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

then, for my wife, wouldn’t you say? And you don’t work for my wife. I was led to believe that you work for me. Or is that not the case?” His voice was cool, level, controlled. “Did you not understand that?”

“I thought—”

“You were not paid to think, Attila. You were paid to be my bodyguard, in the event that I needed guarding, and so far I haven’t, but now that I do, you are not here. Not only are you not here, you are running an errand for my wife. My wife, whom I am divorcing! You went to see a man at an apartment on Fő Street. That is the errand you were on?”

“Yes.”

“You went there to ask about the painting.”

“Yes. But he told me nothing.”

“You didn’t go into this apartment?”

“No.”

“But you questioned him.”

“He says he didn’t sell you the painting.”

Vaszary was silent for so long, Attila thought he had disconnected. “You will be in my office tomorrow at nine. Sharp,” Vaszary said at last, and now he did disconnect.

“Shit,” Attila said.

“Can we go soon?” Sofi asked from under the Louis XVI–style giltwood settee. One of the cats was testing his claws on the embroidered upholstery above her head.

“Right after I finish Mrs. Szelley’s delicious—”

“Biro,” Tibor interrupted over his second J&B. “You said he was a little guy. Exactly how little did you mean? Or were you just using the diminutive to imply that he was unimportant, a negligible presence, that sort of thing?”

“No,” Attila said. “I meant he is a small person. A short man. You know . . . up to my shoulder maybe. Old. He wore his pyjamas and an old sweater. Slippers. Almost bald. Bit of hair on the back of his skull. Wrinkled. Rimless glasses. He had to peer up at me when we talked. I thought he would be concerned about a police visit, but he wasn’t. Even when I tried to—”

“Biro.”

“Adam Biro.”

Tibor stood up and paced to the window. “Adam Biro would be about 190 centimetres tall. A big guy. Maybe sixty. White hair, ruddy face, big belly.”

“Biro is thin and small.”

“And he died about six months ago.”

Chapter Fourteen

Helena had not planned to stay overnight in Budapest. But then she had not planned to see the killer from Strasbourg here, at Biro’s apartment. And now that she had seen him and he had probably seen her, she needed to understand the connections.

Having seen Adam Biro’s apartment, his sale of a valuable painting made sense. He was, obviously, some sort of dealer. That he didn’t appear on the list of accredited art dealers in Budapest didn’t mean anything other than that he disliked paying taxes. No one likes paying taxes. There were hundreds of unregistered dealers all over Europe and the United States. Her father had kept in touch with many of them and had he not burnt his record book, she could have checked for Biro. “I don’t need it any longer,” he had told her. “I will give up the business.” But of course, he hadn’t given up the business. Had he done so, he may have stayed alive a little longer.

One of the many bits of information he had thrust on her was that unregistered dealers still kept reasonable records of what they bought and sold. Being unregistered would demand an even greater scrutiny of provenance. Her father had been not only a master purveyor of fake art, but also a brilliant creator of long, entirely credible fake provenances.

When she saw Biro’s apartment, Helena was sure he would have kept the necessary papers — real or not — for all the art he had sold. But who was he?

She called James. He was more excited than usual to hear from her. “The Gentileschi . . .” he started.

“Don’t jump to conclusions yet,” she said. “But we know there are at least a dozen Judith and Holofernes paintings by Artemisia, documented in letters and notes, but never found. Only two are in known collections. The Duke of Alcalá had written to the King of Spain about one he had acquired in Naples. He had planned to give it to the King of England in an effort to appease him. He described it as a large canvas with lifelike figures. It has not surfaced in any museums we know of. There may have been another one in the Pighetti collection.”

“None of the paintings she did in England have surfaced yet, though we know from her letters that she was busy with commissions. Can you send me a photo?”

“Could you please see if you can find an unlicensed dealer in Budapest by the name of Adam Biro?” she asked, ignoring his request. “I will call you again tomorrow. Don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.” Helena had not mentioned where that was. James would, naturally, assume she was still in Strasbourg and that suited her fine. She didn’t exactly distrust him, but past experience told her that his chief driving force was recognition, closely followed by money. A Gentileschi sale could bring both. The auction house had dealt with Azarov and Grigoriev in the past and, wishing to insert himself into a big sale, he could well be tempted to reveal something she had said.

She needed a place to hole up for a couple of nights while she tried to figure out who the man in the hoodie was and why he had killed the lawyer. Was he working alone, or had he been hired for the job? If he had been hired, by whom? On the way to Attila’s apartment building, she checked into the Astoria. It was far from the best hotels in the city, and she thought no one would look for her there. She signed in as Marianne, and prepaid the room, that being all the proof of good intentions that the hotel required to hand her a key. She slipped the knife into its sheath and up her sleeve. She