Helena had never seen her friend so excited. Usually calm to the point of feigned indifference — a pose Italians of her class adopted to great advantage over lesser mortals — she was almost breathless, the tiny vein on the side of her neck pulsing noticeably. “I think you’ve found the missing Caravaggio!” Andrea said, much louder than Helena would have preferred.
“But why wouldn’t he sign his name?” Helena asked. “Why does Judith and Holofernes have Artemisia’s signature?”
“I don’t know, but I have a theory. You told me there was something odd about the signature.”
“Yes, but what does that prove?”
“Here is what I think happened. Artemisia was in Naples at the same time as Caravaggio. He had escaped the nasty Knights and was determined to make his way back to Rome, feverishly painting for his pardon. I think Artemisia provided sanctuary for him. She had known and admired his work since she was a child. She had even copied some of his techniques. She knew Caravaggio was hunted and that he had to keep painting. She gave him a room. I think she allowed him to put her name over his own signature on some of those last paintings in case the Knights came looking for him at her house.”
“And he took it on the boat with him when he sailed from Naples.”
“What do we know about the paintings he took? Yours could have been one of the four paintings said to be with him. No idea what happened to the fifth. I think that it was taken by the men who killed him and sold later to someone from the court in Madrid.”
“And after that?”
“There is a June 1870 letter from a young Habsburg to his mother about buying a painting by Artemisia that he believed was really a Caravaggio. He was in France, seeking refuge after his estates were forfeited to the state for some misdemeanour. His family had wanted him out of the country.”
“Where did you find the letter?”
“I didn’t. It surfaced during Mendoza’s research for his next Caravaggio book.”
“Anything else?”
“No. We lost track of it after.”
“So, it wasn’t taken by Göring?”
“Not from Poland. I am coming with you to Strasbourg tomorrow. I have to see it for myself.” Andrea hesitated for a moment. “If that is all right with you . . .”
Helena said there was still something she had to do in Budapest, but she could arrange for Andrea to see the painting. There was a 7 a.m. flight. “Where are you staying?”
“A boutique hotel called Aria. I booked it because I loved the name.”
Helena’s cellphone rang.
This time it was Zsuzsa.
“I thought you would like to know that your friend has just arrived home again,” she said, putting too much emphasis on the “your friend,” as if she had somehow guessed that Helena was not the friend she had pretended to be.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Helena went back to the hotel for her black hoodie, running shoes, gloves, the knife, the flashlight, and the Swiss mini. She stuffed the Marianne wig into her backpack. She had to be ready to play the part if Zsuzsa noticed her tonight. She took a cab to the cable car that led to the castle and walked the rest of the way. She didn’t have much of a plan for challenging Berkowitz, but she did intend to confront him with what she knew about the lawyer’s murder in Strasbourg. And she needed to know how that tied in with the Vaszarys’ painting.
Berkowitz’s apartment was dark. She climbed over the fence and checked the side window, but it was too dark to see inside. Zsuzsa’s porch light was on, but it didn’t cast its light as far as the apartment next door. There were now two small black cameras pointing toward the door. One of them blinked several times. Helena knocked and waited, but no one came. She assumed that she had triggered the security company’s alarm, leaving her maybe ten minutes before they came to check. Long enough to find out whether Berkowitz was home, perhaps standing behind his door.
She used her knife to unlock the door. Waited. Still no sound. No movement. She opened the door with her foot, slowly. Still nothing. She edged the door open further. Drew the Swiss mini out of her sleeve and waited some more.
Faint notes of Mozart floated in from Zsuzsa’s apartment. There was no sound inside Berkowitz’s. With knees bent, shoulders squared, arms up, she slid into the darkness. János’s lessons flashed through her mind. Always assume that the other person is prepared, that he is armed, that he can more than match you for strength. Still no sound. No movement. She didn’t want to use her flashlight: flashlights make you a perfect target.
Flat against the wall, she edged forward to where she remembered the light switch had been. Waited. Nothing. There was again a strong smell of disinfectant or cleaning fluid.
She pushed the switch with her shoulder. Harsh yellow light flooded the apartment; the furniture floated over the black-and-white tiles. They were all just as they had been when she last saw them. No sound as she made her way toward the long brown sofa that looked like no one had ever sat on it.
On the other side of the sofa, a man lay on his stomach, his face resting on the rough woven rug, both arms over his head as if he had been stretching or reaching for something under the side table. He didn’t move when she pushed her foot against his knee. She put on her gloves and reached down to feel his neck. No pulse. Some blood had pooled under his chest and seeped out onto the rug. No marks on his neck. His jacket had ridden up. There was nothing under the table. No marks on his wrists. She turned
