Free Murder at the National Gallery by Margaret Truman Page B

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.”
    “It was Luther?” Sue Whitney asked after Mason had told Whitney when his flight would arrive and had hung up. “What did he want? Too much
vino
?”
    “Damned if I know, but I think the man might be on the verge of a breakdown.”
    Mason cleared Dulles Customs and came directly to where Whitney stood. “Thanks for being here, Court.”
    “The question is
why
I’m here.”
    “Let’s go to the Delta Crown Room,” said Mason. “We can talk there.”
    Mason flashed his membership card, and they went to a far corner of the handsomely appointed room. They sat facing each other in twin maroon club chairs, and Whitney waited. When Mason said nothing, Whitney said, “You look like hell, Luther.”
    “I haven’t slept much,” Mason replied. His eyes were bloodshot; gray stubble on his cheeks had aged him a decade.
    Mason placed his elbows on his knees, bringing him closer to Whitney. He said in a fatigued voice,
“Grottesca.”
    Whitney’s expression mirrored his confusion.
“Grottesca?”
    Mason nodded solemnly.
    “Grottesca?”
Whitney repeated. “The lost Caravaggio?”
    Another nod from the curator.
    “Luther, I understand something terribly important is on your mind, and I was willing to come here to find out what it was. But I have a heavy schedule. What about
Grottesca
?”
    Mason sat back and closed his eyes tightly. His lips trembled. Was he about to cry? Whitney wondered. “Luther, I—”
    Mason leaned forward again, eyes open. “Court,” he said, “I have found
Grottesca
!”
    Whitney’s smile was involuntary. He shook his head in place of words. “What do you mean, you’ve found it?
Where
did you find it?
How?
”
    Mason raised his eyes to the ceiling as though to place his thoughts in a logical sequence before beginning. “It has been in a storeroom in an abandoned Catholic church outside Ravello. You know my fondness for Ravello. I always try to get there whenever I visit Italy. Somehow, when I’m there, a feeling of calm comes over me.”
    “Yes, fine, Luther. But what about the painting?”
    “I met a friend for a drink in Ravello, and he introduced me to an elderly gentleman who is retired from the priesthood. His name is Giocondi. Father Pasquale Giocondi. A humble old man who has lived in an abandoned church ever since his retirement.
    “We chatted about many things. Eventually, my friend mentioned my lifelong interest in Caravaggio, and that I was curating a Caravaggio exhibition at the National Gallery.” He drew a breath to slow himself. “Father Giocondi waited until my friend left before asking me to come to his church—which is now his home—to examine something he thought might interest me.”
    “Go on, Luther, I’m listening.”
    “I went with him. It was only twenty minutes outside of Ravello. Terribly run-down, in dreadful repair.”
    “Luther, stick to the—”
    “Yes, of course. I suppose I have been rambling. He took me into a dusty storeroom littered with junk and had to pull away dozens of boxes and old pieces of furniture to get to the painting. It was flat against the wall, the canvas facing away from me. I helped him pull it out. We took it into the main room, which used to serve as the area of worship for his