Murder at the National Gallery Page 14

  What if this, what if that …?

  What if, Luther sometimes pondered, he were to learn of the availability of a rare painting that had been stolen—find a wealthy collector who would advance the money to purchase it—have a perfect copy made to pawn off on the collector—and wing off to a faraway land, the original masterpiece clutched to his bosom like a shield?

  It remained only that, of course, a what-if exercise.

  Until the day Carlo Giliberti told him that a newly uncovered painting was for sale in Italy. When Giliberti said it was the Grottesca, Mason couldn’t believe his ears—and fantasy began to blend with harder thoughts.

  What if?

  What if he could come up with a wealthy, unscrupulous collector—not a rare breed—to advance the money to purchase Grottesca from Giliberti’s source in Italy?

  Luther had kept his daydream to himself until one night, when drunk, he shared it with his good friend, gadfly and television commentator M. Scott Pims. Pims found the whole exercise to be “high fun” and encouraged Mason to continue his conjuring.

  When Luther brought up the question of how a perfect copy might be made, Pims said without hesitation, “Jacques Saison, of course.”

  Mason was dimly aware of the Frenchman’s reputation as a master forger of fine art. “How much does Saison charge?” he asked Pims.

  “Depends upon the work in question,” Pims replied. “Of course, you might be better off with two copies.”

  “Two? Why?”

  “Well, let’s be logical. This wealthy collector, whoever he may be, will want solid verification of the authenticity of his ‘purchase.’ And who could blame him?”

  “Still, why two copies?” Mason repeated.

  “What better way to authenticate a lost masterpiece than to have your beloved National Gallery do it?”

  “Give the original Grottesca to the Gallery? Ridiculous! If this were possible, if this fantasy were to become reality, I would want to end up with the original.”

  “Of course. And you would. I love this! What fun. Listen carefully to me, Luther. I’ll make it simple for you. One, you arrange with someone, this mythical collector, to advance you the money to purchase Grottesca. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “I was thinking of someone in California. San Francisco.”

  “Franco del Brasco.”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “I know only two things about the man. One, he is wealthy and has been looking for an original Caravaggio for years. Two, his is not ‘old’ money in the traditional sense. His ‘family’ has a long Italian name. Broken kneecaps rather than textiles or steel. All right, Luther, let us say it is Mr. Franco del Brasco who advances you money to go through with your tantalizing little scheme. In return for your delivering Grottesca to him, he pays you a handsome ‘finder’s fee.’ Say, a million dollars.”

  “I wouldn’t want the money.”

  “Quiet, Luther. Don’t interrupt my flow of thought. You purchase the original from Carlo’s source in Italy, using del Brasco’s front money. You take it to Jacques Saison—there are other forgers, but Saison is the best—and have him make two copies.”

  Luther started to say something, but Pims held up a fat hand. “You then announce to the world that you, Luther C. Mason, the world’s leading Caravaggio expert, have ‘found’ Grottesca in Italy. With me so far?”

  Luther nodded.

  “You arrange for the original to come to Washington to anchor the Caravaggio exhibition. You’ll be a hero with your employer and all of America. Maybe even parades, Luther. Twenty-one-gun salutes.”

  Mason couldn’t help but laugh.

  “The original will be authenticated for del Brasco’s sake by none other than America’s Museum. Unassailable. Beyond debate.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “Then, my friend, one of the copies is returned to Italy, the other goes to del Brasco. Del Brasco pays you your fee. You, the money, and the original Grottesca wing off to find the meaning of life. Brilliant?”

  “Inventive.”

  “The key is the National Gallery’s connoisseurship. God, Luther, sometimes I even amaze myself.”

  They were sitting in Pims’s living room. Pims leaned close to Mason and fixed him in a serious stare. “So, Luther, this coinage of your fertile brain has gone beyond wishful thinking.”

  Luther averted Pims’s probing eyes. He looked at his shoe-tops, then up. “Yes,” he said.

  “Splendid. Go for it, Luther!” His booming voice reverberated about the large room.

  Luther didn’t make his decision to “go for it” until a few days later. Pims kept up his enthusiastic encouragement. Carlo Giliberti urged Luther to make up his mind. “My source in Italy will not wait much longer,” he said.

  And so straight-arrow, law-abiding, ethical, and honest Luther Mason went for it.

  He contacted Franco del Brasco, who agreed to put up the money.

  Luther met with Giliberti’s Italian source, the old mafioso Luigi Sensi, and bought Grottesca.

  Because he was reluctant to bring the painting himself to the alcoholic French forger, Jacques Saison, Carlo Giliberti did it, after Luther agreed to give him a greater share of del Brasco’s fee.

  Adding the old defrocked priest, Pasquale Giocondi, to the mix was Giliberti’s idea. He felt that Mason’s claim to have discovered Grottesca in Italy needed to be supported by a third party. And so he turned to Giocondi, who’d done him a few “favors” over the years.

  All in all, Luther mused, as he accepted a drink from the flight attendant, things had gone remarkably well.

  Until now.

  Because he was not a greedy man, Mason did not understand greed on the part of others. Sensi’s greed, and Giliberti’s willingness to feed it, had probably gotten his dapper little Italian friend murdered. And the priest had now made noises about wanting more. At least Scott Pims wasn’t asking for money. His payoff seemed to be meeting the challenge—and being in on it.

  It occurred to Mason that this mission to Franco del Brasco might get him killed, too. Once you caved in to demands for more money, where did it stop? Still, he felt he had to try. Carlo might be dead, but that wouldn’t deter Sensi from going after Luther directly for the money, possibly using the same men who worked for the Italian Embassy, and for Sensi. All he needed was enough time for the original Caravaggio to be exhibited and for the copies to be distributed. Then …

  He whiled away the hour layover in Dallas nursing a drink in the airport bar. The flight to San Francisco was full. Seated next to him was a stout woman, the flesh of her stubby fingers partially obscured beneath a dozen large, ornate rings. Her perfume was repugnant. Luther would have changed seats had there been another open. He pressed himself against the wall of the aircraft, placed a pillow between it and his head, and attempted to sleep away this leg of the trip.

  But sleep escaped him. His mind was too active to shut down.

  Where would he go once it was over? He’d have to make that decision soon. He blotted out the incessant whine of the jet’s engines and allowed a familiar fantasy to consume him. In it, he’d taken Grottesca to a warm place where, in a simple and sparse apartment painted stark white, Caravaggio’s masterpiece was displayed for his eyes alone. His life in this dream was as simple and spare as his apartment. He didn’t need a lot of money, just enough to live out his life in serenity, and with the Grottesca to nourish his soul.

  His imagined white apartment had a small balcony overlooking a body of water, preferably an ocean, but an inlet, a lake, even a stream would do. He’d find a cafe close by at which to take his meals. He’d use a new name. Jones? Smith? “Ah, Mr. Smith, your usual table?” They would consider him a nice man, a quiet, unassuming American who’d retired from his job as—Executive? Teacher? Librarian? Yes, a librarian. Like his mother.

  He was not alone in this pleasant vision. There were women, too, but never one he’d met at an art gallery or museum. Too risky. One might recognize the
Caravaggio as the real thing. The voluptuous young women in his dream shared his bed, but not his mind. They knew nothing about art. “That?” he’d say when they commented upon Grottesca. “Just a cheap print.” If celibacy became necessary to preserve the peace, so be it.

  In his fantasy he sent money to his mother and to Julian. A hundred thousand each. More if he could afford it. He would pot become penurious in his new life.

  Although Luther was exhausted when he reached San Francisco, the cab ride into the city rejuvenated him. San Francisco was, for Luther, still a magical place, filled with memories of when he and Juliana had lived there. As he stood in front of the St. Francis, a sense of urgency overcame him. It was as though a doctor had given him only a few days to live in which to recreate those carefree, pleasurable moments. A drive to the wine country, tasting along the way. He and Juliana had once taken a mud bath at a spa in Calistoga. (She’d loved it, but the heat had caused his sensitive skin to break out into an itchy rash that lasted for days.) Picnics beneath 250-foot-tall redwoods in Muir Woods, across the Golden Gate. Pasta and jazz in North Beach. Cheap wine parties with artist friends. Walks hand in hand, leg muscles aching after reaching the top of the city’s fabled hills.

  He crossed the black marble lobby with its gold-topped columns and peered into the Compass Rose Bar, where he and Juliana had toasted special occasions, surrounded by the room’s exquisite dark woodwork and served by bartenders who resisted conversation with customers.

  “Yes, Mr. Mason, we have your reservation,” said the desk clerk.

  “Would the Windsor Suite happen to be available?” Luther asked.

  “The Windsor?” The young man at the desk raised his eyebrows. The Windsor Suite, home-away-from-home for Queen Elizabeth II, Emperor Hirohito, and numerous presidents of the United States, cost $1,500 a night. “You’ll be staying for just one night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid there’s a party in the Windsor.”

  “Another suite?” Luther said.

  “The Bayview is available. Next to the Windsor.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll stay in the Bayview tonight.”

  “Of course.” The young man quickly added, “The Bayview is twelve hundred for the night.”

  Luther placed his American Express card on the counter.

  The bellman pressed a button upon entering Suite 3178, causing electronically operated drapes to open, exposing an outstanding view of the bay and Bay Bridge, the Santa Cruz Mountains, and the lights of the city. Luther unpacked and neatly arranged his clothing in drawers and closet. He hadn’t eaten on the Dallas–San Francisco flight and was hungry. He considered room service but opted instead to walk to the bustling Kuleto’s a few blocks away, where he sat at the counter and ordered antipasti—oysters on the half shell with mignonette, grilled radicchio and pancetta with goat-cheese-and-basil vinaigrette, and a selection of marinated vegetables. Two pleasant glasses of Franciscan Zinfandel went well with the food.

  He walked after eating, no destination in mind, just enjoying the feel and look of the city. He returned to the hotel and arranged for a wake-up call and for breakfast to be delivered at eight. It occurred to him as he fell asleep in the king-sized bed that staying in a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-night suite represented the most extravagant act of his life. Which was all right, he decided, as light from a full moon streamed through the windows, casting a moving pattern over him. Because he’d chosen to abandon his mundane, predictable life, a burst of extravagance seemed in order.

  Franco del Brasco lived in a mansion in the Nob Hill section of the city, a few blocks from the Mark Hopkins Hotel, in a home that seemed almost as large. The lavish house was listed in sightseeing guides as a prime example of the opulent turn-of-the-century architectural style that characterized the area.

  Del Brasco’s renovation had cost millions, and his exterior decoration included an eight-foot-high brick wall topped with coiled barbed wire, and an elaborate electronic security system. Floodlights illuminated the exterior. Every window in the twenty-one rooms was fitted with electronic shutters that rolled up and down at the touch of a button.

  His three-person house staff lived in apartments above a six-car garage. There was a Mexican housekeeper and cook, a Chinese “manservant,” and a middle-aged Brit who functioned as del Brasco’s chauffeur, as well as overseeing the gardeners who arrived each day.

  Del Brasco did not live in the house alone. A wing on the southeast corner housed two young men, whose function was to protect their boss and his possessions and to be on tap when he was in the mood for a game of chess, or darts, or billiards.

  At eleven that morning, del Brasco sat in his private office staring at a computer screen. Financial symbols and numbers swam across it in a ceaseless stream. Gina, the housekeeper, had delivered breakfast—fresh fruit, a dry English muffin, and a silver pot containing green tea. He was dressed in pajamas and robe. The electronic shutters were closed on all windows except the one immediately next to the desk, affording him a view of an elaborately simple Japanese garden.

  He rubbed his eyes. He’d stayed up until three that morning playing chess with one of his bodyguards. After dismissing him, del Brasco did what he usually did before retiring. He walked from room to room admiring his collection. Some of the rooms were arranged as they might be in an eclectic gallery. One featured California artists. Another contained some of the best examples of Chinese art. The two largest rooms, joined by a wide, soaring archway, were reserved for Old Masters, and younger ones—the Spaniards de Goya and Murillo; a magnificent nude by the German Cranach; and representative works by Clouet, Delacroix, Sargent, Picasso, and Velázquez, the Velázquez painted early in his career, while he was under the influence of Michelangelo Caravaggio.

  On some nights, del Brasco ended his tour in the basement, where two climate-controlled rooms the size of ordinary tract houses warehoused dozens of other valuable works of art whose provenance was not as pristine as those in the collection upstairs.

  He looked up at a large antique clock on the wall. Eleven-fifteen. That faggot Mason would be arriving shortly. He went upstairs to the 20 × 20 master bath, one of six. The marble was Italian, the fixtures solid gold. A steam room occupied one corner, a Jacuzzi another. He removed his robe and pajamas and examined himself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. At sixty, he was in excellent shape, thanks to a fully equipped gymnasium in the basement, the daily ministrations of a personal trainer, and a healthy diet. His six-foot body was lean and well defined. Living in California agreed with him.

  He lifted his head and turned it left and right, chagrined at a slight accumulation of flesh beneath his chin. He leaned closer to the mirror and vigorously ran his fingertips through white hair the consistency of a wire brush. Dark circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced this morning. Time for another spa visit.

  By the time he’d dressed in a white silk shirt, black trousers, and black loafers sans socks, and returned to his study, Luther Mason had been waiting a half hour. The muscular young man who’d met him at the front gate looked sinister to Mason, despite a helmet of soft, blond curls falling gently over his forehead and neck. He’d led Luther to a small anteroom and told him to wait.

  A half hour later, Blond Curls escorted Mason to Franco del Brasco’s study, where the owner posed by a fireplace, his elbow resting casually on the mantel. “Mr. Mason. Excuse me for keeping you waiting. I had other business to attend to.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. del Brasco. Your house—I suppose I should call it a mansion—is magnificent.” Mason’s only other meeting with del Brasco had taken place in a restaurant in Sausalito.

  “And expensive to keep up. Would you like a cup of tea?” He hadn’t moved.

  Mason declined. He didn’t want a situation in which a shaky hand was noticeable.

  Del Brasco crossed the room to a table on which a scalemodel of a series of buildings was displayed, motioning Mason to his side. “This new wing on the hospital bears my name
, Mr. Mason,” he said. “A children’s wing. I paid for it.”

  Luther said, “I think that’s—well, I think that’s a wonderful thing to do, Mr. del Brasco.”

  “I believe in giving back,” del Brasco said. He abruptly left Mason’s side and sat behind his desk. “Sit. Tell me what’s on your mind. I have other appointments.”

  “I’m here because of Grottesca, of course.”

  “There is a problem?”

  Luther shook his head. “Oh, no, everything is going just as we planned. The painting is at the National Gallery, being subjected to many tests to determine its authenticity. Obviously, there will be no problem in establishing that it is, in fact, the lost Caravaggio.”

  “Such tests can only decide that it could not have come from Caravaggio’s hand. They can never prove it did.”

  “Good point, Mr. del Brasco. But between the testing, other Caravaggio experts coming in to examine the painting, and my own expertise, there won’t be any doubt of its authorship. A copy of the original is being made as we speak. When it is time to return Grottesca to Italy, it will be the copy that goes there. You’ll have the original.”

  “I can be certain of that?”

  “Why yes. Of course. You don’t think that—?”

  Del Brasco shrugged. “You have a reputation as an honest man, Mr. Mason. Yet you are stealing a valuable painting.”

  “Not stealing,” Luther said. “It had already been stolen. All I did was—”

  “Enough,” said del Brasco. “I simply make the point that despite your reputation, you are obviously not above breaking the law. Which is fine with me. But I will have the original Grottesca. Correct?”

  “You can be assured of it.” Luther drew a deep breath before adding, “It will be necessary, however, for more money to be paid to the individual in Italy who arranged this.”

  Del Brasco said nothing.

  “I hesitated coming here today to ask for more. You’ve been generous in advancing all the funds needed up to this point. But you know how these people are.”