Helena checked in to the Tulip Hotel as Marianne Lewis at 2 p.m. She left her Marianne Lewis passport with the manager, telling her she was going shopping for those “wonderful Hungarian sausages and zsemle” they sold at the Great Market Hall. She didn’t go there, but bought a canary-yellow dress at Pixie on Váci Street, the dress shop recommended by the manager. When she reclaimed the passport, she asked for a wake-up call at 4 p.m., explaining that she needed to sleep off the long flight from New York via Munich. To make sure the manager would remember her, Helena pulled the yellow dress out of its package and held it in front of herself. “My first Hungarian purchase,” she said in her best imitation of a New York accent.
The manager remarked that Marianne (“If I may call you that? Americans all use first names only, don’t they?”) showed no signs of fatigue. The manager, an overly made-up woman with hennaed hair, said that she too was exhausted and needed a long rest. She hoped to have a long-overdue holiday in Chicago, where her brother was in the building trade. She seemed disappointed that Marianne didn’t know him.
In her room, Helena took off the Marianne Lewis wig, changed into her black outfit, and put on the makeup but not the blond wig she’d worn earlier. By now, staff at the Gellért would have found the dead man, and whoever had hired him would know more about her than was good for her health. If the police were looking for her, they would be watching for a blonde. The sooner she could get her hands on the painting and take it out of the country, the better.
She slipped out of the hotel while the manager was chatting with another guest and headed for the Kis gallery a short distance away. She stopped for a quick espresso at the Anna Café and watched the street for a couple of minutes in case that policeman came by to ask Kis about her. It was only a few steps from the Anna to Kis’s. She pressed the bell, was buzzed in, and entered to the pleasant accompaniment of a tinkly bell.
“You have an appointment?” asked the small man sitting behind the large mahogany desk. At least that was what Marianne thought he had said. She spoke only a few words of Hungarian, so she was just guessing.
“I have an appointment,” she said in English, “with Mr. Kis.”
“Mr. Kis,” said the little man in reasonable English, “is tied up at the moment, but perhaps I could make you an appointment for another time. May I ask what this is concerning?”
“Tell him it’s Ms. Marsh.”
When the man hesitated, she sat on the edge of his desk, picked up his white phone, and offered it to him. “Now.”
He seemed more surprised than offended. He backed up as far as his chair allowed and glared at her, but then he took the phone and rang upstairs.
“You may wait here,” he said, indicating a round-backed armchair. Instead of sitting down, she wandered about the gallery, glancing at the paintings without really looking at them. They were not worth a second look.
Kis came in, his hand outstretched, blue jacket buttoned, glasses perched over his teased hair, cravat and smile in place. He stopped a few steps into the room. “What . . . ?”
Helena said she didn’t have much time, so they could dispense with the niceties. “The merchandise is acceptable,” she told him.
“You . . . ?” Kis said, his hand had dropped to his side and the smile had turned into something much less friendly but still uncertain. “And you are?”
“Marsh. Helena Marsh.”
“You look different today.” He was looking at her closely. “Your hair . . .”
“I had it cut, Mr. Kis. And I don’t have time to chat with you now. We need to make the exchange. The funds have been transferred to me. All we need to do now is for you to hand over the item and I will release the money.”
“I am not sure that can be done in a day,” he said, looking at her even more closely. “There are some formalities.”
“Exactly as we agreed,” she said. “No formalities. I will take the item and transfer it as and when I determine. Not your problem.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Kis was regaining his composure. “There are complications.”
“Not my concern,” she said flatly.
“I disagree. It is your concern. Or your client’s concern, assuming that you are authorized to make the purchase.” Kis pursed his lips.
Helena told him to phone Géza Márton in Toronto. Kis waved his assistant out of the gallery.
It was about midnight in Toronto, but Kis called anyway. People buying Titians were not fussy about time. He described the new Helena — none too flatteringly — and told Márton he didn’t trust her with the merchandise. He listened for a few moments then hung up.
“Don’t you want to see it at least?” he asked.
“I have seen it,” she said.
“Dr. Krestin has made arrangements. We could go to the house tonight, if you like.”
“I just told you, I have seen it,” she said. “I will take delivery at 2 p.m. tomorrow in front of the Café Ruszwurm up in the old town. Take it out of the frame and wrap it in oilcloth. I will have a van.”
“That is not possible,” he said. “A painting like that cannot be taken out of its frame. It could be damaged. No one who understands paintings of such value would even suggest —”
“It is not the original frame,” she said. “It’s a good imitation, but it’s not the real thing.”
“I am not responsible for the frame,” he said. “But no serious collector would want the canvas removed.” He sighed in obvious frustration. “It is simply impossible.”
She stepped closer to him. “And why would that be?”
“There are, as I said before, complications.” He was gazing at the door down to the street.
She was now so close to Kis, she could smell his acrid red-wine breath. He must have enjoyed a fine lunch today. He backed up, but she again stepped into his personal space. “As a rule,” she said, “I do not believe in complications.”
“There is another party interested in the painting,” he said at last.
“Mr. Kis, in the world we inhabit, our word is our bond.”
“I don’t think you understand,” he suggested. “Another bidder . . .”
Vladimir. She knew this territory well.
“It’s not what you think,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it. It’s Dr. Krestin. He has told people he has a painting he wants to sell. For the right price.”
“And that is not the price you quoted me?”
“Not exactly.” Kis’s forehead was shining with sweat.
“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “But now there are other offers, and Géza Márton’s is no longer enough. We have been offered more.”
She was tempted to grab Kis by the lapels and push him through the window, but she didn’t want to attract more police attention. She needed to meet János Krestin. “How much more?”
“Twenty-five million,” Kis said.
With a great effort of will, Helena smiled.