Deceptions

by Anna Porter

  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 she didn’t quite trust him, but he didn’t say so.

  Helena told him she would be gone for a day or two, and that she would contact him when she returned. “Meanwhile, could you ask Mrs. Vaszary the name of the man who she says sold them the painting.”

  “Someone in Budapest, she said.”

  “About a year ago, and the man was a friend in need of ready cash. She couldn’t remember his name. I don’t know about you, but I tend to remember my friends’ names.”

  Chapter Eight

  Attila loved the idea that the main police station in Strasbourg was called Hôtel de Police — police hotel. Not as grand a name as Budapest’s own Police Palace, but cozier. The address on Hébert’s card also included the words Commissariat de Police à Strasbourg à 34 Route de l’Hôpital, 67000 Strasbourg. It was an imposing, modern white building, with a long white staircase and a parking lot full of police cars. At the top of the stairs some dispirited-looking demonstrators held up a banner with demands to free four people arrested after another “manifestation.” They were chanting “libérez nos camarades,” lifting the heavy banner to their shoulders, dropping it with a thud, lifting it again, and dropping it. They made no move to hinder Attila as he passed by and entered the glass doors festooned with photographs of the missing. Many of them were months old, fly-splattered, smudged.

  When Attila asked at the desk whether Lieutenant Hébert was in, he was rewarded with a broad smile and a vigorous nod by the blonde policewoman. Her attitude and her snug uniform were a pleasant change from the bad-tempered Margit in Budapest. Not that Margit’s uniform wasn’t snug, it was just snug in the wrong places, whereas this French police uniform fitted its wearer in a way that made Attila wonder if it had been made to measure. The dark blue pants were a perfect fit despite the extra pockets, and the top button on her blue shirt was undone. She picked up the phone and said Attila’s name into the receiver, then they both waited.

  Hébert arrived with a file under his arm. “In your country,” he asked, “people don’t bother making appointments? First at Magoci’s office, now at mine. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I assume Mr. Vaszary sent you?” He offered to shake hands.

  “Is there some place we could talk?” Attila asked, ignoring the question.

  “D’accord,” Hébert said, and indicated the electronic gate and the x-ray machinery. He watched as Attila unloaded the change from his pockets, his belt, the short-barrelled police-issue handgun, and the long object wrapped in newspaper that came last. “Intéressant,” Hébert remarked when the wrapping arrived at the other end of the screening process. Then he indicated that Attila should follow him.

  The interview room was small, hot, and humid, with opaque glass walls that separated it from the rest of the squad room. There was a table in the middle, four chairs (two on each side), a decanter of water, a small computer, and four glasses. That Hébert brought him here and not to his own office indicated that he was still under suspicion and that their conversation was not going to be private. One of the glass walls was undoubtedly a one-way mirror. Attila, in his previous life, had conducted interrogations of suspects and witnesses in rooms just like this.

  “Do you mind if I record?” Hébert asked, settling into a chair across from where Attila stood.

  Nicely done, Attila thought without responding. He
placed the newspaper package on the table, unwrapped it carefully to avoid contact with the bow, and stood back from the table.

  Hébert looked at it, looked up at Attila, then down again. Then he flicked the switch on the recorder, said his own name and Attila’s, and asked with just a hint of a smile: “You are here to confess?”

  “Of course not,” Attila said. “I came to deliver something that could be of assistance in your investigation. Unless, of course, you have already arrested the killer but didn’t want to release the news . . .”

  “In this country, we are always grateful for assistance from the public,” Hébert said, his eyes on the bow but his hands not touching it. “How did you get this?”

  “It was found in the cathedral after the lawyer was killed.”

  “Found?”

  “Yes.”

  “How exactement was it found ?” Hébert pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and prodded the bow to turn it on its side. “Aluminum,” he said. “Light, very expensive.”

  “Yes, I could see that,” Attila said. “What I can’t see without the proper equipment is fingerprints. I assume you have someone here who could dust for prints?”

  Hébert called to the mirror for Georges, who appeared a minute later, sweaty and ruddy faced, to pick up the bow with its newspaper wrapping and take it away.

  “So, you were in the cathedral saying your prayers and happened to notice a package under your seat, took a closer look, and what a surprise, it happens to be this bow, the one that was perhaps used by the man who perhaps killed our lawyer. Is that right?”

  Attila grinned. “Brilliant,” he said. “How did you know?”

  Hébert affected a well-practised Gallic shrug. “Ce n’est rien,” he said. He then opened the large envelope he had been carrying and spread its contents on the table. They were all enlarged photographs of Helena Marsh. A couple of them were a little blurry, but the rest must have been taken by tourists who had brought high-quality cameras or iPads with them on the cruise. One had captured Helena flying over a man sitting nearest the side of the boat and leaping onto the escarpment. Another showed her running full tilt over the bridge, in pursuit of a figure wearing a long beige coat and a grey hat. At the far end of the bridge, she had stopped and looked back, a motion that had been caught by the camera in a photograph that didn’t do justice, Attila thought, to the perfect oval of her face, or her green-hazel eyes, but was good enough for identification. If the killer had been aiming at the lawyer, he would know that Helena had pursued him, and he could come after her. If she had been his intended target, he would certainly try again.

  She could be in danger. She needed protection. He thought he should bring her to the police station to talk to Hébert. The photographs made it clear that she was not the killer. However, almost as soon as that thought leapt into his mind, he recalled how Helena responded to such admonishments. She believed she was a better judge of her own safety than anyone else, especially a police officer. Unlike the police in civilized countries, she was not hemmed in by regulations.

  Perhaps Hébert had read Attila’s thoughts because he said, “It’s a pity she has not come to us. She would not be a suspect, but a witness. She may be the fastest runner in France, but an arrow is faster, and he may be hunting for her even as we sit here.”

  “You don’t seem to have any photos or CCTV of the killer,” Attila said.

  Hébert shifted his computer so that Attila could see a very blurry image of the running man, with his long coat, his face mostly obscured by his hat. Once, as he half-turned to look behind him, there was a flash of a flat chin, a thin mouth, but even that could have been exaggerated by the strain. The man was sprinting; his face would express the kind of rictus some runners have when they are moving fast, their muscles pumping adrenalin. Attila’s negative opinion of joggers had not improved since he discovered that Helena was one of them.

  “Is there a widow Magoci?” Attila asked.

  “They were divorced years ago.”

  “Was she the beneficiary?”

  Hébert laughed. “I looked into that. She was not the beneficiary. He left all his money to a daughter who lives in Quebec, in Canada. She is a lawyer. The widow has married again. She seemed sad that Magoci had died, but not too sad. Said they had last spoken two years ago.”

  Georges came back looking considerably less overheated and proceeded to rattle off a long report that Attila managed to mostly understand. (He’d been practising his English over the past year, not his French.) There were no fingerprints. Win&Win, the manufacturer, was a Korean firm, and the bow would have cost more than €800. It was one of their high-end products. A Wiawis Nano with a recurve riser. Recommended for professionals.

  “A professional would need to practise a lot,” Hébert said, switching to English. “It’s not a sport you can go easy on. Takes a good eye and steady hands. Know anyone like that?”

  Attila shook his head.

  “If you happen to hear about someone like that, you would call me?” Hébert asked. “And if you happen to bump into the woman in these photos, you will give her my message: she can’t outrun this killer.”

  Attila gazed at his hands to avoid Hébert’s scrutiny. If Hébert thought Helena would agree with that assessment, he couldn’t know much about her. That was comforting. If he knew little about her, maybe the killer knew even less.

  Hébert, his hand on Attila’s shoulder, accompanied him to the exit. When they were standing at the top of the steps, they stopped and faced each other again. “I have heard good things about you and that Titian in Budapest.”

  “From Tóth?” Attila squawked incredulously. “Lieutenant Tóth?”

  “No,” Hébert said. “From a Paris flic I’ve known since the academy. He said you had assisted him with a case involving a couple of lads who had been selling protection to shopkeepers in the twelfth arrondissement. Small-time criminals, but they were preying on small shops, immigrants most of them, barely making it in our City of Light. One of the shopkeepers had complained to the police in the twelfth, a busy place that didn’t take the time to investigate. There are so many other crimes with higher stakes — you know what I mean.”

  Attila nodded. Shopkeepers in Budapest had similar problems with complaints to the police.

  “Alors, this lot set fire to a family’s corner store. One of the children happened to be inside. The gang took off for Austria, then Hungary . . .”

  “I remember them,” Attila said. “They had tried it in Budapest first, offering rewards for compliance. Simple stuff, like not setting your shop on fire. Your Paris flic, Jacques?”

  “He said you tracked the buggers down, arrested them, and turned them over to his team.”

  “We like to think we are on the same side,” Attila said.

  “It so happens your Lieutenant Tóth didn’t seem to agree with that sentiment. Lucky for Jacques, he was just a sergeant then. He had no time for the small stuff.”

  “Still doesn’t,” Attila said.

  “My friend also mentioned something about a friend of yours, a woman who does art appraisals. She is rather unusual for an appraiser.”

  Attila managed to drain all expression from his face. “Hmm,” he said.

  “She helped my friend identify a forged Renoir. Well painted, apparently, but not the real thing.”

  Attila said nothing.

  “You are not planning to leave our beautiful city in the next few days?” Hébert asked.

  “Not as far as I know. I like it here. Rented a B & B not far from here on Rue des Prés. Small but expensive. Why the next few days?”

  “I will have this murder sorted in a few days,” Hébert said.

  “Hmm,” Attila said.

  “And a last question,” Hébert said, as Attila had started down the steps. “You wouldn’t happen to know any Ukrainians?”

  Ukra
inians. Again. Attila turned and went back up the stairs. “I have met a few. Why?”

  “There was one at the Colmar archery range, l’Arc et les Flêches, asking questions. Big guy, speaks lousy French.”

  “Worse than mine?” Attila asked, and went down again. Damn that grasping, greedy bugger Azarov.

  As soon as he was out of the police station’s sightlines, he called Helena’s office and left a message for Louise. “Please tell your boss that her Ukrainian friend or one of his hirelings is spending time at the bow-and-arrow club in Colmar.”

  On Rue Geiler, Attila found only Gizella and the dog. “Csókolom,” he said. Not that he wished to kiss her hand, even if it was a relief to be able to speak Hungarian again.

  Iván had gone to the Council of Europe, and she had planned to go shopping in Place des Halles. He thought she still seemed oddly unconcerned about the murder of her lawyer. “He was the kind of guy who collected enemies,” she told him. “Most of his clients were a little shady.”

  “Why, then, did you hire him?” Attila asked.

  “I wanted someone who couldn’t be intimidated,” she answered. “The wife of the Czech consul recommended him. She had managed to settle for more than twice what her husband had offered the first time; it’s what I thought I wanted. You know Iván. . . .”

  I don’t, Attila thought. Men like Iván would never confide in men like me. “I doubt he would ever hurt you,” he said.

  Gizella was wearing a short white sheath dress, low cut, with a wide red belt that displayed her figure to its full advantage. She crossed the room in front of Attila, taking small steps on her stiletto heels and swaying a little with the motion. She picked up a white porcelain ashtray (Herendi, Attila thought) and a gold cigarette case from the sideboard and took them to the sofa. When she sat, her dress rode up her thigh. “I smoke when he is out,” she told him. “He hates the smell of cigarettes in the house, but now that we are going to be divorced, it doesn’t matter.” She gently stroked the dog’s neck, looking up at Attila.