by Aaron Elkins
"Velazquez?" I said. "Vay-lahss-kayss."
Finally, results. Szarvas said something to one of the leather-jackets, who took off running, in a couple of minutes bringing back a smooth Continental type, a sharpie in pilot's sunglasses, with a flashy, expensively tailored suit jacket draped, capelike, over the shoulders of an open-throated, lavender silk dress shirt that showed a thick-linked gold chain around his neck. He listened to Szarvas's instructions with bowed head, then spoke to me.
"I am János, Mr. Szarvas's counselor-at-law. I will interpret, yes?"
"All right," I said, pretending I had a choice.
"Come."
Only when he reached around behind Szarvas, undid a brake, and began to push did I realize that the old man was in a wheelchair. Without speaking we navigated down the crowded aisle, an easy task because shoppers melted respectfully out of the way of the wheelchair as soon as they saw who was in it. Occasionally some out-ot-towner who didn't know who Szarvas was would be jerked out of our path by someone else who did. We rounded the end of the long shed, only a few yards from the bustle and clamor of the carnival, and went back down the next aisle a little ways to what was apparently János's office, a cubicle in one of the sheds, separated from the kitchen of a hopping snack bar next door only by a plywood partition that didn't reach the metal roof, so that the place reeked of fried food and old grease. The only furniture were a few chairs and a dark, heavy, old office desk with an insert in the top. My Uncle Sol—zayde's brother—who had a store that sold kitchen curtains, had had one like it and it had enchanted me as a child. If you pulled up on a handle in front, the insert turned smoothly over and a lovely, clunky, upright Remington that was bolted to the underside came up, all ready to use.
János rolled the armchair that was behind the desk out of the way and pushed Szarvas's wheelchair respectfully into its place. Then he motioned me into one of the two armless wooden chairs and took the other for himself.
He took off his sunglasses, wiped them with a folded handkerchief, and put them back on. "Mr. Szarvas would like to know who you are and whom you represent."
Fair enough. I explained, once again using my connection to Stetten as the rationale because to tell a man like Szarvas that I was there on my own, or in the interest of a murdered friend in Boston would have meant nothing to him and probably cut no ice with him even if it had. Szarvas, showing no reaction, asked a question in a shrill, whispery voice.
"What Mr. Szarvas would like to know is what you have in mind."
Well, that was harder. The original idea was that I'd simply show up in Budapest, ask a few questions, gather a little information and be on my way. With luck, maybe I'd pick up something that fitted in somewhere in helping make sense of Simeon's murder—but that was a long shot, because everything that Christie had told me about Szarvas suggested that he was a faker who had never really been within a mile of the Boston Velazquez and therefore couldn't know anything about it. Still, you never knew. In any case, I'd thought that perhaps I'd be able to give Stetten a hand by showing Szarvas the error of his ways or at least send him sniffing off in some other direction.
But nobody told me, for God's sake, that I'd be dealing with the Big Kahunga of the Budapest mafia, along with his slick, smooth counselor-at-law. I decided that a more proactive approach was called for. Put 'em on the defensive, let 'em know you're on to them, and see what comes of it. There were certain obvious risks in putting a mafia kingpin on the defensive, of course, but I really couldn't see Szarvas having his goons work me over, let alone do me in, over this. Not that Tibor wouldn't have been willing.
"What I'd like to know," I said, "is what Mr. Szarvas has in mind by claiming a painting that doesn't belong to him."
János pretended that he didn't quite get the whole message. "Mr. Szarvas wishes the return of his painting, of course. What else?"
"Does he understand that Count Stetten can produce evidence that the painting is from the Stetten collection?"
This time János did translate and Szarvas responded volubly, motioning to János to go ahead and tell me what he'd said.
Mr. Szarvas, János said, understood that very well. He had no intention of contesting Count Stetten's claim that the painting was from the Stetten collection and had been stolen by the Nazis; he was perfectly willing to stipulate as much.
"Well, then, how—"
"What Mr. Szarvas is prepared to contest is the Count's claim that the painting should be returned to him.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," I said, although I was afraid I did.
Szarvas spoke rapidly, pausing after every few phrases to let János translate, and watching me with hooded eyes, rheumy but keen, to gauge my reaction. Sometimes he'd nod vigorously or gesture at me while János talked, as if to drive home a point: There, you see? Isn't it so?
His story was this: as one of Budapest's most knowledgeable pre-war dealers, he had served as art adviser to the German military commander of the city late in the war. In that capacity—
Szarvas held up his hand to interrupt and rat-a-tatted a few more words, motioning to János to pass them along.Surely I understood, János translated, that under the Tripartite pact Hungary had been allied with Germany from 1940 on, and that in March 1944 the country had been occupied by the German army in hopes of countering the Soviets, who were advancing from the east. Szarvas, like everyone else in Budapest, had merely been doing his best to get along with the German military, who were, after all, the legally constituted government. He had not been, had never been, a traitor to his country.
"Yes, I understand that," I said.
But I also understood that the term "art adviser" glossed over something a good bit darker. Christie had told me that part of his "advice" to the Germans had consisted of providing them with information as to where hidden, Jewish-owned art, legally defenseless from plunder by the state, could be found, and that for this he had received a standard commission of 25% of value. This, it seemed to me, was stretching the meaning of "doing his best to get along" to its outer limits.
As a dealer, János continued, Szarvas sold art to the Nazis himself, and sometimes bought it from them, and in 1944 he had purchased the Velazquez for the equivalent of $6,000 from a Gestapo captain, who claimed it had been given to him by an Austrian doctor in appreciation for saving his life. Shortly afterward, however, the new German military commander "temporarily requisitioned" it as decoration for his residence on Castle Hill. In early 1945, when the Russians finally reached Budapest, the German army units put up a fierce resistance. The bombardment had been terrific. Every bridge in the city was blown up, more than a quarter of the buildings were destroyed, and Castle Hill, the jewel of Budapest and the center of the German presence, was blasted into a charred, sprawling ruin.
Szarvas had naturally assumed that the Velazquez had been burned to ashes with everything else—until two weeks earlier, when someone had called to his attention an article describing the incident in Boston. He had followed up with a little research and was now certain beyond doubt that the painting in question was the one that the German commander had taken from him. He recognized that Stetten had a valid claim, but he too had a valid claim and would be happy to let the courts decide the matter.
It was what I'd been afraid of; the good-faith purchaser argument that I'd warned Stetten about. Szarvas was claiming, in effect, that in 1944 he had had no way of knowing that the painting had previously been Stetten's and no reason at the time for disbelieving the Gestapo officer's story about having received it as a present. The fact that Stetten could prove that it had been taken from him in no way affected the fact that it had also been taken from him, Szarvas. He was, like Stetten, a mere innocent victim, blameless and well-meaning, and he deserved recompense.
I was beginning to see why he was so successful at winning these cases. Who could know for sure what had or hadn't happened to a painting after the Nazis got it? With all the transfers, thefts, losses, and confusion that went on during the f
inal years of the war, there was no such thing as a credible provenance covering that time. Szarvas's story was next to impossible to disprove.
"I'm sure you see the justice of Mr. Szarvas's case," János said, smiling. "You see what we are looking for."
I did indeed. His professed desire for the painting's return was strictly pro forma; old-fashioned boilerplate. What he was looking for was money, a settlement to keep the case out of the legal tangles in which he could enmesh it for years. He had a good chance of getting it too, and nothing to lose.
Just in case I didn't get it, however, János made it crystal-clear. "We realize that the painting has great sentimental value to Count Stetten, and Mr. Szarvas has no wish to deprive him of this. If an arrangement that reimburses Mr. Szarvas for his losses can be reached, we would be happy to see Count Stetten have the painting."
"I see. Well, you may have quite a job convincing a judge that a painting Mr. Szarvas got from a Gestapo officer in 1945 was bought in all innocence—"
"In good faith, yes; a good-faith purchase."
"No, not a good-faith purchase. You're a lawyer. You know that for it to be a good-faith purchase the buyer has to be unaware that the object might have been stolen. Are you seriously expecting a judge to believe that 'one of Budapest's most knowledgeable dealers,' a man who worked day in, day out with the Nazis—the art advisor to the German commandant himself—had no idea of what was going on all around him, that it never occurred to him that the painting might, just might, have been taken away from someone else?
János translated. Szarvas snorted and waggled his fingers in an imperious gesture. János jumped from his chair to provide an ultra-thin cigarette from a silver case and light it with a silver lighter. In a moment, the musky, sickish smell of expensive Turkish tobacco was added to the fast-food smells in the little room. Szarvas drew a few short puffs, holding it European-style, between thumb and fingertips with his palm turned up, and puffing the smoke out of his mouth like a man blowing out birthday candles. Then he began to talk again in his rapid-fire, herky-jerky manner, pausing every few seconds to take another pull while János caught up.
János's translation was first-person, straight from the horse's mouth. "I will be frank with you. It is true that I had some suspicions concerning these and other artworks that I bought from the German military. Perhaps they were war loot, perhaps not. I had no way of knowing. You could not ask such a question. What did I know? I knew that the chances of these precious things being destroyed or lost was enormous if left in German hands. There was at that time serious talk that the Nazis would destroy everything rather than let it fall into allied possession. I was determined, in the small way granted to me by God, to prevent this from happening."
You really had to hand it to the guy. First, the good-faith-purchaser argument. Then, if that didn't do the trick, the always-reliable old Elgin argument, appropriately updated. Not only had Szarvas been an innocent victim, he had been trying to save Western civilization.
"Perhaps you would be good enough to convey Mr. Szarvas's position to Count Stetten?" János said.
"Yes, I'll do that, but I'll also tell him what I think of it."
János was untroubled by this. "Of course," he said smoothly, "Count Stetten would have to take into consideration the fact that the six thousand dollars paid at that time is no longer relevant. The painting's market value has appreciated many, many times beyond that. In filing our claim we estimated the value at one billion, four hundred thousand forints. That is eight million dollars."
"You've already filed a formal claim?"
"Yes, yesterday afternoon, before a judge here in Budapest."
"In Budapest? But the painting's in Boston. It was found in Boston."
I'd had the impression all along, from the way he watched me when I spoke, that Szarvas understood a little English, and now he confirmed it.
"Found, Boston," the old man said. "Lost, Budapest." Then, looking me right in the eye, he went into a long, shrill, merry cackle.
I knew exactly why he was laughing, and it was bad news for Stetten. Where a case like this is heard is crucial. In the United States the law leans toward the original owner of a stolen work of art. Let's say that you're browsing through the newspaper one day and you see a photograph of a painting just sold at auction for, say, $50,000, and you recognize it as one that was stolen from you years before. Let's say you then come forward to claim it, but the new owner refuses to go along, claiming in turn that he or she bought it in good faith from a legitimate auction house which acquired it from the estate of a reputable collector without knowing anything of its past. He asserts, honestly enough, that he's not a thief, and that he put out good money on it, just as you did.
Armed with ample proof of your previous ownership, you take the buyer (and maybe the auction house) to court. Do it in New York or Boston, and the chances are that you'll get your picture back and the new buyer will be out $50,000, despite having purchased it in all innocence.
But put the same case on the docket in Hungary or any other Continental European country and you're probably going to be out of luck, because the law is almost certainly going to come down on the side of the good-faith purchaser. You may (or may not) get your picture back, but if you do you're probably going to have to reimburse the buyer the $50,000 he shelled out for it. Both perspectives have their merits, but Stetten's chances of getting his picture back—and doing it without having to fork over a large pile of money to Attila the Hun— were tremendously greater in the States, something of which Attila was all too obviously aware.
Still chuckling happily, he motioned to János to start his wheelchair rolling again, and gesturing to me to come along. We walked back out into the aisle and started around the end of the shed with people once more parting like the Red Sea before Moses. Szarvas jabbered earnestly at János, periodically stopping to let him translate.
"Mr. Szarvas asks me to tell you that he is not interested in a long and expensive courtroom battle any more than Count Stetten is." He had to shout to be heard over the organ-grinder music from the rides and the crackling pop-pop-pop from the shooting galleries. "He hopes that Count Stetten will agree that it would be best for all concerned—"
Szarvas held up his hand. "Ah . . ."
János paused, waiting for him to continue, but Szarvas's head fell forward and he slipped, twisting, out of the wheelchair. János snatched clumsily at his arm but couldn't stop him from slumping to the pavement with his shriveled legs bent almost double. His beaky face was tilted up, the eyes open and fixed. On the expensive gray material of his blazer, just above the red carnation, were two small holes six inches apart, welling with thick, dark fluid.
Chapter 22
For perhaps half a second we both stood there, frozen. The people around us were equally transfixed, caught in mid-sentence or mid-gesture, staring at the old man bleeding onto the ground. Then everyone's nervous system switched on at once and the living-picture tableau erupted into violent life. People screamed, and ducked, and scattered. Because of the continuing pop-pop-pop from the galleries no one knew if the shooter was still at it or not. János dived into the crowd and I fought my way after him, figuring that he'd have a better idea than I would of the best place to be at a time like this. Racks of merchandise were being knocked over and sale items—plastic containers of bottled water, antique religious pictures, shoes—were rolling and bouncing underfoot, tripping people up. Ahead of me János rounded the end of the shed and turned into the leather aisle, and I followed. As I turned the corner after him I looked back to catch a last glimpse of Szarvas and saw that apparently nobody else had been shot. Szarvas and his empty wheelchair, a pathetic little grouping, were at the center of an otherwise empty, near-perfect circle that was fifteen feet in diameter and expanding fast.
Ten yards down the leather aisle and presumably out of the line of fire I slowed up. Now that it was becoming clearer that only one person had gone down, the atmosphere had more excitement than
fear in it. At least half-a-dozen times I heard Szarvas's name whispered in tones of awe as word spread of the momentous thing that had happened. Szarvas's lizard-men were beginning to fan out through the crowd, moving fast and looking dangerous as hell with their mirrored sunglasses and their semi-automatic pistols in their hands. Near the chess table where Szarvas had been playing, János was talking excitedly to three of them, who were listening closely and nodding their heads.
"János!" I shouted from twenty feet away. "What's happened? What is this about?"
He turned to me with a look of amazement. Assuming that he was under the impression somehow that I'd been shot too, I called: "I'm all right, I—"
But he wasn't listening. He was jabbing his finger in my direction and yelling at the three hoods. Even if I'd been able to hear him I wouldn't have been able to understand the words, but there was no mistaking the meaning. There he is! he was telling them. That's him, the one that killed Szarvas!
I skidded to a stop. "No! I had nothing to do with—"
But all three of them, raring to go, pulled handguns from under-the-arm holsters. I think one of them actually fired, despite the crowds, but the crackle from the shooting galleries made it impossible to tell. Fortunately, right beside me there was a kind of alleyway that led to the next aisle—they had them every fifty feet or so—and I ducked into it at top speed, coming out into what seemed to be the musical aisle—balalaikas, ancient gramophones with big horns, banjos, accordions. As I turned into this, I caught a brief sight of the first of the three hoods pounding after me, semi-automatic waving. With people parting before me as magically as they had before Szarvas I ran the fifty feet to the next alleyway, and turned into it, not left to the next aisle down, but right, back toward the leather aisle, hoping they'd never expect me to do that.
Once there I took a right turn, away from the chess table, which seemed to be the center of operations, then dodged into a makeshift dressing area among the leather jackets on display, no more than a cleared space big enough for one person, with a dime-store, full-length mirror propped against one of the clothing racks. The proprietor of the stall started to object but I treated him to a ferocious snarl, modeled on Galina Kutzenova's approach to the gypsy kid in the park. It worked fine; he clamped his mouth shut and jumped back, his hands raised submissively.
