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

forged provenances for paintings he had commissioned himself and sold, on the basis of those provenances, as original work by such artists as Giacometti and Nicholson.”

“But Adam Biro was not a forger, Miss Marsh,” Waclaw protested. “He has sold the highest quality of art to museums and collectors for decades.”

“You are right, Mr. Lubomirski,” Helena said. “He may not have been a forger, but he was certainly a thief, a killer, and a war criminal. Also, he has been dead for some time, as has his son who followed in his footsteps. No one is sure how long the younger Biro has been dead because his death has been covered up so that he can continue to sell paintings his father stole.”

“We had no idea that Biro was dead,” Vaszary interrupted. “We were told he had a painting to sell, that he was short of funds. I bought it, and we brought the painting to Strasbourg when I was appointed to the Council.”

“You never met him?” Attila asked.

“No, I did not. But he was recommended by the then Minister of Justice.”

“Mr. Magyar,” Helena said.

“Yes. He is a trusted friend of our prime minister’s,” Gizella added.

“How much did you pay for it?” Helena asked.

“A thousand euros. We were told it was a copy of a painting by Gentileschi. He was specific about that — a nineteenth century copy.”

“What about the provenance?” Waclaw interrupted. “You showed me the provenance for this Gentileschi. Not a copy. The original painting. The one that had been in my family’s home. I was buying it back to honour my family. It was to be . . .”

“You decided it wasn’t a late copy?” Helena interrupted.

“Monsieur Magoci told us,” Gizella blurted.

“When?”

“When we invited him here to meet with us. He said it looked like a baroque painting by someone very, very good. He asked whether we were interested in having him do some research. Then he called to say he was sure that it was by Artemisia Gentileschi. His firm had looked into its history.”

“He must have been one of your first visitors,” Attila said in Hungarian. “Why?”

“You hired him,” Helena asked, “as soon as you came here? What was he going to do for you?”

“It had nothing to do with the painting,” Vaszary said.

“Other investments?” Helena suggested.

“We were investing in real estate, if you must know,” Gizella said. “No laws against that and, as Iván said, nothing to do with this painting.”

“Real estate?” Helena asked. She remembered Vladimir’s talk about laundering money.

“How did this man get a provenance?” Andrea asked.

“He wrote up what he had found out about the painting’s history,” Vaszary said. “That’s what provenance is, right?” He was looking at Andrea.

“Then why did you ask me here?” Helena asked.

“Magoci advised us that we needed someone to verify his research,” Gizella said.

“So you could sell it,” Helena said.

“Yes, so we could sell it. He knew how to do that. Knew the market for a painting like this.”

Andrea, who had been studying the painting with a flashlight and a magnifying glass, turned to face Helena. “Nothing for sure,” she said, “but I think the signature may be covering up another signature and it’s possible, just possible, that this is a lost painting by Caravaggio.”

“Caravaggio?” Waclaw shouted. “It can’t be. The painting we lost is by Artemisia Gentileschi.”

“In that case,” Helena said, “this may not be your painting. There is only one way to find out. We have to study the signature using infrared light and a microscope. We cannot risk scraping the paint here. Unless we take the painting to Rome, we cannot be sure.”

“No,” Waclaw shouted. “You can’t take my painting to Rome. We have concluded our deal . . .”

“You are not taking this painting anywhere,” said the short man with bristly white hair who had come into the room. No one, not even Lucy, had noticed.

“Miniszter ur,” said Vaszary and rose to his feet again. “We were not expecting you,” he added, still in Hungarian.

“Nyilván. Obviously,” Magyar said to Vaszary, then he turned to Attila.“You didn’t say you were coming here.”

“Okay,” Waclaw said in English, “I really don’t care what you say in your language. This painting is coming with me to Warsaw. I paid for it . . .”

“It is not,” Magyar said. “Do not worry, your deposit will be returned in full. You have been the victim of a fraud, my friend; this painting does not belong to these people. Therefore they are not able to sell it to you — or to anyone else, for that matter. It is the property of my government, and it is not going anywhere except home to Hungary.”

“Ah,” Helena said, “Mr. Magyar.”

Árpád Magyar offered to shake her hand, but Helena pretended to look for something in her backpack and ignored the gesture.

“You told us you planned to buy it from us later,” Gizella said in Hungarian. She was looking at Magyar. “After we brought it out of the country. You said we would even make a bit more on the side, if all went well, you said, and Iván never asked any questions when it came to what you wanted. He took orders. It’s the way it is.”

“That’s ridiculous, my dear.” Magyar snickered. “No one would believe such a fanciful story.” Turning to Waclaw, he added in English, “I apologize on behalf of my government. As I said, your money, sir, will be refunded in full. Mr. Vaszary will send you a letter withdrawing any claim he imagined he had to the painting, and we shall rely on your goodwill as a gentleman to let this pass. I know it is difficult to forgive, but I promise you that if we decide to sell the painting, your bid will receive the most favourable consideration. And now, I must insist that Vaszary and I are left alone to clear up this mess.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“You didn’t take the money?” Lieutenant Hébert inquired.

Attila shook his head.

“You left twenty thousand euros on the table, just like that?”