Deceptions by Anna Porter (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📗

Deceptions A Helena Marsh Novel

Anna Porter

Contents

Praise for Anna Porter

Also by Anna Porter

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

Praise for Anna Porter

Winner of the Shaughnessey Cohen Prize for Political Writing, the Nereus Writers’ Trust Non-Fiction Award, the Jewish Book Award for Non-Fiction, and the Canadian Authors Association/Birks Family Foundation Award for Biography, and shortlisted for the Taylor Prize.

“Porter’s offbeat thriller yields tension and humour from its revolving perspectives as well as its deep bench of colourful supporting characters . . . . This peppy thriller from Porter (Kasztner’s Train, 2008, etc.) bursts with banter and tantalizes the reader with half-revelations and game-changing twists.” — Kirkus Reviews on The Appraisal

“[A]n intelligent and exhilarating thriller . . . Porter’s stylish story vividly transports readers to Budapest and other European locales and keeps them hooked as her well-developed characters navigate corruption and deception.” — Publishers Weekly on The Appraisal

“All of this is daring and mystifying fun, and includes along the way a tour through everything that’s fascinating about Budapest’s history, especially the appalling bits.” — Toronto Star on The Appraisal

“If you want to take a quick trip to Budapest, this book is your ride. Anna Porter knows the byways and cafés of her native town and spins a web of mystery around an art heist, Ukrainian criminals, and money laundering. In short, we have everything we want in an Eastern European crime novel.” — Globe and Mail on The Appraisal

“A gripping thriller set against the rich post-war history of middle-Europe where fortunes were reversed through war, revolution, and shifting political regimes and where the past itself cannot be trusted. Born in Budapest, Canadian writer Anna Porter generously shares her knowledge of time and place and impresses with detailed insights into the world of art history and appropriation, big money deals, and the quest for restitution.” — Staunch Book Prize on The Appraisal

Also by Anna Porter Fiction

The Appraisal

The Bookfair Murders

Mortal Sins

Hidden Agenda Non-Fiction

In Other Words: How I Fell in Love with Canada One Word at a Time

Buying a Better World: George Soros and Billionaire Philanthropy

The Ghosts of Europe: Journeys through Central Europe’s Troubled Past and Uncertain Future

Kasztner’s Train: The True Story of Rezso Kasztner, Unknown Hero of the Holocaust

The Storyteller

Dedication

For Lyla, Noah, Ava, and Violet.

Chapter One

She sensed him before she saw him. The smell of wet wool and cigarettes. He approached cautiously on rubber soles, a little breathless as he entered the salon and stopped a foot or so inside the door. She slipped the thin long-bladed knife from her sleeve, stretched her fingers over the handle, and waited a moment — it was, she knew, a crucial moment because sometimes a moment would be too long — but this was Paris, not Moscow, not Bratislava, and she was not working on a dangerous case. She glanced up at the large, burly figure. “Helena,” he said with a note of anxiety in his voice. The pedicurist, massaging Helena’s instep, may not have seen the knife, but he had. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Do I seem scared?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Do I?”

“A little.”

She noted his badly shaven face, his pale eyes still fixed on her sleeve, his burgeoning belly stretching the grey wool sweater over his corduroy pants. “Put on a little weight,” she said with a smile.

“All that rakott krumpli,” he said, “but I will lose it on delicate French food and wine.” He spoke English with a soft Hungarian accent, pressure on the endings, but a great deal better than the last time she saw him. Must have been taking lessons. A pity, she thought. She had liked his accent first, even before she began to like him.

“Would you have time for a coffee? Or a glass of wine?” he asked. “There’s a good place down the street.”

“Le Buci,” she said. “And how the hell did you find me?”

He shrugged, palms up, delighted with the implied compliment. “Am I not a detective?”

“Back with the police?”

He shook his head. His hair was cut short, his grin was as guarded as she remembered it, crinkling the skin around his eyes. More warmth there than he cared to give away. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. Much as she loved looking at them poking out at the end of her long claw-foot bathtub, she could skip the lacquer on her toenails. She would have to talk with Louise about letting someone know where she was. Anyone. Even when she suspected that the person was relatively harmless, and Attila was not exactly harmless. Louise, an otherwise very sensible woman, must have developed a weakness for slightly overweight Hungarians.

She would not be the only one with that particular weakness.

Café Le Buci was on the corner of Dauphine and de Buci, a short walk from Helena’s office, but she rarely went there. This neighbourhood, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, had been her father’s favourite arrondissement, and he had taken her to Le Buci on her first visit to Paris with him. He had wanted, he said, to take her to all the places he loved. This was the city of art, he told her, and as a student of art, she would become as addicted to the city as he had. She had resisted then, but later, when he had exited her life, she found herself drawn here.

The outdoor seating area was on the sidewalk, where she could not have her back to a wall. Besides, this time of year there were still too many loud visitors occupying space. It was gloomy inside, but Attila found a banquette near the entrance with a bit of light, a narrow view of the street, and a seat for her against the brick wall with an old-fashioned placard advertising beer. Good to know that he had remembered her phobia, and charming that he would sacrifice his own comfort for hers.

He had obviously