pims hung up.
He tried again at two o’clock his time. Del Brasco answered.
“How would you like the original
Grottesca
to replace the phony you ended up with?” Pims asked.
“Who the hell is this?” del Brasco snarled.
“A friend. Sorry about Lafroing. You must a’ been really pissed off.”
“How do I get
Grottesca
?”
“By doing exactly what I say. Interested, del Brasco?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll hear from me again.
Ciao
, baby.”
“Wait. I want to know what—”
Pims lowered the receiver into its cradle. Everything was proceeding very smoothly, like butt-ah. His smile turned to laughter as he pictured del Brasco looking at the original
Grottesca
and thinking it was a forgery, fuming at having laid out fifty thousand for it, enraged enough to have had Peter Lafroing killed, a turn of events Pims hadn’t considered a possibility when he placed the call informing del Brasco he’d been taken. All these people dying over one painting, he thought; that rascal Caravaggio must be grinning from his chair in that section of the Forever After reserved for mad geniuses—but not his, M. Scott Pims’s, fault, and certainly not what he’d intended.
He awoke Saturday morning to find a fax from Rome on his machine. It read:
Contact made
.
Awaiting next instruction
.
“Next instruction?” Pims mused over a hearty breakfast at a table set for one in his dining room. “Ah, yes,” he said aloud, opening a file folder marked
DUMBARTON
. In it was a report he’d typed after a friend on Dumbarton’s staff told him the story of the missing pre-Columbian pieces and of Annabel Reed-Smith’s role in helping Steve Jordan’s art squad recover them.
“Of course,” he said, padding barefoot to the kitchen, carrying his dirty dishes. “Of course.”
The detective sitting in his unmarked car across the street from the Smiths’ home in Foggy Bottom seemed embarrassed when Annabel waved to him Saturday morning as she stepped through the front door. The air was crisp and clear at seven-thirty. A “fat day,” as Mac would say.
She retrieved their blue Caprice from their rented garage a few doors down the block and drove quickly through Washington’s empty streets to the Naval Observatory on upper Massachusetts Ave., where two Secret Service agents waved her through the entrance gate. She pulled up in front of the home of the vice president. The detective, who’d followed at a respectful distance, parked across the street. Another agent escorted Annabel inside, where Carole Aprile was waiting. After a hug and some preliminary chitchat, they settled in the Second Lady’s small office at the rear of the house.
“Another call?” Annabel said, accepting a cup of coffee.
“Yes. Steve Jordan picked up the tape a few minutes ago.”
“Who can it be, Carole? Is it some sick individual playing a hoax?”
“I don’t know. Whoever it is knows a lot about what’s going on. He mentioned you.”
“Mentioned me?”
“Yes. Here. I transcribed his message.” She handed Annabel a neatly typed note:
Now listen to me, Mrs. Aprile. If you and the government
want this Grottesca mess resolved, you do exactly what I say. You’re a busy lady. But your friend, Mrs. Smith, isn’t so busy. Tell her to have her bags packed and be ready to go. More later
.
“Did he leave this on your machine at the White House?”
“No. He called here on my private number. I picked up. The minute I realized who it was, I pressed a button on my machine that records both sides of the call.”
“How did he get your private number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it the same voice?”
“No. This time it was high-pitched, a whiny voice. Kind of a ‘dem and dose’ speech.”
“No Italian accent?”
She shook her head.
“Steve thinks it’s someone disguising his voice, maybe using some sort of gadget.”
“That makes sense considering it’s different each time he calls. Unless there’s more than one person making the calls. What’s Mac think of all this?”
“He’s concerned.”
“As well he should be. Annabel, when Steve heard the reference to you, he said he wanted to get us together, have a meeting, decide what to do if the caller gives instructions for you to follow.”
Annabel frowned and chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“Not that you’d have to do anything if you didn’t want to. But Steve made some comment about you being willing—no, he said you
knew
about this sort of thing.”
“I suppose I do. Keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
Annabel told Carole about how she’d helped Jordan recover the missing artifacts from Dumbarton Oaks. Carole listened with wide eyes and a bemused smile on her lips. When Annabel was through, Carole said, “I’m impressed.”