Had they been real, these two paintings would be worth more than the Gentileschi, Helena thought. Simon had sold one of his fake Rothkos to a Dutch museum. It had been a devil of a job, he had complained to Annelise afterwards. Rothko had never discussed his methods or how he mixed his paints, so they were flying blind, trying to capture that elusive Rothko “emotional truth.” The $4 million Simon received had to be split with the artists and some of the rest went for the special paints.
There were several framed photographs on the wall next to the staircase, and they continued up the stairs. All black and white, they were official shots, the participants staring at the viewer with the fixed expressions people wore when they had been asked to pose. Most of them were men in suits; some posed in front of the parliament building. Magyar displayed the same fixed smile he used for his official portraits. In all of them, the central figure was a square-built man with short hair, a little shorter than the rest.
“Our first minister,” Imre said. “Mr. Magyar is a friend of his,” he added with pride. “He comes here sometimes.”
Apart from Magyar, the only person Helena recognized in the photos was Gizella Vaszary, and she stood next to Magyar, close but not too close, and in one photo she was looking up at him with an expression of sheer delight. Everyone else was staring into the camera.
Chapter Seventeen
The young woman at the Strasbourg police headquarters who had smiled at him the last time gave him an even friendlier smile and waved him through the security machinery with barely a glance at his old police-issue handgun. “Hongrois?” she asked.
“Oui.”
Attila was pondering how to ask in very polite French whether she happened to be free for dinner, but Hébert’s arrival spared him the likely rejection. Just as well, Attila thought, he had more than enough trouble already managing his odd relationship with Helena. “Désolé, mon ami, mais il n’y a aucun espoir là,” he said as he took Attila by the arm and steered him toward the far end of the station.
“Pardon?”
“I said there is no hope there for you, my friend,” Hébert said, switching to English. “She is happily married.” He led the way through the phalanx of police desks and computer screens, the familiar sounds of camaraderie, the low murmurs of sharing bits of information, the stale smell of sweaty uniforms and day-old coffee. For some reason, this felt more like home than the Police Palace in Budapest.
As if he had sensed what Attila was thinking, Hébert said, “Tóth,” as he opened the door to his office. Not the interview room this time, Attila noted. He may be off the list of suspects. “He is not very charmant, is he?”
“No,” Attila agreed.
Attila’s phone started buzzing. Budapest Police Headquarters. He didn’t answer.
“He called. Actuellement, someone in his office who speaks a bit of French and more English called and talked to me while he shouted next to the phone. Must think we are deaf here in Strasbourg.” Hébert indicated a chair to the side of his own desk — not facing the desk, Attila noted — and said he would bring some coffee. “It’s not great but potable,” he said.
There was a corkboard pinned to the wall on the other side of Hébert’s desk. Crime scene photographs of the bridge over the river marking the place where the shooter had been, the tour boat, marking the victim’s seat and the seat next to his, fuzzy pictures of the shooter running along the bridge, then the quay, the door of the cathedral and a side street near a hat shop, then some CCTV stills of a man with a long overcoat flying around his legs as he ran, and slightly clearer photos of Helena also running. In one photo, the man was seen entering the cathedral with Helena closing in. That was where he had turned, and the camera had picked up the lower part of his face. Helena’s drawing was better. For one thing, in her drawing he was shown to have a low forehead and deep-set eyes.
His phone buzzed again, stopped, then started to buzz some more. Tóth. He had never been very patient. Back when he was Attila’s sergeant, he favoured quick resolutions, even when that meant beating witnesses into saying they had seen stuff he thought they ought to have seen to suit his own theories of who was guilty. He liked shortcuts. He also liked incentives to walk away from cases and, less often, to charge people with offences they had clearly not committed. It would be good to know what Tóth had been offered to send Attila to Strasbourg. And why.
Hébert’s desk was covered with stacks of papers and files, used paper napkins, cardboard cups, a range of pens in different colours, notebooks, a wind-up penguin, and two small grey elephants.
“Tóth was agitated that we had asked to interview your Monsieur Vaszary concerning Magoci’s murder. And Vaszary’s receptionist called yesterday to tell me to expect you at around nine thirty.” Hébert made a production of checking his watch, handed Attila the coffee, and sat down carefully so as not to spill his own.
“When did you talk with Tóth?”
“This morning. He said you were coming back to Strasbourg today. He also reminded me that your Representative at the Council of Europe — and that would be Mr. Vaszary — has diplomatic immunity. As if I needed to be reminded. As if he needed immunity. And that made me think why.”
“Why?”
“Why your police think Vaszary needs some sort of protection.”
“What did you say to Vaszary?” Attila asked.
“Not much. Asked him if he could maybe come in to answer a few questions about Magoci. Since he knew the man.”
“He did?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well . . . a little . . .” Attila said.
“When I met you at Magoci’s office
