“Anyone else?”
“There were others, but some dropped out early. They thought the price was too high. There were also meetings about the monsieur from Poland. All of these to be confidential because your minister had other ideas.”
“Minister?”
“Your Minister of Justice, he was not to know about the sale of the painting. Monsieur Vaszary told us everything. How he was unhappy with the deal from the minister. This artist’s last painting sold for 21 million euros, and prices go up all the time. He thought the minister was taking advantage of his position. He thought the 50 thousand was a joke, and he didn’t need the job here if he had the millions. Monsieur Magoci had the contacts to set up the funds where only Monsieur Vaszary could find them.”
“He had helped other people hide illegal funds,” Attila suggested, hoping she would talk about the scheme to sell the painting and hide the money offshore. Hébert had mentioned Magoci’s reputation for money laundering. But what was the deal between Magyar and Vaszary? Was Vaszary going to keep it all? Had Magyar hired Berkowitz to prevent the deal?
“We do not think that is illegal. If it is your money, you can do what you want with it. Monsieur Magoci believed in free enterprise.”
“That was what he was hired to believe.”
“De plus, he had to meet with the appraiser because Monsieur Vaszary could hardly do that . . .”
“Which appraiser?”
“I do not understand. You know her, yes? The one in Paris, of course.”
“But Mr. Vaszary had another appraiser as well.”
“That would be ridiculous. The woman in Paris — Mademoiselle Marsh — is the perfect choice for this work, she came highly recommended, and she was acceptable to all the buyers. I actually have that in writing, that every one of them agreed she was good. If your Monsieur Vaszary has lost his copies of their letters . . .” She gave him a warm, angelic smile that implied she assumed he was an idiot in the pay of someone whose memory was even less reliable than her dead boss’s.
He had been the one who approached Helena for the appraisal. He had invited her to come and meet with the soon-to-be-divorced Gizella. He was trying to reconstruct what had happened just before he went to Paris. What exactly had Gizella said?
“And the divorce?” he asked.
“What divorce?”
“Mrs. Vaszary hired him to handle her divorce?”
“Monsieur Magoci knew nothing about a divorce. Monsieur Magoci had no dealings de tout with Mrs. Vaszary except about bringing the appraiser — Helena Marsh, n’est pas? — to Strasbourg, so she could see the painting.” She tapped her fork on her plate as if to make sure she had his full attention before she asked, “What is Monsieur Vaszary’s offer, Attila, if I may?”
“He suggests half a million euros.”
Monique Audet laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Helena arrived at the duplex, the police tape was still around Berkowitz’s door, but there was no police officer in front of the house, no police car, and no one lurking behind the fence. Attila had mentioned the Budapest force was short-staffed. Since the cutbacks, the minister had called for significant redeployments in the interests of public security. That, according to Attila, meant public relations, making sure that a lot of uniforms wandered about the streets, trying to look attentive.
She wore her Marianne Lewis outfit, with a new-to-Marianne unflattering leather jacket over tight-fitting pants with rows of silver buttons down each side. She had bought the clothes in a second-hand store near the hotel. “I would not recommend you shop on Rákóczy Avenue, madam,” the concierge had advised, but he would not have known how far Marianne Lewis’s clothing interests stretched.
She pressed the bell on Zsuzsa’s door.
Zsuzsa took her time coming to the door, and when she did, she still seemed unprepared for visitors. Her face was not made up, her dark hair hung over her shoulders in damp clusters, and she wore pink slippers and a matching dressing gown that seemed to have enjoyed finer days. Without the red shoes and high hairdo, she was a lot smaller than she had first appeared. Her music had switched from Mozart to something maudlin by Schubert. There were children’s voices in the background.
“I have kept them home from school,” Zsuzsa said. “Wasn’t right to send them after we hadn’t slept all night.”
“The police . . .”
“They were here for hours. Emergency vans, a stretcher. All in white overalls like ghosts. They took the body at about eleven last night. You wish to come in?”
Concerned that someone would see her, Helena had already edged her way in but still hovered in the doorway. Though it had been very tempting, she had not wanted to push her way in until she was invited. Now that Zsuzsa opened the door wide, she grabbed Zsuzsa’s hand for an enthusiastic shake and stepped quickly into the comforting warmth of the apartment. The children’s voices grew louder as she approached the living room. A boy around ten and a teenage girl were playing a board game on the carpet. They were both in their pyjamas. Zsuzsa made half-hearted introductions in Hungarian. The children glanced up, then continued with their game.
“They’re very tired,” Zsuzsa said. “It was all so traumatic for us, as you can imagine. They were at the window when the body was rolled out, covered by a white sheet but still the shape of a man’s body. I should not have allowed them to be at the window when that happened, but I didn’t know. So much noise and flashing lights and coming and going, I couldn’t know when they were going to move him. And I could hardly keep them from looking.” She was talking fast, anxiously glancing at the door.
“You are expecting someone?” Helena asked.
“No. No. Just checking. Maybe they are coming back.”
“The police?”
“No. I worry about the man who killed him. The burglar.”
“Did the police say it was a burglar?”
“No. They didn’t know. They said they
