Read Murder at the National Gallery Online
Authors: Margaret Truman
Murder at the National Gallery (46 page)
“Where are you going?” Mac asked.
“Up,” said Colarulli.
“Not without me you’re not,” Mac said.
“Please, it is better that—”
“He’s coming with us,” said Jordan, knowing there was no way to prevent it.
“As you wish,” Colarulli said. “But stay back. Behind us.”
They started up, the police fanning out across the road, guns drawn, Mac in lockstep with Steve Jordan.
Jordan waved the party to a halt. “Whose car is that?” he asked, referring to a silver-gray Mercedes parked beneath some trees.
No one had an answer.
They continued to climb, slower now, more alert, senses tuned to their surroundings. They reached a relatively level dirt area where the black Mercedes that had led them to this lonely, lovely, forbidding spot was parked, along with four other vehicles—a muddy brown Mercedes and three Volvo panel trucks. Jordan and Mac checked the cars. Empty.
“What the hell is going on?” Jordan asked.
He was answered by a sudden burst of light emanating from behind a row of trees separating them from the hill’s plateau. They tensed; the officers crouched, held their weapons in both hands, and pointed them toward the trees.
“Slow,” Colarulli said, leading a further advance.
They reached the trees and peered beyond. The lights originated from floods mounted on stands and taped to trees, powered by large generators that had been trucked in. Mac spotted Annabel at one end of the clearing with two other people, one of whom held a gun. He strained to make out the other face. “Julian Mason?” he said.
At the opposite side of the tract stood three men, none of whom were familiar to Mac. One had a helmet of Harpo Marx–style blond curls that appeared to have been pasted on his head.
An amplified voice cut through the evening. “Come up and join us.”
“He’s got a bullhorn,” Jordan said.
“Those are cameras over there,” Paul Colarulli said, pointing to a raised area formed naturally by a rock shelf worn smooth over centuries by wind and rain.
“Jesus,” Mac muttered. “That’s Scott Pims.” Next to him stood “Count” Filippo Testa.
“Come, come,” Pims said through the battery-powered bullhorn. “The party’s just beginning.”
Mac stepped away from the police and into the glare of the lights. “Come here, Annabel,” he shouted, beckoning her with his hand. “Let her go.”
“All in due time, Mackensie,” said Pims. “First, there is business to be conducted.”
All eyes were on Pims, who was dressed in black trousers and a billowing black shirt with puff sleeves. Draped behind
him was a huge blowup of an ink-on-paper drawing of a bearded young man. As everyone watched, Pims said into the camera:
“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. And I welcome those of you now able to join me on this visionary cable network.”
He indicated the drawing.
“Behind me is the face of one of the world’s great artistic geniuses, Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio. It is in his honor that we gather here this evening on a windswept plateau in Italy overlooking the magnificent Adriatic. It is here that we invoke the spirit of Caravaggio—and solve the mystery of
Grottesca
.”
“The son of a bitch is turning this into a TV show,” Mac said to Jordan.
“Looks like it.”
“We have many distinguished guests on this week’s program,”
Pims said.
“The government of the United States, which was terribly embarrassed when it lost
Grottesca
, is represented by one Annabel Reed-Smith, who appears here as an emissary of the White House’s Commission on the Arts. Welcome, Mrs. Smith.”
A camera captured Annabel, Julian, and the two men standing with them, then zoomed in on the
Grottesca
Julian held. Mac looked across the small clearing at his wife; she appeared to be as dumbfounded as he was.
A gust of wind sent Pims’s sleeves fluttering as he raised his arms and continued:
“Also joining us this evening is the noted San Francisco art collector, Mr. Franco del Brasco, who has flown here at great expense in pursuit of the remarkable work from Caravaggio’s hand known as
Grottesca
.”
Del Brasco and his henchmen took in the scene, impatient to act, nervous in the light. The blond man looked as though he might bolt at any second. Del Brasco’s
Grottesca
—the original—became the subject of another camera closeup.
Steve Jordan, who’d been standing with Mac Smith, stepped into the center of the area and shouted, “Don’t forget to introduce us, Pims. The police, and plenty of us, American and Italian.”
Pims clapped his hands and laughed. “Would I forget you, Detective Jordan? I would be keenly disappointed if you hadn’t decided to partake in the festivities.” He said to the camera,
“We are also joined by law enforcement from both the United States of America and Italy. These dedicated men and women have been searching ’round the world without success for
Grottesca
. Fortunately for the art world, I have been conducting my own exhaustive search, which has proved far more fruitful than their efforts.
“My other guest, no less significant than the others, is senior curator of the Vatican, Mr. Joseph Spagnola.”
Spagnola had been in the shadows behind the sketch of Caravaggio. Carrying the third
Grottesca
, he stepped into the light and stood at Pims’s side. A stronger gust sent Pims’s hair flying, and he placed his hand atop his large head.
“The details leading to this remarkable evening will be revealed to you from a studio, in less turbulent conditions. But now, it is time to right wrongs.”
“Aren’t you going to move on him?” Mac asked Jordan.
“Let’s hear what he has to say. Nobody’s going anywhere.” The uniformed Italian police and the detectives were poised for action once the word was given. But they, too, seemed transfixed by the scene.
Pims pointed to where Annabel and Julian stood. “Come forward,” he said. To the camera:
“This young man is Julian Mason, son of the deceased Caravaggio expert, Luther Mason. He has with him
Grottesca
, which he intends to sell for two million dollars to Mrs. Smith, representing the White House. Have you consummated your sale, Julian?”
“Hold on,” del Brasco barked. “That’s mine.” He started walking toward Annabel and Julian, flanked by the young blond man and his colleague, both of whom had pulled handguns from their jackets.
“Aha,” Pims said.
“Mr. del Brasco is heard from. He, too, has in his possession a version of
Grottesca
which he believes to be a forgery.”
Del Brasco brashly tossed the
Grottesca
he carried to the ground as he continued in Annabel’s direction.
“Stop him,” Mac said to Jordan, taking a step toward the advancing del Brasco. The blond saw Mac, stopped, and pointed his revolver at him.
“Come now,” Pims said through the bullhorn. “There is no reason we can’t resolve this like ladies and gentlemen.”
“Let’s go,” Jordan said to Colarulli, who motioned the others to follow. The police went to the center of the area. “Drop the weapons,” Jordan shouted. Colarulli repeated the order in Italian.
The del Brasco men were unsure.
“Drop them,”
Jordan said. “On the ground.”
The men who’d driven Annabel and Julian to Pescara tossed their weapons in front of them.
“You, too,” Colarulli ordered del Brasco. “Tell your men to give up their weapons.”
“Get the painting,” del Brasco growled. The blond and his partner hesitated, then lunged at Julian and Annabel. Mac also made his move, but too late. Annabel, who’d been standing with her hands shoved into the pockets of the light wind-breaker she wore, pulled them out in an involuntary gesture of self-defense. The blond turned his revolver on her. Julian also acted without thought. Still cradling
Grottesca
in his arms, he stepped in front of Annabel as the discharge of the blond man’s weapon snapped the air like a whip. The bullet passed through the chest of the sensuous young model in
Grottesca
and entered Julian’s chest to the left of center. He slumped silently to the ground, first on his knees, then toppling forward on top of the Jacques Saison forgery.
The uniformed police from Aquila opened fire. The blond thug was hit in the shoulder and thigh, his revolver sent spinning into the air. His companion, who’d fallen to the ground unhurt, pushed his weapon away from him, covered his head with his hands, and pleaded to not be hurt.
Mac reached Annabel’s side and held her close. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes. God, poor Julian.” They dropped to their knees, and Mac gently rolled Julian on to his back. “Julian?” Annabel said.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t talk,” Annabel said. “You’ll be all right.”
One of the uniformed officers, clearly trained as a paramedic, started to work on Julian Mason while another ran to the cars to call for an ambulance.
Detective Colarulli ordered two policemen to place del Brasco under arrest.
“For what?” del Brasco asked, his attention on the
Grottesca
Julian had been holding that now lay in the dirt, a gaping hole through its center. “I did nothing.”
“Not true,” Pims blared through the bullhorn. The sound of his voice made everyone aware again that what had played
out had been captured on videotape by the three cameras that continued to roll throughout. “You bought
Grottesca
from Luther Mason knowing it had been stolen. That makes you guilty of receiving stolen merchandise. You bankrolled Luther from the beginning.”
“Prove it,” del Brasco said.
“What about them?” Jordan asked, turning his attention to the two men who’d brought Annabel and Julian to Pescara.
Colarulli, who’d been questioning them, said, “Private detectives from Rome. Hired by Mr. Pims.”
“That right, Pims?” Jordan shouted at the fat man.
“That is correct.”
“You kidnapped my wife,” Mac said to them.
They responded with a fusillade of Italian.
“Let’s get out of here,” Mac said, his arm around Annabel. As he started to lead her in the direction of the road, Pims said, “You can’t leave now. Dinner hasn’t been served yet.” Mac and Annabel stopped. “Dinner?” they said.
“Yes. Over there. To celebrate the recovery of
Grottesca
.”
“A badly damaged
Grottesca
,” Steve Jordan said, picking up the one with the bullet hole in it.
“A badly damaged forgery,” Pims said through the bullhorn. “The original is there.” He pointed to the painting del Brasco had thrown to the ground.
“What the hell are you saying?” del Brasco snarled. “That’s a phony.”
“To the contrary,” said Pims, lumbering down from his slate stage, picking up the painting, and returning to his position in front of a camera. He faced it and held up
Grottesca
.
“
This
is the original
Grottesca
, ladies and gentlemen, now recovered and saved for eternity by none other than me, your benevolent host. The government of the United States has been spared further embarrassment, saving in the process two million dollars of taxpayer money. I hereby return this masterpiece to its rightful owners, the government of Italy.”
He realized the Vatican’s Joseph Spagnola was standing behind him holding the forgery Luther Mason had sent to Italy following
Grottesca
’s exhibition at the National Gallery.
“Ah, yes,” said Pims, “yet another beautiful rendering of the original.”
He took it from Spagnola and held it up to the camera.
“I had it,” del Brasco said to the officers who’d handcuffed his hands behind his back. “It was mine all the time. That bastard who called lied. Damn him.”
“Non capisco,”
one of the officers said, shrugging to the other.
“That concludes this live portion of the program. I will interview the participants at dinner and wrap this up from the studio.”
Filippo Testa came to Mac and Annabel. “Ah, Mrs. Smith, I am so happy you are safe. Had I known what—”
Pims now came down off the rock, patted his hair with his hand, approached, and extended his hand. Neither Mac nor Annabel moved to take it. “Exciting, yes?” Pims said.
They maintained their silence.
“You
will
stay for dinner? I’ve arranged for a typical Abruzzian celebratory feast back in Aquila.
Le virtù
, created of seven pastas and seven different vegetables;
diavoletto
, the hottest red peppers in Italy; a divine soup called
mbusse
; and
torrone
for dessert. Humble—but honey and almond have never reached such heights before.”
Mac and Annabel continued to stare at him.
“You must join us. Besides, I want to interview you, Annabel. My report will not be complete without it.”
It happened so quickly Annabel didn’t realize what occurred until it was over. Mac’s right hand came from low and behind, catching Pims squarely on the jaw and sending the corpulent TV host tumbling to the ground.
“Oh, Mac,” Annabel said.
“I shall sue,” Pims said, struggling to get up.
“You’ll sue from jail,” Mac said. “Come on, Mrs. Smith. Your job is over.”
TWO MONTHS LATER—THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, WASHINGTON, D.C
.
The dinner was held in the room in which the Caravaggio exhibition continued to be displayed to the public. The artist’s magnificent works looked down upon the two dozen people seated at four closely grouped tables, there at the invitation of Courtney Whitney III and the Gallery’s trustees.
Because Vice President and Mrs. Aprile were honored guests, security that night was impenetrable. Secret Service agents had spent the afternoon going over every inch of the Gallery in preparation for their arrival. Agents, some with dogs, patrolled access corridors to the room and entrances to the Gallery itself.
