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

to run tests for her. Fortunately, only one had turned out to be a forgery. The other had at least been from Titian’s studio and finished by his students.

Then, in 2008, they had both attended the United Nations International Conference on Organized Crime at Mont Blanc. A fine skier and eager to get away from the conference’s dullest presenters, Andrea had suggested to Helena that they could escape to the mountain, and their collegial relationship grew into a friendship they both valued.

Helena knew that criminals often used art as collateral for arms, drugs, and often money laundering. She knew this might be what had happened to the Judith she was looking at, if Andrea’s lab proved the painting’s authenticity.

Andrea had once been on the trail of a Caravaggio purloined by a couple of thieves from the Oratorio di San Lorenzo in Palermo, Sicily. The thieves may have been acting on orders from a Cosa Nostra boss. They certainly were not sophisticated. They had cut the canvas away from the heavy frame so they wouldn’t have to carry it. The crude hacking would have damaged the painting irreparably, which may be the reason no trace of it has ever been found on the black market, or anywhere else. And the hapless thieves may have incurred sufficient displeasure over the botched job to have been executed by their boss.

Andrea’s research and systematic interviews of those arrested for petty crimes in the area — “in some parts of Italy, murder is not a big deal,” she had told Helena — had indicated that the painting had been taken out of the country. Possibly used to make peace with the Russian mafia. Helena had been working in the Hermitage at the time, a favoured home for stolen paintings, and Andrea had asked her to keep her eyes and ears open for news of some old masters for sale. Most Russian mobsters didn’t hold on to the paintings, selling them on even if they realized only a third or less of their value. Only oligarchs, like Grigoriev, enjoyed collecting art for its own sake or to display their wealth and discernment to anyone who came close enough to matter. Grigoriev kept some of his most valuable pieces in free-port storage, hauled out for special occasions such as his meetings with Saudi arms buyers.

Helena told Andrea that she needed urgent access to the lab. Of course, she would pay the “going rate” for such an extraordinary request, and, of course, she could be there Wednesday morning.

“Is it anyone we know?” Andrea asked.

“It’ll wait till I see you,” Helena replied.

Louise’s Vargas list did not prove to be of much use. A Santa Monica Varga store sold only women’s wear; there was a Mexican bakery in Barcelona, offering fresh tacos and tortillas; an ethical fashion store in Berlin but only for women; a couple of grocery stores in San Antonio, Texas — none of them looked right for a men’s fine silk–lined overcoat.

She flounced — that was how Marianne Lewis proceeded in the world — back to Attila’s table in Cathedral Square after making her new arrangements. Normally, he would not have waited, but he felt guilty about Helena’s misfortunes since she had arrived in the city, so he stayed, ordered a plate of wieners and fries, two more beers, and, later, another espresso. When Helena dropped into the seat next to him, he said he was sorry, the seat was taken. To be absolutely sure he was understood, he repeated it in appalling French, and when the red-headed woman still didn’t budge, he tried German.

“J’ai compris, Monsieur,” Helena trilled, “le deuxième fois. No need to practise your German,” she added in a whisper.

“Helena?” he croaked.

“Try not to look startled,” she said. “You would be glad if a pretty woman sat next to you. You’re here alone. She is a tourist. What better opportunity for a fling? Don’t Hungarians have flings in foreign cities?”

“Perhaps you would like a drink?” Attila asked with forced joviality.

“Perhaps I would like another glass of champagne,” Helena said, mimicking his tone.

“How did you . . . ?”

“I won’t give away all my secrets,” Helena said. “Always best to be cautious. Have you any news on the lawyer? I assume the police still have nothing? Did the lovely Gizella tell you anything?”

Attila shook his head. “Did you get hurt?”

“No.”

“In the cathedral. You were limping . . .”

“Ah that,” Helena said with a Marianne Lewis titter. “I went in to fetch the bow. I knew where he dropped it, and it seems no one else was interested enough to find it. It’s light and only about twenty-five inches long. It fit inside his coat as it did down my side. It has wood handgrips. Looks expensive. The man who used it didn’t opt for the bow because he couldn’t afford a handgun. Killing with an arrow must have been his preference.”

“There could be some prints on the grips?”

“Unlikely. A guy who knows enough to use one of these would also have a pair of the soft leather gloves archers like to wear. I didn’t touch the grips. There is always a chance that he was careless. That’s why I left the bow at the hotel for you. It’s packed in newspaper and addressed to Mr. Tóth.”

“Tóth?”

“Thought you’d like that.”

“I will take it to the local guys. I am not even sure Tóth would be interested. The last time I spoke with him, I thought the landscape was shifting. And the lead man on the case here has already talked to him. I also find the French police lieutenant much more likeable.”

“Unless they live in Paris, the French tend to be more likeable and more polite,” Helena said. “Perhaps less corrupt.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“The shooter left an expensive coat in the cathedral. The label says Vargas. If you could find out who or what Vargas is, we may be able to identify the man.”

“Where is the coat?”

“I kept it. For now.”

Attila thought that meant