“I have something for you,” Attila said and led the way to Hébert’s office.
“Don’t tell me, more things discovered by accident . . .”
“It’s a good photograph of the man who shot your lawyer last week.” Attila took the photo out of his pocket and handed it to Hébert with a flourish. It was clipped from one of the group photos taken at an official function with Berkowitz clearly visible in the background. “I may not make appointments, but I am always around when you need me. Trying to help with your investigation.” Attila grinned.
Hébert spread the sheet of paper on his desk, found the photo from the video camera, compared the two and stared at Attila. “I assume you are about to tell me who he is?”
“He was Gyula Berkowitz. He was killed last night—”
“Yes. In Budapest,” Hébert interrupted. “You know who his employer was?”
“Somebody in our government,” Attila said.
“Well done!” Hébert exclaimed and, for emphasis, he hit the desk with the palm of his hand. “I was worried perhaps you were not going to tell me. We small provincial policiers in this far corner of Europe do have a modest budget for looking into this sort of thing.”
“I still don’t know exactly who hired him, but I do know that he had worked, in the past, with some higher-ups in our government.”
“What you do not know cannot bite you on the ass, my friend,” Hébert said with a wide grin. “And what is your own police going to do about this murder?”
“Maybe not much,” Attila said. “The man or men who had hired him to kill Magoci have ways of shutting down investigations. If his murder is connected to what he did here . . .”
“Of that we can be certain. I don’t believe in coincidences when it comes to murder. Do you?”
“I don’t. Whether there will be an investigation at home depends on whether the people who hired him decided it was risky to let him live. In that case, his murder will remain suspicious but, what with budget cuts, not necessarily solved.”
“Your Lieutenant Tóth is not much for sticking his neck out.”
“Not much. He loves his job. It would not have taken him long to find out who Berkowitz worked for, but he may be waiting to see what he is expected to do with the information. He would usually look for ways to enhance his paycheque. I assume you have no such constraints. That’s why I came to you. Perhaps you will be able to shed some light on the who and the why.”
“You were also désireux de me dire how your breakfast went with the beautiful Mademoiselle Audet?”
“You had me followed?”
“Ça va sans dire, mon ami,” Hébert said. “You are, as they say in police language, still ‘a person of interest.’”
Attila hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much to tell Hébert. He knew now that he had been chosen for this stint in Strasbourg because of his relationship with Helena. The Vaszarys had asked for him specifically because he would be able to bring Helena here. Iván Vaszary was also responsible for Helena’s presence on the tour boat that day, and Berkowitz worked for the same people who had provided this cushy Council of Europe job for Vaszary.
The savvy mademoiselle had told him that Vaszary was planning to sell the Gentileschi painting for a very large sum of money. Since Vaszary had hired Magoci to invite bidders and conduct an auction for the Gentileschi, he would hardly have had him killed before the sale was concluded. Attila could not see how selling a painting, however valuable, would be a police matter, unless it involved theft or some other kind of criminal activity.
Whatever it was that the mademoiselle was selling, it was worth more — perhaps a lot more — than half a million euros.
That he blamed himself for inviting Helena to Strasbourg made the decision to withhold information more difficult, but withhold it he did. It had been, as he told himself, a tough judgment call. He was sure that there were still gaping holes in his understanding of what the Vaszarys or their slippery employers in the Gothic castle had planned. What he thought he knew was that the original plans, whatever they were and whoever had devised them, had gone off the rails. Vaszary would not be offering a bribe to silence Mademoiselle Audet, unless she had something of value beyond convening buyers for the painting.
“She offered to give some information to Iván Vaszary in exchange for money,” he finally said. “It’s information she hadn’t shared with you and was not interested in sharing with me, but I don’t believe it’s of the kind that implicates Vaszary in your lawyer’s murder. As far as I can tell, it would have been against Vaszary’s best interests to have the guy killed because the painting he was hired to sell had not yet been sold. However, it may be the end of Vaszary’s career as our esteemed representative to the Council of Europe and of my fascinating stay in your magnificent town.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“For Vaszary, maybe twenty-four million. At least that was what the last painting by this artist fetched.”
Hébert whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a painting.”
“Apparently not if it’s by Artemisia Gentileschi.”
“Who?”
“She was, apparently, a baroque master. Italian. Not many women artists in her time, so she is rare. But don’t ask me how these things are valued, all I know
