by Anna Porter
Helena believed that great works of art should be accessible to the public. Her paper on private collections had been one of the reasons The Polish Rider was still debated among art experts. The argument over whether it was by Rembrandt or Drost may have reduced its resale value (should the Frick ever decide to sell it) but visitors flocked to see it anyway. The debate had added a touch of mystery to its glamour.
Fortunately, Géza had made no mention about donating the rest of his collection. Had he said that was his plan, she would have known, for sure, that he was using it to blackmail her.
Although Fehér had watched her closely when he showed the photographs of the dead Bulgarian (she had thought he was Ukrainian or Russian), he did not appear to suspect her of murdering either the Bulgarian or Krestin. She thought he actually liked her. He may even have been flirting a little, but it was hard to tell with Hungarians. All the men had that somewhat louche attitude toward women.
As for Krestin’s death, she considered it an excellent addition to the ever-improving package of events. Kis would now have no reason to delay the sale to Márton.
Her only nagging concern was who had killed Krestin and why. The obvious culprits were Grigoriev and Azarov, who had been bidding on the painting and may have felt he had cheated them on hearing the news that it was a fake. She would rather it wasn’t Vladimir, not because she had any illusions about his willingness to have someone killed, but because his being responsible for this particular killing would suggest that he was not pleased with the alternative Titian he had bought in Cluj.
She hadn’t been surprised by his driver’s attempt to take the painting without payment. One of the advantages of a lifetime spent among tigers is that you are not disappointed when they act like tigers. Azarov was a tiger, no matter how well turned-out he was. Always had been. Or, perhaps since he was Ukrainian, a bear.
Could there be another bidder? Someone who had not seen the Matamoros letter or, if they had, didn’t care?
In an effort to rest her mind, she took out the Aeneid and prepared to dive headlong into the aftermath of the Trojan wars.
She had just ordered a bottle of Montrachet when she remembered Sylvie Hoffman. What in the world was she doing here?
She remembered hearing that Sylvie had managed to land a fat contract with a hedge-fund guy in New York about twenty years ago, advising him on art purchases. The man was old, had no ideas about art, no experience, and no time to learn. Chances were he would be dead long before he understood the difference between a Tintoretto and a Titian. But, for some mysterious reason, he had convinced himself that he needed paintings and sculptures to confirm that he had made it. It was not an unusual story and one that Sylvie had been happy to tell her friends. She had also been pleased to show the mammoth diamond ring he had given her on the occasion of their engagement. Never having been a friend of Sylvie’s, Helena had heard all this second- or third-hand.
On an impulse, while the waiter opened the bottle and poured a splash of wine for tasting, she called Giorgio.
“You are at the Negresco for your afternoon libation,” she said.
“How pleasant to hear your dulcet tones,” Giorgio said. “Although I hope I don’t owe you another favour. This one was painful enough.”
“Just a question. Have you seen much of Sylvie Hoffman lately?” She nodded at the waiter and he poured the wine into the crystal glass and left.
“Sylvie, that lovely creature from New York? I do see her from time to time. She has an unlimited travel budget and an overwhelming desire to prove her worth,” he said. “She consults me now and then. Why?”
“She has shown up in Budapest.”
“Right. Now you are ready to tell me the painting in question is in Budapest. The scent of great art for sale must have wafted across the Atlantic.”
“What did you tell her?” she demanded.
“My dear Helena, you are overly suspicious. It does your health and appearance no good. Sylvie, on the other hand, has managed to improve her looks during the past decades — while yours fade, my dear, as do mine. In my case, it is the fault of this excellent barman. What is your excuse?”
“When did you last see her?”
“I am not sure. The days pass so slowly on the French Riviera. The sun shines, the tourists come and go, the few good restaurants still cater to locals and don’t advertise in the hotel magazines. One day is much like another, really. And the lovely Sylvie has been here several times. She likes the climate. And, despite random terror attacks, she prefers the Promenade des Anglais to the docks at Montenegro, where her man keeps his boat.”
He is talking too much, Helena thought. Way too much. It meant that he had something to hide. The first time she had caught him out in a lie, he talked so much about everything other than the bribe he had taken to authenticate a Raphael, that she’d had to slap him across the face to stop. He had written a brilliant essay about the painting’s similarity to The Sistine Madonna: the style, the colours, Raphael’s tendency to exaggerate certain features, but Helena had suspected the painting was a fake. Not a bad fake, but a fake. However, it was not until she met the owner that she learned Giorgio had taken twenty thousand dollars for the authentication. She could have had him fired by the Accademia. She didn’t. Giorgio had run up a huge gambling debt and was more afraid of losing his life than of losing his job.
Over the phone, a slap was not an option.
“How much did she pay you?” she asked.
“I don’t understand.” He was breathing heavily.
“Was it in the region of twenty thousand dollars?”
“Oh dear, Helena, how could you insinuate that I would —”
“We already know that you would, the question is what did you tell her?”
There was a spluttering sound, a crash, and a man’s voice, not Giorgio’s, said, “He has dropped the phone. He is very ill.” And this new person hung up the phone.
Giorgio was never seriously ill, but occasionally, when he was caught out, he was at a loss for words. She imagined the man who had hung up on her was the Negroni-making barman. All part of the service.
She finished her roast venison loin, dabbed up the cream sauce with a piece of bread, and ordered the vanilla ice with berries. By then she had almost finished the Montrachet. A moment’s serious thought convinced her not to order a glass of Vilmos, although she knew it would be delicious. Everything else had been.
She took the elevator up to her room and called Louise in the office. Louise still called herself a secretary. She had no interest in being known as Helena’s assistant. Except for the few paintings she liked in the Louvre, she knew little about art. “A man called this afternoon,” she said. “I was to get an urgent message to you. The man you were interested in showed up at his door. The one they used to call ‘bull,’ spelled B-i-k-a. He said you would know.”
“Was he frightened?”
“How the hell would I know?”
It took a long time for Gábor Nagy to answer his phone, and when he did, he sounded even fainter than he had when Helena met him.
“He visited me last night,” Nagy said. “He was standing outside for about an hour, then he came upstairs. He must have had a way to open doors.”
“Have you called the police?” Helena asked.
“No point. They wouldn’t do anything unless I can pay them, and I can’t.”
“What did he want?”
“For me to forget about Vorkuta. As if I ever could.”
“He threatened you?”
“I don’t care about his threats. But you have to be more careful now. He knows about you.”
“I’ll come over later tonight,” Helena said.
“There’s no point. There is nothing you can do for me. Just take care of yourself.” He disconnected, and Helena took apart the phone she had been using.
Ma
rianne Lewis had checked out of the Tulip Hotel after complaints by the manageress that she spent too little time in Budapest. Now, when Helena contemplated what to wear for the party, she decided that, because Marianne Lewis had also almost outlived her usefulness, she would give her a last outing.
By the time she had changed her clothes, it was 8 p.m. and fair to assume that Kis would be at home, awaiting his party guests. Just to be on the safe side, she stopped by his office. The metal protector bars were up, the door to the courtyard locked but ridiculously easy to open, his office empty. Obviously, anyone wishing to steal valuable art knew better than to break into this gallery. The surprising part was why Krestin had picked Kis to sell the Titian. Géza Márton’s annual payments to Kis to find his painting was less surprising since Géza paid similar retainers to five other gallery owners in the city and one in Bratislava. Géza didn’t like to take chances.
Ferenc Kis lived in the Castle district — an easy walk even in bad weather — on Fö, the first street off Deák Ferenc Square, parallel with the Danube. It had started to rain and was darker than she had expected, but not so dark that she missed the policeman loitering under one of the great chestnut trees in Roosevelt Square. She thought it might be Fehér, but this man seemed slimmer, about the size of Simon. On the other hand, he could have shrunk in the rain . . . The Montrachet must have affected her mind, she thought, grinning into her hood.
She crossed the Széchenyi Chain Bridge. The rain was keeping the tourists away and she encountered only a wet Hungarian flag decorating one of the stone lions, a desultory figure in a black tent begging near the middle, and a few gulls shivering along the rail. She tossed the phone she’d disassembled into the Danube.
The man, whoever he was, hadn’t followed her.
Kis’s apartment was a couple of blocks along Fö in a swanky building, freshly painted in the soft oranges of the Castle district. There were acacia trees in front of the rust-coloured entrance, a white canvas canopy above, and glass down the sides of the door that gave onto a marble lobby. Helena was surprised to find the door unlocked. According to the board, F. and G. Kis lived on the fifth and top floor. A cheerful woman chirped, “Hello,” when Helena rang the bell, and buzzed her upstairs without asking for a name. The woman was already waiting at the apartment’s open door when Helena arrived. She had taken the stairs.
Mrs. Kis was a small, chubby woman with blond ringlets, a round face with crimson lips and serious eye-liner, wearing a clinging rose-pink dress cut off above her dimpled knees. She had a soft handshake that slipped out of Helena’s grasp the moment after it had slipped in. “Gabi,” she said with a show of teeth and upper gums. She took Helena’s wet jacket and hung it up near the door. “Gabi Kis. You are a little early but it’s okay. Feri is getting dressed in the back room, and the others are not yet here, but you are welcome. Please come in.” She spoke English well with a hint of a New York accent in the vowels.
Helena followed her into a spacious living room with tall picture windows offering a view along the Danube. Having nothing else to say, Helena remarked on how majestic the river looked, even in the rain, as she stood a quarter turned toward the view.
There was a long white sofa with soft cushions, a multicoloured Turkish rug, and a dozen paintings of the kind the Kis gallery displayed — peasants in fields, shepherds in shaggy costumes smoking long-stemmed pipes, sunsets on the Great Plain. There was one drawing that merited a second glance — nineteenth century, a man in dark clothes with a white shirt at a wooden table with green glasses and a bottle of wine. Could be Munkácsy, or a fine imitation.
Gabi offered her wine — red or white — and some baked hors d’oeuvres on a silver tray, then joined her at the window. “I wish it would stop raining,” Gabi said. “It’s hard to find parking around here, and it’s worse in the rain. People don’t like to walk anymore.”
Helena smiled and nodded. Her feet were soaked, as was the rest of her. The wine — she’d chosen red — was execrable, cloyingly sweet, with the aroma of a stagnant pool. She placed the glass on an antique sidetable. Either the Kises were economizing, or they planned to poison their guests this evening. Helena didn’t expect to be more than a few minutes here and didn’t want to spoil the lingering taste of her Montrachet with plonk. She hadn’t expected a welcome party, so she must have been mistaken for someone else, but she was ready to enjoy the situation.
A couple arrived with a bottle of wine they described in detail — Eger, second harvest — and introduced themselves to Helena as Dr. and Mrs. Kálmán. They were proud that they had walked from their apartment on Hunyadi János Street. “It’s murderous to try to park around here,” Mrs. Kálmán said in English. “But we were so looking forward to meeting you. Gabi has told us all about your interesting life.”
Gabi introduced Helena as Ms. Hoffman. They all shook hands, then Helena said, “My name, actually, is Helena Marsh. It was very sweet of you to invite me to your gathering.”
Gabi stood with her arms at her side, her mouth slightly open, her head swivelling from Helena to the new guests and back. The Kálmáns merely remarked on the fact that Helena spoke excellent English, as did their hostess, who had studied at Bard College in New York State. They, themselves, had studied in London.
Two more guests came just as Gabi started to ask what Helena was doing there, and as those introductions played out, Ferenc Kis appeared. He was freshly shaved, looking trim in a striped dark-blue suit and a white shirt. He practically ran to shake hands with the newest arrival, a man he told Gabi ran the New National Gallery. Kis kissed the woman’s hand and her cheek, bubbling with enthusiasm, and insisted on serving them Champagne. “The best for the best,” he said in English.
When he saw Helena, he stopped smiling.
“Alas,” Helena said, “I can’t stay long. I have another appointment tonight. So sorry, Gabi. Perhaps next time we can have a longer chat.” Then she turned to Kis. “I assume you have not shown Ms. Hoffman the letter from Matamoros.”
“This is a private party,” Kis said. “Not the right time to discuss such matters.”
“Quite right, Ferenc, but if you should mention that painting to Sylvie, you will have to tell her the truth.”
The noise in the room died down as everyone started to listen, everyone except Gabi, who was ushering another guest in, shaking out her wet raincoat, stacking her umbrella with the others in the entrance, and insisting she decide what she wanted to drink. When Sylvie Hoffman saw Helena, she clattered closer, her Blahniks denting the parquet floor, then lifted her face for a Continental air kiss and a stiff smile.
“I thought I recognized you at the gallery,” she said. “Helena Marsh, whatever are you doing in this part of the world? And what have you done with your hair?”
“How about coffee in the morning?” Helena said. “We can talk about the Budapest art scene. Where are you staying?”
“The Hilton, of course.” Sylvie waved her glass in the direction of Castle Hill.
“Are you staying long?”
“Only a few days, I hope. Nothing but business.”
CHAPTER 25
Helena returned to the Gresham a few minutes after 10 p.m. She went into the Ladies Room off the lobby to take off her wig and shake out the jacket and the umbrella. She didn’t remove all her makeup, thinking the lights were soft in the lobby at this time of night and no one was likely to look at her closely as she passed through to the elevators. Had she taken the stairs, someone might have wondered, and the doors at her floor might also have been locked. Good hotels don’t like having strangers wandering around, bothering the guests.
As she rounded the last bushy palm, she saw the man in the tracksuit. He was lounging in a different leather chair from the one he had slumped in the last time she saw him, and now he made no pretense of reading a newspaper. He stood when he saw her and said, “Zdrastvuyte, ghevoshka” — hello, little girl. “You have ha
d a busy day,” he added, still in Russian.
“What do you want?” she asked, also in Russian.
He smiled. His two front teeth were missing. Someone’s fist must have connected with his mouth at least once. “Piotr Denisovich Grigoriev would like to meet you.”
Helena had learned early in her martial arts training never to be intimidated. Another early lesson taught her that being large was no advantage. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, and all that. The Albanian instructor her father had hired had never met a man he could not fell in less than one minute, and he was shorter than Helena and weighed about the same. Helena had studied with him for seven years and learned that practice and split-second decisions were the key ingredients of success. You had to know every move so well, no thought was necessary, only instinct. But she had been too busy the past few days to find time to train. Other than her run up to Krestin’s house and marching along sidewalks, she had not been able to exercise. The man who faced her now looked as if he hadn’t ever missed a day in the gym.
On the other hand, this was the Gresham lobby and not even a Russian oligarch would want someone in his entourage to attack another guest in full view of the front desk and the concièrge.
“Please come with me to Mr. Grigoriev’s suite,” the man said.
“After you,” she said. Her whole body tensed then relaxed as she balanced on the balls of her feet, her arms tight at her side, her hands flat in their strike position.
When he reached out to usher her into the waiting elevator, she hit his hand with just enough force to make him drop it. It was comforting to know that, had she decided to do so, she could have broken it.
