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

accepted the refill but declined the offer of cigarettes. He hated Tibor’s scented cigarettes almost as much as he disliked Alexander’s Sobranies. Attila had met Alexander shortly after he was first posted at the Russian embassy. They had developed a bantering friendship over Hungarian sausages, pálinka, and tracking ruble launderers. Over the years, they had shared a few investigations, mutual suspicions, and family secrets but never each other’s cigarettes. “I’m trying to give up,” Attila said. At least that was true. He had been trying to smoke less since he had started spending time with Helena again. “A man called Adam Biro. Lives on Fő Street in the Castle District. You know him?”

“Biro?”

“Yes.”

“I think I may have met him. Why?”

“Is he some sort of art collector?”

“Not that I know. He was only a minor functionary with the ruling party. Why?”

“Do you know which ministry?”

“Industry and Commerce, maybe. And again, why?”

“The guy I’m assigned to in Strasbourg bought a painting from him that could be worth billions of forints. Maybe even millions of euros.”

Tibor whistled appreciatively. “Who is the artist?”

“Some famous seventeenth century painter called Artemisia Gentileschi.”

“If the guy you work for is Vaszary, he is very tight with the current kleptocratic ruling party, and very, very tight with our ruler-in-chief, all of which would be useful if you wanted to serve our great bastion of Christianity at the Council of Europe or, for that matter, any other appointed office our nation offers to those who are close to the centre of power. In other words, if he says Biro sold him a painting, Biro did, for sure, sell him a painting. We mere mortals should not be asking questions about such things. At least, not if we want to keep our heads below the parapet.”

“Well, that is precisely the problem with this whole thing, Tibor. Vaszary says the painting is a copy. His wife says it’s the original, and they are in the middle of a divorce. She wants her share of what the painting would sell for.”

“Didn’t you say just now that you worked for him?”

Attila took a cigarette from Tibor’s well-thumbed package. Without his Helikons and given the direction Tibor’s words were heading, Turkish was better than nothing. “I do,” he said. “But I saw no harm in helping her on the side when she asked me to find her an expert to look at the painting.”

“You did.”

“I did.”

“As I recall, you have just such an expert in your small circle of acquaintances.”

“By happy coincidence,” Attila said with a grin, “and she seems to like the painting for a Gentileschi. She was doing some tests on the paint and the canvas or whatever else people like her do at times like this. Meanwhile, she wanted to know more about the guy who sold it to the Vaszarys. That’s why I went to see Biro.”

Tibor examined Attila’s face for that telltale squint he remembered from their school days, the look his friend had every time he was in some trouble with the teachers, usually at least once a day when he lied about fighting in the corridors or breaking a window, or locking someone in the boys’ toilets. “What aren’t you telling me?” he now asked.

Attila told him about the dead lawyer in Strasbourg and the local police’s interest in Helena, and that he had gone to see Biro an hour or so ago, but the little guy wouldn’t invite him into the apartment, despite Attila’s flashing his old police ID, and that Biro denied he had sold Vaszary a painting. Any sort of painting, let alone a valuable one.

Tibor scratched his short-cropped grey hair, drank a bit of his J&B, and suggested they extinguish their cigarettes and sit down in the living room. “Your simple little inquiry has grown into something quite complicated, and I prefer to deal with complicated matters when I am sitting down,” he said. “Besides, my mother would be delighted to see you. There is no accounting for taste.”

Tibor’s mother had turned on the lights and stood gazing out at the Danube, while Anna and Sofi played hide-and-seek with the cats.

“She has quite outgrown the company of young children,” Tibor said, “and much of her hearing, which can be a blessing when we have young visitors. Anyu,” he shouted, “look who has decided to grace us with his company?”

Tibor’s mother turned away from the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view of the setting sun dancing red and orange on the waves and on the shiny façades of the hotels on the Pest side. “It’s so beautiful,” she said with a sigh. “I never tire of the view. It is always good to see you.” She offered her soft, powdered cheek for a kiss and led the way into the faux-French-decorated living room with its gilt, chintz, and velvet cushioned chairs that would have made Tibor’s grandfather, the former bus conductor, sneeze and make nasty remarks about bourgeois pretensions.

Tibor’s mother hurried into the kitchen for the cherry strudel, her gold-rimmed plates, and the silver Attila knew she used only for special guests. Now, with fewer visitors, even the children counted as special guests. Attila didn’t have the heart to tell her they didn’t like cherry strudel, only apple strudel (they had already finished the Dobos), and took a very large helping for himself to make up for his children’s lack of good taste. “They loved the strudel,” he said, thinking they probably fed their servings to the cats but, with a bit of luck, Mrs. Szelley would not have noticed.

Attila’s phone rang. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vaszary,” he said.

“Not, as it happens, a very good afternoon, Attila,” Vaszary said. “Where are you?”

“In Budapest.”

“Why?”

“I had to check in with police headquarters,” Attila said as cheerfully as he could manage. “Back tomorrow. Early.”

“And it seems you had a little errand to run,” Vaszary said.

“What errand?”

“You went to see someone about our painting.”

“Yes.” No point denying it. Biro must have called Vaszary as soon as Attila left him.

“An errand,