Murder at the National Gallery Read Online Free PDF

wrinkled blue suit—enough material to make four suits of average size, Mason mused. The circles were supported by short tree trunks for legs inside his trousers. Like most overweight people, Betti tended to perspire and to breathe laboriously. The long, slender black cigarettes he chain-smoked didn’t help.
    In all his trips to Rome, Mason had never met Alberto Betti. Giliberti always took care of details involving the Italian government, including the payment of an occasional “gift” to an unnamed government official to, as Giliberti would say,
“ungere.”
Grease the palm. Never large sums. Petty graft, small enough for Mason to include on his expense account under “miscellaneous.” That was what bothered him most. To compromise one’s principles and reputation for such minor money was doubly distasteful to him. If you were going to steal, which he had never done, aside from penny-candy thefts as a small boy, at least steal big.
    The globular minister of culture sat heavily behind his desk and asked,
“Cafè?”
Giliberti accepted, Mason declined. As they waited for Betti’s secretary to bring the coffee, Giliberti and Betti engaged in a spirited conversation. Mason, who had a working knowledge of Italian, quietly listened to their banter about women, the most recent of many political upheavals in Italy, food, and again, women. After coffee had been served, Mason asked Betti, in Italian, whether the problem of the “six-month rule” had been resolved.
    Betti looked to Giliberti, smiled through fleshy lips, and raised his hands in a gesture that asked, “What is the answer?”
    “I explained to Mr. Mason on the flight here, your excellency, that it appeared to me, based upon our last conversation, that a solution was at hand. But as I also explained, it is not as easy to bend the rules these days as it was before the current situation.”
    Mason knew the “current situation” referred to a series of Mafia scandals that had rocked both the Italian government and big business. The pressure was on. Rules, even the most archaic, were now being followed to the letter after decades of breaking them as a matter of national pride.
    “But as is often the case,” Giliberti said, directing his comment to Mason and raising his eyebrows, “there is always the possibility of
l’eccezione
. An accommodation.” To Betti: “Am I correct, your excellency?
Fra amici
. We are among friends.”
    Betti said,
“Si,”
shifted his bulk in his chair, and ran a finger between his circles, his collar, and the folds of his neck.
    Giliberti smiled broadly at Mason. “You see, Luther, we are not nearly as unbending as you might previously have thought.”
    “Let me be direct, Minister Betti,” said Mason. “Are you saying that an exception to the six-month rule will be made for our Caravaggio exhibition?”
    The top circle broke into an arc resembling a grin. “The six-month rule is not without merit,” he said, pudgy hands taking flight. “You are certainly aware, Mr. Mason, that Italy is rich in artistic treasures. Does not this nation possess more great works of art than any other? We must have rules.”
    Mason controlled a growing anger and frustration as he nodded. He didn’t need lectures from a fat politician whose only connection with the art world was to stand in the way of progress. But he knew what was coming. This time he had traveled to Rome prepared for it.
    Betti continued: “All the world wishes to borrow our masterpieces. All the world’s museums want them displayed on their walls. You are no exception, you and your National Gallery.” He chuckled. “Obviously, a man of your artistic sensibilities understands the need for a country of origin like Italy to enact all possible legislation to protect its treasures.”
    Mason’s stomach growled, matching his mood.
    “This is especially necessary with an artist of Caravaggio’s stature and talent. His works rank among civilization’s finest. From his