by Anna Porter
“It’s not what you think,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it. It’s Dr. Krestin. He has told people he has a painting he wants to sell. For the right price.”
“And that is not the price you quoted me?”
“Not exactly.” Kis’s forehead was shining with sweat.
“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “But now there are other offers, and Géza Márton’s is no longer enough. We have been offered more.”
She was tempted to grab Kis by the lapels and push him through the window, but she didn’t want to attract more police attention. She needed to meet János Krestin. “How much more?”
“Twenty-five million,” Kis said.
With a great effort of will, Helena smiled.
CHAPTER 10
On his way to the Gellért Hotel, Attila stopped by the swish Danube embankment apartment his friend Tibor Szelley shared with his mother and two cats that were possibly even older than his mother. Tibor and Attila had gone to the same school on Ráday Street, close to the old National Theatre. It had been demolished in 1964 to make room for the new theatre building. Both boys had been repeatedly singled out for detentions and unpleasant letters home about fighting in the corridors. But Tibor was fortunate to have a grandfather who had been a bus conductor, while Attila’s had inherited the signet ring of his modestly noble ancestors. His grandfather’s pre-war occupation as small factory owner counted against him, despite the fact that the factory turned out fine boots for the army. Once the factory was taken over by the state and a new manager with impeccable Party credentials was installed, the quality of boots plummeted, the factory closed, and everyone had to find a new job. In the people’s republics, a person could not be unemployed. Attila’s grandfather found work as a wrangler on a sheep farm. He was not particularly good at it, but no one else was either, since the real wranglers had been relocated to the factories.
Attila’s father had found a job in a leather-goods factory as a machinist. He thought he knew a bit about leather-cutting machinery, but being the son of the owner hadn’t taught him anything. The machine mangled two of his fingers. After that, all he could get was assembly-line work at the Csepel car factory.
Tibor’s father had become a Party member with a modicum of power over his own and his son’s lives. After Tibor was admitted to Eötvös Loránd University, his father used his influence in Party circles to ensure Attila a place at the police academy. Attila considered writing Tibor’s essays for him to be a small price to pay for the privilege. After Attila graduated, he joined the Metropolitan Police at its thirteenth district location.
Tibor had retired a couple of years ago on his state pension, supplemented by his bank pension and some odds and ends he had collected while nominally serving the public. The apartment had been Tibor’s for some years. Even in the 1990s, when the pendulum was supposed to swing in the direction of those who had nothing, there was never any question that he would surrender it (or his state pension). Without the slightest difficulty, he had made the smooth transition from government apparatchik to senior management of a new bank. Capitalism favoured those with a facility in English and the ability to appear unperturbed by a profusion of numbers.
When Tibor opened the front door, both cats wound around Attila’s legs, their tails held high. They recognized his smell.
Tibor looked at his Rolex and said it was not yet Friday — the day they usually met for Scotch and chess in the Király Baths — but Attila was more than welcome to share the fine Scotch in the apartment. Tibor was wearing a casually expensive cashmere sweater and soft woollen pants. Obviously, he was enjoying his days away from the formalities of banking.
“I can’t stay, Tibor,” Attila said. “I am on my way to a murder investigation, and Tóth’s in charge.”
Tibor’s face fell. “Tóth.”
“I need to find out about a guy you may have known back in the day. Name of Krestin.”
“János?”
“Yes. He was in one of the ministries, I think. I haven’t had time to check, but I remember he used to be in the papers, making announcements.”
“He was in Justice,” Tibor said. He lit a scented Turkish cigarette and tilted his head back as he inhaled. His mother didn’t like him to smoke in the apartment, but it was permitted on the landing. “Why are you interested in him? Surely, he didn’t kill anyone. Personally, I mean.”
“What do you mean, personally?”
“It’s not that he is not capable of killing someone, but he wouldn’t do it himself.”
“He was made a judge after ’56,” Attila said.
“Not quite that. He never had the education to be a judge. Having the right connections was not enough for the law, not even back then. But he worked for one of the judges. State Security. An officer in the security forces. He was decorated for resisting the revolutionaries when they attacked a jail outside Budapest. Hero of the Socialist Republic. Then he worked at Party headquarters. He helped identify some of the rebels in Köztársaság Square and send them to be executed. He was an adviser to the justice ministry at some of the trials, a witness at a few others. He was promoted to security supervisor when they obtained confessions before the trials, so everything could go off without a hitch. But personal violence, I don’t think so.”
“How did he identify anyone in the Köztársaság Square attack if he was resisting the revolutionaries at a jail somewhere else? And where was that?”
“In Hatvan. But back then, Attila, we paid scant attention to such details. A man like Krestin could say he saw something and no one would challenge him. Who knows, perhaps they showed him photos. There were photographers on the scene when the Party building was emptied. Even someone from LIFE magazine. As for those trials, guilt was a foregone conclusion.”
“What happened to him after the Wall fell?”
“He did well.”
“How well?”
“He spoke four languages, including English and Russian. Knowing Russian didn’t seem that useful in the early ’90s, but we were so wrong about that! God knows, somebody had to negotiate with the Russians. Krestin was the perfect person for the job. We may not like them, but we do like their gas. Both the Socialists and the dictator’s guys used him.”
“Then he bought the Lipótváros football team.”
Tibor nodded.
“With what funds?”
“An American movie-mogul’s and his own money,” Tibor said.
“Name of?”
“Tihanyi. You can look him up. Makes mindless trash but he’s always had government backing, some outside investors, and TV sales.”
“Bribes?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tibor said. “And don’t want to know.”
“So how did Krestin get to be an art collector?”
Tibor rubbed his thumb against two fingers. “Too much money — and vanity. He used to display his stuff at cocktail parties he threw, although he wasn’t much of a drinker and, as far as I know, he wasn’t much of a connoisseur, either. He always had single malts and French Champagne on offer. There were some Impressionists on the walls and, I think, even a Raphael. He thought art made him look intellectual. Plus, it may have been a smart investment. Art was easy and cheap to buy here in the ’50s and ’60s. Nobody had anything after the war and even less after the state nationalized businesses, so people were selling their valuables. You can’t eat sculptures. Or paintings.”
“Did you ever see a painting by an Italian called Titian?”
“There was one in Krestin’s living room, but I assumed it was just a copy.”
“What does he do now?”
“Not much. As far as I know, he travels a lot, playing golf in Ireland, Scotland, and Bermuda. He complains about the quality of golf in Hungary. He also enjoys going to concerts and operas. He’s listed as a patron of the National Opera. Also the National Theatre. Come to think of it, I hav
en’t seen him recently. There were rumours that he had a few financial problems. He sold the football team. But there was a time I was on his invitation list. His wife was a charming hostess.”
“Didn’t anybody sue him for something? Like giving false evidence. Or taking part in interrogations.”
“When we let all the security guys go in ’89, tons of files were destroyed. Later, no one had access to the remaining files while we squabbled over who should have access and why. Now we have access, but I don’t think anyone cares anymore.”
Attila was aware that the government had instituted complicated rules that allowed the immediate family and a few privileged academics access to each person’s file. Even then, access could be denied if the minister deemed it detrimental to the national interest.
“Didn’t anyone who got out of jail in the amnesty go after Krestin?”
Tibor seemed amused. “Too long ago. Haven’t you noticed?” He grinned, showing his still neat rows of state-straightened teeth. Attila had already lost a few of his. “You know, Attila, I believe we should let sleeping cats lie.”
“And think of the future, not worry about the past, as our former PM, the Commie, used to say. I still couldn’t get Krestin’s file at the Historical Archives.”
“I will talk to Mrs. Lévay, if you like.”
“Thanks, but I think I have that covered.”
“Ah, the redoubtable Magda. Many have tried and many have failed. She must like you.”
“Not enough to let me see Krestin’s file.”
“Sure you don’t want to come in? Mother would be pleased to open a new bottle of J&B.”
“Next time, for sure. Tóth’s waiting.”
“You need a new employer.”
Attila thanked him and continued on to the Gellért on foot. It was hard to find parking spots in the city, so he was not going to risk losing the one he had just to save himself a fifteen-minute walk along the river.
He counted seven police cars at the entrance of the hotel and two more up the side street near the baths. The meat wagon was right in front where the guests would normally be coming and going, but weren’t, Attila presumed, because the police had barred everyone from entering or leaving the hotel. That accounted for the agitated desk manager and two guys in black suits and striped ties who were outside talking to a senior officer in hushed but anxious tones. Near them was a man he recognized, Dr. Bayer, the chief medical examiner.
Attila slapped him on the back and asked how he’d been since they last met, at a murder site in the Belváros district.
“Can’t complain,” Bayer said. He stood aside while the scene of crime guys in white coveralls brought out the body and began to slide it into the wagon. “Anyone you know?” he asked as he unzipped the plastic body bag from over the man’s face. The dead man’s jaw had dropped to reveal a blue tongue and his upper teeth. He wore a thin gold chain around his neck; a small gold cross lay tangled in his curly brown chest hair.
“I don’t think so,” Attila said. “How many gold teeth?”
“Two gold incisors plus a couple of back molars with diamond inserts. Or cut glass. I’ll tell you more after the autopsy. Some scarring on his forehead, knuckles, and side of his jaw. Broken nose. He’s been hit before, and he did some hitting of his own. I’ll know once I take a good look at him.”
“What killed him?”
“Looks like a stab to the neck. Whoever did it knew exactly where to stick the knife, a long thin blade of some sort, sharpened on both edges. Could be a German-made switchblade. It penetrated the muscle and sliced the nerve and the artery. A centimetre to the left or the right, our guy would still be alive.” He hesitated for a moment, then he asked the obvious: “Not exactly your case, though?”
“Tóth’s.”
“You’re the hired help?”
“Something like that,” Attila said.
“There was a small Glock in his belt, maybe his own prints on the handle. We’ll scope his fingers. It looks like whoever killed him was a professional. They haven’t left us much to work with.”
Bayer zipped up the body bag and told the waiting attendants they could load the corpse into the wagon. Then he nodded at Attila and made his way to his car.
A couple of minutes later, Tóth appeared, his shoulders up, face grim, his sunglasses perched on his shaved head. When the hell had he shaved his head? Attila wondered. And why? It made his neck seem thicker and his ears pendulous. The wife wouldn’t have let him, so that’s why he had taken her photo off what used to be Attila’s desk. She must have left him. Smart woman.
“Good of you to show up,” Tóth shouted. Attila thought wearily that Tóth was always shouting these days.
“I was following the woman you hired me to follow. She checked out of the hotel.”
“What can you tell me that I don’t already know?”
“She is still in the country,” Attila said without conviction. He assumed that Helena Marsh wouldn’t leave until she got what she came for, and Kis seemed to think she hadn’t succeeded yet.
“Why? Why is she still here?” Tóth demanded. “She could have left right after she murdered this man, and she would be someone else’s problem. But no, she stays to admire your incompetence.”
“Why do you think she is the one who did it? She is an art expert, not a professional killer. Plus she is a small woman, can’t weigh more than fifty kilos, and this guy is a beefy hundred with beat-up hands. He’d know how to defend himself from a small art expert.”
“He was found dead on the floor where her room is. There is a bullet hole in the wall across from her door, and she has vanished.”
“Do you know what kind of gun fired the bullet?”
“Not yet, but our guys are analyzing it.”
“Could it have been his own Glock?”
Tóth didn’t deem that worth a comment. Attila knew that Tóth didn’t like that Dr. Bayer had been talking to him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
“What do we know about the dead man?” Attila asked.
“You tell me, since you are so bloody smart.”
“He is probably Bulgarian,” Attila said. “Old enough to have caused some damage already. When you check his car for prints, I bet they will match someone you have in the system. Meanwhile, you’ll find his mug shot on the Interpol server in your office, the one that the Brits and the French share. Not a star, just a regular grunt. Piecework, but profitable piecework, so there will be others looking for him.”
“Profitable?”
“Those teeth must have cost a bundle.”
“Bulgarian?”
Attila nodded. He didn’t mention that diamonds in the teeth were a Bulgarian fad, although some Croats had also started using them. The newish president of Bulgaria, a former bodyguard, had diamonds in his teeth, although few people had seen them and lived to tell the tale.
“And the woman? Does she have a record somewhere?” Attila asked.
“For killing people? It’s not her specialty,” Tóth said as he steered Attila away from the other police and across the driveway. “Which is not to say she doesn’t.”
“Kill people?” Attila asked, still incredulous. He was thinking of the slim blonde swinging past him on the Szabadság Bridge, her small handbag, her white cardigan, her long legs.
“So far, she has never been convicted,” Tóth said. “No proof. She is very, very clever, they say.”
“Who says?” Attila asked.
“My sources.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re talking with the Ukrainians again.”
“None of your damned business, Fehér,” Tóth said, but this time he hadn’t raised his voice. The Ukrainians might be his secret, Attila surmised, not shared with his colleagues.
“I had a talk with your friend Kis,” Attila said. “Charming. Hone
st as the day is short. He says Marsh is working for a couple in Canada. They want her to bring back a painting. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”
Tóth was looking at the bridgehead. He scratched his bald head and said nothing.
“It would have saved me some time if you had told me,” Attila said. “Does this guy Márton she works for have a claim on the painting that she went to see at Comrade Krestin’s house? Does anyone else have a claim?”
“Krestin’s the only person who has proof he bought it. He has all the papers and, before you ask, yes, they do check out. The Ukrainian just wants to buy it. Fair and square. He likes it, and he can afford to buy it. That’s all I know,” Tóth said.
“Not quite. You haven’t explained why they want her out of the country so badly that you hired me. It would make my job much easier if I knew all the details. Just ordinary police work, rather than chasing my tail in the dark.”
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with here, Fehér.” Tóth had started to raise his voice again. “And if you don’t want the job, say so, now! There are other guys who’d salivate at the chance to work for me. You’re not the only fish in the fish market.” No one used that old saying much anymore, so Attila was fairly sure Tóth was reverting to childhood in his anxiety. But why? What was he scared of?
“I’ll try to find her,” Attila said and walked away. He was still thinking about the fish when he rescued his car from an eager parking-ticket guy who had already called to have it towed for overstaying its welcome at the meter near Tibor’s apartment. Sometimes he found it useful to flash his expired police ID. Street cops wouldn’t think of checking the dates. This was one of those times, and, for emphasis, he added that there had been a murder up at the Gellért, and this was the closest he could park.
He drove to the underground lot near the Great Market Hall, picked up an expensive salami sandwich, and ate it as he walked along Váci Street to the Kis gallery. Salami was not what he yearned for but, since they had no soft cheese pastries, it would keep him breathing for the time being.
