Deceptions, Anna Porter [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

“How many others?” Helena asked.

“You haven’t changed your mind about joining me in the car for another glass of champagne?” The SUV was following a few steps behind them, Piotr glowering over the steering wheel. “In that case,” Vladimir said to her back, “perhaps we could try a riverside terrace across the way from Saint Joseph Church, in case you missed that lovely landmark on your hurried river tour earlier? You would be guaranteed a large crowd of jolly late-afternoon beer drinkers, so no concerns about being alone with me inside a car.”

“That sounds fine,” Helena said.

Vladimir led the way into Le Rafiot’s shaded entrance and onto the deck facing the river. He ordered two Kronenbourgs on the way in. They sat on benches at a rough wooden table. “This is the local craft beer, made here since the seventeenth century,” he said. “I tried to buy the factory in 2015, but they wouldn’t sell. I love this city. It’s so pleasantly liveable.”

“How many other bidders are there for the painting?” she repeated.

“Not sure, but I saw your old friend Grigoriev at the private airport getting out of his Gulfstream, and I think Waclaw is here too. He believes this picture used to be in Poland before the war, but he has no proof. If he had papers to prove it had been there, we would not all be here wanting to buy it. Instead, there would be a battery of lawyers fighting over some ancient estate. The Poles are persistent about the ancient estates of their aristocratic szlachta and the priceless valuables that found their way into the hands of the occupying Germans. Remember the Lanckoroński collection? First dismembered with the partition of Poland, then confiscated by Reichsmarschall Göring when the Germans walked into Vienna. Isn’t that a beautiful church?” The setting sun coloured the spires gold and amber. The central rose window shone blue and silver.

“Very Gothic,” Helena said.

“If you are still here on Saturday evening, you might like to accompany me to the organ recital — one of the largest pipe organs in Europe.”

“I have never heard of a Gentileschi in Poland.”

“The story goes back a long way. Waclaw thinks it was bought from someone in Naples during the time when there was no Poland.”

“Does he have a theory about where it’s been since 1945?”

“If he does, he didn’t tell me, but he did carry on a bit about the Russians and the Germans. Waclaw Lubomirski is from around Częstochowa, and one of his ancestors was a voivode, a member of the szlachta, the highest social class. His family goes back to the fifteenth century. They collected art through the centuries. Memling. Botticelli. There is that famous painting of Warsaw by Canaletto. As you know, Waclaw has been obsessing about stolen art from Poland for decades, and he listed a Gentileschi in an interview about missing art in Polish collections. Gizi has asked you to authenticate the painting. I assume that’s why you’re here. Have you any idea why the lawyer was killed?”

“No,” Helena said. “Did Gizi, as you call her, say anything more about him than that he was hired for her divorce?”

“No, but Magoci had a nasty reputation. He could have been killed for some other reason than his meeting with you. On the other hand, it’s possible that one of us wanted him out of the way. Or, more likely, wanted you dead. Your authenticating that painting may not be in everyone’s best interest.”

“The husband?”

“He, for one, but let’s say I am keen to buy it for a good price. If you get involved and insist that it is by a famous artist, the price will go up, so I no longer have a bargain. In fact, your being here could cost me millions of euros, and I may not be happy with that.”

“Did you, by any chance, try to have me killed?” Helena asked.

Vladimir laughed. “Would I be sitting here with you if I did? Would I be waiting for you with champagne and flowers?”

“Perhaps,” Helena said.

“Would you consider giving me your best guess about the Gentileschi before you tell anyone else? For example, if you gave me just four hours’ notice, I would gladly compensate you for your time. You know I am the soul of discretion, no one need know, and I would pay you double Gizi’s fee.” When Helena didn’t reply, he continued, “Okay, make it triple.”

The beer was delicious, but she did not feel comfortable sitting out in the open with Vladimir. “Thanks for the drinks,” she told him, and started out toward the Quai des Pêcheurs. “I have work to do.”

“Just between us, do you think it’s a Gentileschi?” Vladimir asked as he rose to his feet.

Helena shrugged. “Too soon to tell.”

“For a not insignificant sign of my appreciation, would you keep me informed?”

“Maybe,” Helena said. “If you help me find out who killed the lawyer. And why.”

Chapter Seven

Attila was equal parts concerned and pleased with his success in finding Helena. Concerned because if he could find her, others with more resources could also do so; pleased because he could warn her about the police investigation. The scarf, draped over her head and tied under her chin, was a little too colourful for a modest religious woman, and the wraparound sunglasses lent her the film star look. That it was almost dark made the sunglasses unnecessary unless they were a statement by someone famous added to the overall effect of someone who, while not wanting to be recognized, wished to be stared at. With her lithe body and high forehead, she seemed to be flaunting her desire to be mysterious.

He had been nursing an espresso at the outdoor bar facing the Hôtel Cathédrale when he spotted her striding along the square, her backpack dangling casually by one strap, stopping only to check the lineup at the cathedral’s special entrance, open only for those planning to attend services. Tonight’s was Evensong. There were only four