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

‘I am not interested in politics. Only what I can make out of them.’”

“He is a dangerous man,” Andrea said, “if you get in his way. But you already know that.”

They both ordered the vitello tonnato and the green salad. Then Andrea told Helena about a Rembrandt self-portrait that had been taken from the Borghese Gallery a couple of weeks before. It had not been on display, and no one was sure when it had been stolen, but the Carabinieri’s art squad had taken all the employees in for questioning. It turned out that one of the employees had spent a few weeks in Montenegro, working at the seaside restaurant that caters to luxury yachts — like Azarov’s.

“Is he still working at the gallery?”

“He’s a she, and yes. At least, she was when she was arrested. The alarm bells for me are not just for her time in Montenegro. She’s also connected to an artist’s studio near Dubrovnik that we believe has turned out some excellent fakes and a few forgeries. On the surface it’s just selling local art — very good local art — but that’s not all it’s doing. Ever come across them? Atelier Bukovar?”

Helena had first heard the name some twenty years ago. Simon, on the phone to a customer in London, had been describing a Van Gogh that would come on the market from a dealer in Dubrovnik. He claimed he could maybe offer a deal on it if his customer was willing to move fast and not ask too many questions. It was Simon at his most charming. His most convincing. Twenty years ago, when Helena thought he was just a family friend.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I believe Scotland Yard’s Art and Antiquities Unit had suspected Bukovar in a fraud investigation involving a prestigious London gallery and a client who had decided he had been sold a forgery.” Thank god, not one of her father’s.

When they said goodbye, Helena promised to let her friend know what she concluded about the Gentileschi. If it was going to be sold, Andrea thought, the Brera should be given a chance to bid. It had risked having a big, splashy Artemisia show before anyone else had thought of it.

On the way back to the airport, using one of her burner phones, Helena called Attila’s mobile. She told him she would be back in Strasbourg briefly and she needed to find the man who had sold the painting to the Vaszarys. Then she called Gizella, who was eager to find out more about the painting, so eager she would cancel a dinner date with a friend and wait at home.

Chapter Ten

Helena arrived at the Strasbourg-Entzheim airport on a cheap, last minute Air France ticket she had booked online. She was using her Marianne Lewis getup, including the uncomfortably tight wig, but she had left as Marianne, and she didn’t want to take any chances with police officers patrolling the airport. She took a taxi to the Vaszarys’. The house was dark, but the outside lights flashed on, and Lucy barked energetically as she approached. A black Mercedes SUV sat two houses away, lights off, two heads in the front seats, both facing the Vaszarys’ driveway. Neither moved when she walked toward the entrance, but both of the faces leaned forward in an effort to see her more clearly.

Probably the local police, but just as likely a couple of flunkies working for those eager art buyers who needed to know who the competitors would be.

Hilda opened the door but kept the chain on. It was gratifying that she didn’t recognize Helena. She remained unconvinced when Helena said she had been sent by herself. It was Lucy who solved the problem. She inserted her nose into the narrow opening of the door, sniffed, whined, and wagged her tail. “Lucy, az Isten fáját,” Hilda said, but she removed the chain and let the rottweiler lick Helena’s outstretched hand.

“Mrs. Vaszary is expecting me,” Helena said. She removed the wig and shook her hair out.

“Oh,” Hilda said.

Gizella, her smile in place, was already in the entrance hall. She wore a mid-calf black dress with a cinched waist and a slit up the side, gold choker necklace, and a dozen gold bracelets that jangled as she offered to shake hands. “You have news for me?” she asked.

“I have done some tests on the samples. They all confirm my initial impression that this is not a recent fake or a copy. I still don’t know whether it is painted by Artemisia Gentileschi, but it is certainly of her time — Italian baroque. No recent copier could have matched the contemporary elements in the paints. And why would they? If what they were supplying was a copy, there would have been no need to go to the trouble of recreating the exact paints used. The frame itself dates from the sixteenth century. Now, it would be easy enough to buy an old painting by a second-rate artist and reuse the frame, but why bother if you are making a copy? I would like to take another look at the painting.”

Helena followed Gizella into the living room. The lights were dim. A trolley with bottles of wine and liquor stood by the white sofa. Two cocktail glasses. One with amber liquid, the other with something colourless. The glass with the amber liquid had a distinct lipstick stain, the other did not. Since the second glass was not meant for Hilda — she didn’t seem to have that kind of relationship with Gizella — there was someone else in the house. Someone, Helena assumed, who had left the room when she arrived, someone who had known to expect her, but who didn’t wish to be seen. Not Iván Vaszary; he would not have stayed out of sight. Not the police. Then one of the potential buyers. Vladimir? Grigoriev? Maybe the Pole?

Helena asked for the lights over the painting to be brightened. Even in the soft light, the painting