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

old Hungarian jokes with her. Today, however, she was as gloomy as Attila felt after his visit with Tóth. “Mrs. Vaszary,” she said, “told me to tell you that she does not feel well.”

That, Attila thought, was hardly surprising since her lawyer had just been killed.

Attila took another cab to Magoci’s office at the end of Rue d’Austerlitz. It was in one of the new designer structures that the city had commissioned. All glass and steel, reminiscent of Eurométropole, with not a hint of comfort for anyone who was determined to rent there. Magoci and Associates (Les Bureaux Magoci) occupied three floors, with the entrance on the second floor, where two uniforms and a very blond receptionist surveyed Attila with no hint of a welcome.

Attila marched past the uniforms. “Bonjour,” he said to the receptionist with his friendliest smile. “I have an appointment with Monsieur Magoci.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Quel est la nature de votre relation avec Monsieur Magoci?” the taller policeman asked.

“A private matter,” Attila said in English.

“Perhaps Monsieur Gilet could help you?” the receptionist asked. “He is one of our senior lawyers.”

The taller policeman inserted himself between Attila and the receptionist. “No one,” he said, “will go into the office today.”

“Mais Monsieur . . .”

“You have not heard the news,” the policeman interrupted. “Mr. Magoci has . . . he died.” He accompanied his statement with a slight eye roll followed by a sad glance at his boots. “We need to know why you want to see Mr. Magoci.”

“He was acting for one of our citizens in, as I said, a private matter.”

“What citizen?”

“Hungarian,” Attila said, as if that explained everything.

“You wait here,” the policeman commanded, and left by the door behind the remarkably well-endowed receptionist. She seemed quite aggrieved by Attila’s treatment but contented herself with asking for his name and telling him that she was usually Monsieur Magoci’s receptionist and she would be pleased to make the introduction to Monsieur Gilet, one of Monsieur Magoci’s associates, when this was over. Her name, she said, was Mademoiselle Audet.

The uniformed officer returned with a plainclothes policeman who asked what Attila’s business was and who had sent him.

“Je ne parle pas bien français,” Attila said. “English?”

“Okay,” the detective said. “Your name?”

“Fehér,” Attila said, “and I work for the Hungarian representative at the Council of Europe, Mr. Vaszary.”

“Secretarial, I assume?” the detective asked, smirking at Attila’s wide shoulders and sharing the joke with the uniformed guys.

“Of course,” Attila said, and returned the smirk. “But I used to be a policeman,” he said.

“Hébert, Lieutenant de Police,” the plainclothes policeman said, and shook Attila’s hand. “Your rank?”

“Lieutenant when I left.”

“And you are here because?”

Attila had considered the possibility of admitting that Magoci had been Gizella’s lawyer but decided not to. “Mr. Vaszary had hoped to hire Mr. Magoci on a private matter. Not strictly embassy business. He asked me to find out if Mr. Magoci would be interested.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“In Budapest. Why?”

“Magoci was killed yesterday,” Hébert said. “On a tour boat.”

Attila managed to raise both eyebrows to indicate utter surprise. “On a tour boat?”

“With an arrow.”

Attila whistled in appreciation of the unusual circumstances. “On the Rhine?”

“L’ill. It runs through Strasbourg. There was a man with a bow and arrow on one of the bridges.”

“Have you arrested him?”

Hébert shook his head. “Monsieur Fehér, I am asking the questions. Before you came here today, did no one tell you that Monsieur Magoci has been murdered?”

Attila shook his head. Ignorance was usually the best way to extract information.

“Do you know how your boss happened to pick Monsieur Magoci for his lawyer?”

Attila shook his head again.

“Have you met him before?”

“Monsieur Magoci? No.”

“Just picked him out of the phone book, did he? Bizarre, n’est pas? And he sent you here with no appointment? Mademoiselle Audet,” he spoke to the young woman at the reception desk, “did Monsieur Fehér have an appointment today?”

Mademoiselle Audet seemed truly sorry that she had to admit “No, Monsieur.”

“Isn’t that a little, how you say, négligent of your boss? You coming here without an appointment? In your country, Monsieur Fehér, would you expect a lawyer to be available for a consultation without an appointment?”

Attila shrugged.

“I thought perhaps not, but, you know, here we are tolerant of other people’s customs. How long have you been stationed in our city?”

“About three weeks,” Attila said.

“You haven’t taken up a bit of archery to pass the time?”

Attila laughed. “I told you I was in Budapest yesterday. You can check with Lieutenant Tóth, of the Budapest Metropolitan Police. I was meeting with him.”

“All day, or just when Monsieur Magoci was killed?”

Nice try, if a bit obvious, Attila thought. “Since I don’t know what time he was killed . . .”

“Of course, I forgot. Le bateau was approaching the Luther Bridge at around 1300 hours where the man with the tir a l’arc was waiting.” He took a step toward Attila and looked closely at his face. Another move right out of the training book, Attila thought. “Monsieur Magoci was not alone,” Hébert said.

Attila fidgeted with his cellphone, took it out of his pocket, looked at it, put it back into his pocket. Hébert, as if he had just been reminded that he had to check his own phone, pulled his out of his shoulder bag, looked at it, then the two men looked at each other. And waited.

“You wouldn’t know a woman, about a hundred and seventy centimetres tall, slim, dark blond shoulder-length hair, high forehead, very athletic,” Hébert said at last. “No. More than athletic. Maybe a gymnast. Fast runner.” He showed Attila the photo on his iPhone. A surprisingly good shot of Helena in the air jumping over someone, one foot still on the side of the boat, other foot raised for landing on the embankment. In the next shot, she was running, her arms pumping by her sides. Her dark blue running shoes floated above the pavement. It was a bright sunny day. Her profile, even from this angle, was lovely, her chin thrust forward, eyes