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

is they usually go for more than the last time a painting by the same artist was sold.”

“What was Magoci’s take?”

“No idea. But the mademoiselle would know, and she expects a substantial chunk to keep or destroy the tapes of Vaszary’s dealings with Magoci.”

“You don’t think whatever their meetings were about would be of interest to the police?”

“I am not sure yet.”

“You know Magoci was good at money laundering.”

“Yes, and it’s possible that his work for Vaszary included a bit of that.”

“That could have been the reason he was killed. Someone or someones didn’t want him to take the money out of the country.”

“We need to know who would have benefited from Magoci’s death and how.”

“That is now,” Hébert said, “the starting point of the rest of my investigation. What happens in Budapest with this man Berkowitz is only of interest to me as far as it relates to our crime. After I find out who hired Berkowitz to kill Magoci, I will not care whether Tóth wants to find Berkowitz’s killer or not. I will think that is a purely Hungarian matter.”

Hébert scratched his head, walked around his office, poured them both coffee from his little espresso machine, and stood facing the window with his hands clasped behind his back. It was still a beautiful day in Strasbourg. The linden trees across the street had turned deep shades of ochre. A light wind played in the branches and what you could see of the sky was blue. When Hébert turned, he was smiling.

“I plan to take my wife and kids to the mountains this weekend,” he said. “You still have some mountains in your country. Perhaps you could take someone for a holiday.”

A great idea, Attila thought. But whether Helena would agree to a cabin in the lower Carpathians was hard to know. She would probably prefer the French Alps. “I will suggest it to her,” he said.

Hébert shook Attila’s hand. “That’s why I want to close this case before the end of the day. We both need a holiday. Do you think you are willing to help?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Attila drove to the steel-and-glass monstrosity that billed itself the Palace of Europe. He parked in the employees parking lot close to the human rights building, ran up the stairs, and made his way along the corridors to the office of Hungary’s Permanent Representation. It was an odd label for a member’s office in this rather utopian setting, where nothing seemed permanent, not even the short-cropped blue-green grass that still showed signs of having been laid in slabs.

He was surprised that Mrs. Gilbert, Vaszary’s long-suffering secretary, was not at her desk. It was even more surprising that the door to the inner sanctum was open and the minister of many portfolios, Árpád Magyar, was sitting at Vaszary’s rather ornate leather-covered desk. He wore an exceptionally fine blue linen jacket, its sleeves rolled up, his hands steepled, his lightly tanned face composed, mildly expectant, eyebrows raised when Attila entered.

“We have been expecting you,” he said with a pleasant smile as he waved Attila into the room. Attila looked around to see who else had been included in the minister’s plural, but there was no one else there, not even Iván Vaszary, the only person who had any reason to expect to see Attila here today. “Come in, come in,” the minister said, indicating a wide-armed chair across from the desk.

“Why?” Attila asked.

“Perhaps it is a conversation we should have had already, but no time like the present,” the minister said, still smiling. Attila thought that, what with the fine suit, the tan, the restrained but friendly smile, Árpád Magyar managed to look more like an Italian actor than a middle European bureaucrat, but since he was known for mixing with the rich when he and Mrs. Magyar were on vacation, he had come by the look honestly.

“Your salary, for starters, is not — how shall we put it? — adequate for your lifestyle.” Magyar said the last word in English. Perhaps, Attila thought, so few Hungarians could afford one that there was no need for a translation.

“My what?” Attila asked.

“You are divorced,” the minister said, his voice taking on a shade of regret. “Your wife, as I understand it, had desired more than you could offer her, and she left you for a more . . . more interesting companion, a better life, really, wouldn’t you say, Attila?”

“More interesting?”

“Money, as you know, makes for better options. She needed better options than your limited means could offer.”

“I don’t think my divorce is any of your business, Mr. Magyar,” Attila said.

“That’s exactly why we are having this discussion, Attila. I can very easily make it our business. You have two lovely daughters, for example. Wouldn’t you like to give them more of the things that little girls desire? My daughters, for example, have a keen sense of fashion. They like to wear pretty clothes. They like to go on interesting vacations. You see, there is that word again, interesting. Little girls can be quite demanding. Haven’t they told you they are tired of the zoo? It’s a great zoo in Budapest, one of the best in the world, but they must get bored with it, Attila. And aren’t you bored with your car?”

Attila had an overwhelming desire to slap the minister’s jowly face but held back. Waiting.

“I thought so,” Magyar said, with growing confidence. “I think you would find us very understanding. Very generous. And not too demanding. A few little things, maybe, from time to time that you could do for us. No, nothing onerous, I assure you.” He had his hand up as if to ward off whatever objections Attila offered.

“For example,” Attila prompted.

“For example,” Magyar repeated. “There is a small, irritating local matter,” Magyar said.

“What sort of small matter?”

“The matter of Magoci’s unwelcome interference in something that did not concern him. A business matter, really. You know he had the nastiest reputation. Money laundering. He worked, you must know