Murder at the National Gallery Read online

  It didn’t take Annabel long to discover that she would have plenty of free moments in which to take him up on his offer. After a much-needed nap in the Valadier Hotel, she accompanied Mason to the noon meeting at the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi, lender to the exhibition of The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew and The Inspiration of Saint Matthew. They were there less than a half hour. From what Annabel observed, everything had been worked out long ago; the visit was pro forma, the conversation with church elders nothing more than a pleasant exchange about Caravaggio’s importance.

  Next, they went to the Galleria Doria-Pamphili, where Caravaggio’s Penitent Mary Magdalene hung. There, too, Caravaggio’s impact upon art was briefly discussed, along with the splendid weather Rome was enjoying, the Italian soccer team’s chances in the World Cup, and the Pope’s book and its multimillion-dollar advance and best-seller status.

  That was it for the first day. Tomorrow, Mason told her, they would meet briefly with officials at the Galleria Borghese. The rest of the time in Rome was Annabel’s to enjoy. Because Mason was preoccupied with what he termed “personal commitments,” and Don Fechter was busy making final inspections of works to be crated and sent to Washington, as well as preparing for his trip to Malta, Annabel took Giliberti up on his offer to play escort. She’d expressed interest during the ride in from the airport at seeing the sculptures in the Museo Torlonia, one of the largest private collections of antiquities in Europe, and open by appointment only. “Non è problema,” Giliberti said, a favorite expression, and they spent a pleasant two hours admiring the collection.

  That evening, neither Mason nor Fechter was available for dinner, so Annabel dined with Carlo at Hostaria L’Angoletto, a small restaurant near the Pantheon. He was twenty minutes late but contrite. Annabel said she wanted to eat light, but Carlo would not hear of it. “I will help you finish what you don’t eat,” he said, ordering puntarelle—crunchy stalks of chicory dressed with anchovies, crushed garlic, olive oil, and vinegar; peperonata—chicken stewed in roasted peppers; and two pasta dishes. A satisfying bottle of a red Torre Ercolana, from the hills of the Castelli Romani southeast of the city, nicely complemented the meal.

  He kissed her hand in front of the hotel and said he would pick her up the next morning in time for her eleven o’clock meeting. Annabel made a mental note: Carlo at 11:00 A.M. Or 11:15. The minute she was alone in her room, she called her husband.

  “What time is it there?” he asked.

  “About eleven. How are you?”

  “Fine. I had a good day. One of my students actually made sense this morning. Oh, I took Rufus to the vet. He twisted his hind leg. Nothing broken but he’s hobbling.” Rufus was their blue Great Dane.

  “Poor fella. Give him a hug for me.”

  “Hugging Rufus could put me in the hospital. Besides, you haven’t been away that long.”

  She filled him in on her day in Rome.

  “Sounds like all play, no work,” he said.

  “Just about. Don Fechter seems busy. Luther? Well, he’s busy with lots of personal things.” She told him about her dinner with Carlo.

  “Watch the hands, Annabel.”

  “He’s a gentleman, Mac. The eyes are in constant motion but …”

  “Carole Aprile called. Wondered if I’d heard from you.”

  “Anything urgent?”

  “No. I said we’d be talking.”

  “I’ll call her before I go to bed. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “You haven’t gotten any tattoos, have you?”

  “Just one, a two-foot heart with your initials.”

  “Where?”

  “Show you when you get home. Have a good sleep and enjoy the rest of your time there.”

  Annabel was pleased to find Carole at home. “Mac said you called,” she said.

  “Yes. How’s Rome?”

  “Lovely. I’m not sure why I’m here but—”

  “Why?”

  Annabel laughed. “A few brief meetings that seem to accomplish nothing, or not much, and lots of free time.”

  “I talked to Court Whitney today. He raised concerns about the budget for the Caravaggio show.”

  “And here I am in Rome on taxpayer money. I hope I don’t end up being called a ‘junket junkie’ in some exposé.”

  “No fear of that. Look, Annabel, while you’re there, keep a mental note of how much actual time is spent on business.”

  “I’m uncomfortable being in that position, Carole. I’d make a bad whistle-blower.”

  “I’m not asking you to do that. The Gallery’s budget really isn’t my concern. It’s just that Court says Luther Mason is virtually commuting to Italy these days.”

  “Well, it’s his exhibition. I’d be the last person to second-guess him.”

  “Of course not. Is everything going smoothly with the lenders?”

  “Seems to be. Almost too smoothly.”

  “The government officials involved?”

  “I haven’t met any, except for Carlo Giliberti.”

  “Cultural attaché. I understand he’s been immeasurably helpful.”

  “Speaking of smooth, he sure knows his way around.”

  “I’m sure he does. Anyway, thanks for calling. Maybe we can catch up for coffee when you get back.”

  “Love it. Good night, Carole. Speak with you soon.” Following the cursory meeting the following midmorning at Galleria Borghese, Mason excused himself—lunch with an old friend—and Annabel set off with Giliberti and their driver. She bought herself a box of elegant stationery, a copy of the art magazine FMR at Franco Maria Ricci, and handmade beeswax candles for Christmas gifts at Pisoni. After considerable debate, she also decided to buy Mac a nineteenth-century walking stick that had caught her eye in the window of La Gazza Ladra. Mac never carried a walking stick but had collected a half-dozen of them that he proudly displayed in an antique umbrella stand.

  They ended the afternoon browsing art galleries on via Margutta. As they admired a series of Cubist nudes by a young Italian artist, Giliberti whispered, “E più bella di tutti questi quadri.”

  “Pardon?” said Annabel.

  “You are more beautiful than all these pictures.”

  She laughed. “I would certainly hope so, Carlo. Somehow, Cubism has never struck me as an especially attractive way to represent women. But thank you anyway. Time to go.”

  “Si. You will be joining us for dinner this evening?”

  “Absolutely. I’m glad Luther can make it. I haven’t seen much of him since we arrived.”

  They gathered for dinner at Andrea, in the via Veneto section, where they had lobster bisque that was, in Annabel’s modest culinary opinion, to die for, and straccetti di manzo con porcini e tartufi, thin strips of sautéed beef brought to life by porcini mushrooms and truffles.

  Everyone was in an expansive mood. Their animated conversation ran the gamut from whether Washington art dealer Chris Middendorf was a genius or a tasteless con man, to new developments in the conservation of old paintings, which set Don Fechter off on a fascinating journey through that complicated, sometimes controversial field. He’d just finished recounting the techniques that had been used in restoring Bellini’s The Feast of the Gods when Annabel said, “I hate to interrupt, but I have a plane to catch.”

  Mason checked his watch. “Right you are, Annabel. Your driver can take her, Carlo?”

  “Of course.”

  “My luggage is with the concierge at the hotel,” she said.

  “You can pick it up on the way,” Giliberti said. “I would go with you but I have a date here in the city with a cousin I haven’t seen in a long time.”

  “I’ll go with you, Annabel,” Mason said, suppressing a smile at Carlo’s cousin story.

  “No need,” she said. “As long as the driver—”

  “My pleasure,” said Mason. “I’m supposed to pick up a rental car in the morning. I’m taking an extra day to spend with friends in the countryside.
I’ll pick it up tonight at the airport instead.”

  Luther said, as they headed for the airport, “I have an apology for you, Annabel.”

  “Apology? For what?”

  “For being so unavailable. I’m not sure I’ve adequately indicated my pleasure at having you with us on this trip. In having you involved in the exhibition, period.”

  “You’re a busy man, Luther. You have a lot on your mind.”

  “Which is no excuse for ungentlemanly behavior.”

  “Say no more. I loved being in Rome, learning more about Caravaggio and seeing how a few of the pieces come together. My appetite for the show has certainly been whetted. I can’t wait to see all those masterpieces together in one space.”

  “Nor can I. To me, as you’ve undoubtedly guessed, it’s not just a show. It’s the culmination of a lifelong dream. Of course, being in close proximity to Caravaggio will be only temporary. Six months. But I intend to soak in his genius and beauty every minute he’s there.”

  Annabel found it interesting that Mason spoke as though the artist himself would be present. Such dedication, she thought. It was because of the Luther Masons of the art world that shows such as the Caravaggio ever saw the light of day. America’s Museum—sorry, Gallery—was fortunate to have him.

  The airport was busy when they arrived. Mason told the driver to wait and accompanied Annabel inside. She checked the departure board. They’d made good time; she had more than an hour before her flight.

  Mason excused himself and headed for the Maiellano Car Rental counter. Annabel decided to wait until he’d finished his transaction before getting in line for Customs and Passport Control. She idly crossed the terminal and came up behind Luther, who was going over a map with the rental-car agent. Annabel was close enough to hear their conversation. He was going to a town called Ravello, off the A2, south of Pompeii.

  Mason seemed startled when he realized she was so close.

  “Long drive ahead of you?” Annabel asked pleasantly.

  “No. Just a few hours.”

  “Thank you again, Luther, for these past two days.”

  He smiled and shook her hand. “Drive safely,” she said. “You know how Italians are on the road.”

  “I’m well aware,” he said. “Carlo missed his calling. I think he got his license at a Monte Carlo rally. Have a pleasant flight, Annabel. At least Mr. Giliberti won’t be your pilot.”

  Of all the places in Italy Mason had visited over the years, Ravello ranked high on his list of favorites. It was situated high, on cliffs above Amalfi, approximately twenty miles northeast of Positano and two hundred miles northwest of Cosenza, where the fledgling mafioso, Giovanni Saltore, had his career cut short after stealing paintings from San Francesco di Assisi.

  Ravello represented to Mason almost everything lovely about Italy. He knew he was not alone in that assessment. In 1880, Wagner was so taken by the romantic splendor of Ravello’s Villa Rufolo that he exclaimed, “The magic garden of Klingsor has been found.” Mason had attended the annual July Wagner Festival held in Ravello on two occasions. And once, during a sabbatical from the Gallery, he’d lived there for two months.

  He arrived before noon, checked into the Villa Maria Hotel, and enjoyed a light lunch. Later, he sipped a sweet vermouth on the grassy terrace, transfixed by the view before him, the sea far in the distance, framed by the majestic hills of Amalfi.

  He spent an hour in the town’s cathedral before getting into his rented car and driving twenty minutes to a small church with crumbling masonry. Weeds and vines obscured its façade. A wooden sign that had once announced the times of services was broken; pieces of it lay on the ground.

  Mason got out and approached the overgrown front door. He was about to knock when the door opened. A short, spare man wearing a blue chambray shirt, baggy gray pants, and sandals faced him. Mason judged him to be in his seventies. He was mostly bald; hair that appeared to have been dyed black was wet and combed close to his temples. His eyes were small and black, set close together in the thin, angular face. A carefully trimmed pencil moustache looked as though it had been painted on his upper lip with a black felt marker. “Father Giocondi?” Mason said.

  “Si. You are Signor Mason.”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  They entered a large room where once pews and an altar had dominated. But that was when the parish had a congregation and before its beloved priest had cut his deal with the Vatican.

  Besides being a man of the cloth, Father Pasquale Giocondi had been a thief. Dirt poor, he’d entered the priesthood at the outbreak of World War II as a safer alternative to joining the Italian army and soon discovered there were fringe benefits to having become Father Giocondi. No reason to give up his earlier vocation. There were black-market goods to be laundered and sold and favors to dispense to politicians and businessmen. The war was good to Giocondi; he did not celebrate its end. For years afterward he tended to his faithful flock in the small church outside Ravello and took a little extra off the top of the collection plate in return for dispensing his blessings upon them. Eventually, his misdeeds were discovered—and proved by a papal board of inquiry—causing the good father to do what any citizen might do. He hired a lawyer, who hard-bargained with Vatican attorneys: “The church doesn’t need this sort of scandal,” the attorney told his Vatican adversaries, the wisdom of which wasn’t lost on the church’s hierarchy. What came out of these negotiations wasn’t ideal as far as Giocondi was concerned, but it wasn’t a bad deal, either. The parish was scheduled to be closed anyway, its parishioners to be served by a newer facility a few miles away. In order to avoid scandal, the Vatican agreed that Giocondi could “retire” and receive his pension, and they gave him the run-down church in which to live out his life.

  He’d lived there for the past seven years, not exactly in a lavish manner but comfortably enough. His status as a retired holy man proved useful at times to certain people in need of a middleman or courier unlikely to be challenged. There were the occasional trips to Rome and Milan and Sicily—he never questioned what was in the small packages he delivered to unnamed persons in those places. And there had been the paintings he’d stored in his home, his former church, and that he sometimes transported from Ravello to other towns and cities. That’s how he’d met in passing Italy’s cultural attaché to the United States, Carlo Giliberti, who took an uncommon interest in this messenger, not of God but of the Godfathers.

  “Please, sit down, Mr. Mason. It is my honor to have you visit me,” said Giocondi. He motioned to a pair of comfortable upholstered chairs in front of the unused altar.

  “I don’t have much time, Father Giocondi.” Luther reached into the inner pocket of his blazer, removed two envelopes, and handed them to him. “Here,” he said. “It’s the cash you requested as a down payment and your ticket to Washington. Included with the ticket is a letter of instructions, which you are to destroy once you’ve memorized it. I believe Signor Giliberti has told you to wear your priestly garments at the black-tie dinner.”

  “Si. I understand.”

  “I have made arrangements for you to stay at a hotel outside Washington,” Mason said. “Those directions are included with your airline ticket.”

  Giocondi nodded.

  Mason checked his watch. “I have only an hour to go over things with you so that you understand perfectly how you are to act and what you are to say. I would like to do that now.”

  “Of course.”

  “I had understood you speak excellent English, and I can hear why they say that about you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mason looked around the church’s interior. “Then we will speak more, but not in here,” he said. He had thought carefully about this meeting, about every meeting he was to have from this point forward. You couldn’t be too careful. He’d read detective novels in which the unsuspecting were overheard, even tape-recorded, and there were, of course, real-life events in Washington involvi
ng taped meetings that had brought down a sitting president. “Outside,” he said. It was suddenly an order.

  Giocondi led them through a rear door; Mason had to duck to avoid hitting his head. They walked fifty yards from the church to where a cracked and discolored marble birdbath sat at a tilted angle beneath a diseased oak. Three rusting white-metal benches haphazardly surrounded the birdbath. Mason took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped off one of the benches, and sat. Father Giocondi didn’t bother cleaning his perch. Mason drew a deep breath and swatted at a fly that landed on his forehead. Rehearsal time. Looking directly at Father Pasquale Giocondi, he said, “Shall we begin?”

  8

  A FEW DAYS LATER

  At first, Courtney Whitney III, director of the National Gallery, thought the ringing telephone was part of a dream. But he realized that the dream was over. The ringing was a jarring 5:00 A.M. reality.

  He reached across his muttering wife, knocked the phone from the small night table, slid down the bed, sprawled across her legs, fumbled on the floor for the receiver, and found it. “Hello?”

  “Court. It’s Luther.”

  “Luther? For God’s sake, where are you? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’m in Rome, about to catch a flight back to Washington. Sorry to wake you, but it’s urgent. You know I wouldn’t make such a call unless it was important.”

  “Urgent? Are you sick? Is something wrong with you?”

  “No. To the contrary. I have made an unbelievable discovery, Court. You must meet with me the moment I arrive in Washington. Will you come to the airport?”

  “Come to the airport?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to discuss this at the Gallery. Believe me, Court, you’ll be pleased you did.”

  By this time, Sue Whitney had turned on a light and was sitting up. Whitney sat on the edge of the bed, the receiver to his ear, his other hand pressed against his forehead. “All right, Luther, I’ll meet you.”