Murder at the National Gallery by Margaret Truman Page B

suggestion. I would like to—I would like
you
to introduce Father Giocondi at the dinner and to announce the discovery.” Luther knew there wasn’t any chance that he, despite being the one to have unearthed
Grottesca
, would be allowed to make the announcement. It had nothing to do with ego on Whitney’s part. It simply was Gallery protocol for the director to break major news. In actuality, Mason didn’t want to be center stage. Having Whitney do it added an additional third-party endorsement.
    “We can work all that out later. Go home, Luther, and get some rest. You deserve it. And as I said before, you look like hell.”
    * * *
    Darkness had fallen over Paris as Jacques Saison, who’d been drinking all afternoon, slept on a cot in his studio on rue de la Huchette, above a Greek restaurant, on Paris’s Left Bank. He swore as the pounding on his door continued. “Go away!” he shouted.
    The door swung open and Carlo Giliberti stepped into the cluttered, foul studio, where the remnants of half-eaten meals had attracted an assortment of bugs, rodents, and other wildlife. They scattered when Giliberti snapped on a harsh overhead light.
    The master forger sat up, the words coming more rapidly now.
“Imbécile! Tête de mule!”
    “Hey, my friend, wake up,” Giliberti said, ignoring being called a fool and blundering idiot and almost tripping over a toppled chair. “It’s important.”
    “Giliberti,” Saison mumbled. He stood, lost his balance, and fell back on the cot.
    Giliberti placed the wrapped canvas he’d picked up from the courier against a wall. “Sober up, Jacques. There is serious work to do.”
    Giliberti had found it easier than he’d anticipated to cut his deal with Alberto Betti, Italy’s minister of culture. And more expensive. His payment to the minister wiped out most of what Luther Mason had put into their joint account. He’d have to hit Mason up for more. You couldn’t deal on this level without plenty of lire behind you.
    Giliberti started the meeting by saying, “I bring you wonderful news, Signor Betti.”
    “I always welcome wonderful news, Signor Giliberti. What is it?”
    “
Grottesca
has been found.”
    Betti’s face was blank. Giliberti gave him a capsule history of the lost Caravaggio.
    “Of course,” said Betti. “I was thinking of other things when you mentioned the name.
Grottesca
. Of course. The lost Caravaggio masterpiece.”
    “That’s right, excellency. Your memory is excellent.
Grottesca
is no longer a lost treasure. It has been found.”
    Betti came forward, his face and voice demonstrating deep interest. “Where? How?”
    Giliberti went through his carefully scripted response. The painting had been found by the man Giliberti had previously introduced to the minister, Luther Mason, senior curator at America’s National Gallery.
    “
He
found it? The American?”
    “Si.”
He went on to describe how Mason had met a retired priest, in whose humble church the painting had been discovered.
    “What splendid news,” said Betti. He stood and went to his large window, his bulk effectively obscuring most of the light. With his broad back to Giliberti, he said, “Where is this lost Caravaggio?”
    “With Signor Mason.”
    Betti turned. “And where is Signor Mason?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You don’t
know
? How can that be? He has the painting?”
    “
Si
. But that is not a problem, your excellency.”
    “Explain.”
    “Mr. Mason is a fair and honorable man. He asks only that
Grottesca
be allowed to take its place in the Caravaggio exhibition at his museum.” Betti started to speak, but Giliberti kept going. “He has asked me to negotiate an arrangement with you. He has taken the painting to a trusted and expert conservator, who will bring the work back to its original excellence. Signor Mason asks only three things. First, that
Grottesca
be allowed to be flown to Washington directly from the conservator. Second, that the announcement of its discovery