Kis was in the gallery, extolling the virtues of a small brown-and-beige painting to an expensively dressed woman. (American, was Attila’s guess.) He spoke appallingly accented English that had to be an affectation. A man who deals with foreigners all the time might think it was charming. Or disarming. Perhaps both.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Attila said to the woman, then turned to Kis and went on in Hungarian. “You should know that we now have a murder connected with this business. My guess is the Ukrainians had something to do with it, although it could be one of the other guys you have been making nice with. Could we go to your office now?”
Kis whispered his apologies to the client and handed her over to the assistant hovering by his side. “Mr. Fontos will be able to tell you more about the artist,” he said. “His work is already in the Neue Pinakothek. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Attila wondered how the diminutive assistant managed to get a name that meant “important,” but he didn’t ask. The painting Kis had left him to sell reminded him of Gustav’s protest leavings on the carpet, a ploy he used only when Attila stayed away overnight.
Once in the gallery’s inner sanctum, he told Kis that a body had been found in the Gellért on the floor where Ms. Marsh had been staying before she checked out, in a bit of a hurry, it seemed, as she had paid for two more days in advance.
“Has she come by to see you in the past six hours?” he asked.
Kis stared at Attila.
“To ask about the painting,” Attila added helpfully.
Perhaps Kis was not used to the rough stuff, although if he was in the antiques trade and if he sold Old Masters, he must have been concerned about his clients and their ability to hire muscle when needed. Not many regular guys could afford to pay millions for pretty, old things to hang on their walls. And if that weren’t bad enough, the government took a dim view of exporting art. Kis would have to grease more than one greedy palm.
“She is eager to conclude the deal,” Kis said finally. He took out his white handkerchief and wiped his hands.
“And . . .” Attila prompted.
“I told her the Mártons would have to match another offer now. It’s not my doing, you understand, officer, it’s Dr. Krestin. He wants more money, and he knows — we both know — that he can get it.”
“From?”
Kis shook his head. “I am not at liberty to divulge that information. I am merely the agent. It is not my property, and I don’t determine the price. My client does. And Dr. Krestin has decided he can get a better offer from someone other than the Mártons.”
“This other offer, was it a Ukrainian gentleman?”
Kis shook his head. “As I told you the last time, I have not dealt directly with any Ukrainians. Yet.”
Attila knew the man was lying. He had been a policeman long enough to recognize the fixed, direct stare, lips closed tight in a stiff smile, and why he’d positioned his coffee cup in the dead centre of the desk like a barrier between them.
Attila wondered who would hire a Bulgarian thug. “Perhaps the other person is from Turkey?”
Kis shook his head. “Not Turkey.”
“Russia.” Attila moved his not inconsiderable body closer to Kis and flexed his shoulders to seem threatening.
“I don’t think you understand,” Kis said. “There are several bidders. It’s how this business works. When you have something valuable, you want to get the best price, and Dr. Krestin is not a fool.” He rolled his chair back, putting a few more inches between himself and Attila.
“How valuable?” Attila asked.
“Well, that depends on how much someone is willing to pay, officer,” Kis relaxed into dealer talk. “For a Titian, these days, you would be looking at more than eighty million dollars. And this is a large Titian. They don’t come on the market very often. The last time I remember, it was the Hermitage off-loading a piece Catherine the Great had bought in 1779, from Robert Walpole’s grandson, the profligate George. The new curator at the Hermitage thought it might not even be a Titian, but it fetched fifty million anyway.”
“Titian,” Attila said. He had only seen his paintings in books. Eighty million seemed like a hell of a lot for a piece of old art, but if that’s what it was worth, he could see why it could be a reason for killing someone. What kind of money would a person need to have if they could spend that much for something to hang on a wall? Hiring a guy like the dead man in the Gellért would be chump change.
All that money could be reason enough for Tóth’s desire to clear the field of bidders, so his preferred candidate — the Ukrainian, of course — would have an easier time buying the painting. Helena Marsh was an expert on Titian. What would Tóth’s take be if Attila managed to persuade the woman to leave now?
“How much do you think?” Attila asked to keep Kis going. He figured the temptation to show off would overwhelm whatever reluctance the man had to share what he knew.
“This one was done in Titian’s studio,” Kis said, his tone sliding into his comfort zone. “He may have had help from one or more of his students. A lot of Titians are not a hundred per cent Titian. But they are executed to his design, his choice of colours, even when the colours were mixed by the students. He would have painted all the major figures. He used to have five or six canvases on the go at the same time. He may have done a bit of each painting here and there and left the grunt work — filling in the sky or the earth tones — to his assistants.”
“Is it signed?” Attila asked, although, of course, he had no idea whether Old Masters bothered to sign their paintings. The two prints he had bought after the ex removed the watercolours were both signed and numbered. The vendor at the Budapest Art Show had assured him they were more valuable when they were signed and numbered. “The one Krestin is selling? Is it done, for sure, by Titian himself?”
“Yes, yes,” Kis said. “And now, I must see to my client.”
“You are expecting to see Ms. Marsh again, then,” Attila said.
“Only if the Mártons want to pay what the painting is worth.”
“Otherwise, you will sell it to a Russian,” Attila prodded. “Or to the Ukrainian.”
“As it happens, there are interested parties in all parts of the world. In Norway, in Italy, and the United States, of course. It’s not up to me,” Kis said, buttoning his jacket and making sure his handkerchief was neatly peaked in the breast pocket. “As I said, there are several bidders.”
“I suppose there would be no problem taking the painting out of the country,” Attila said.
Kis lowered his gaze to Attila’s midriff. “Normally, there would be a problem, since this is a work of great value, but my part in the transaction is over once a deal is struck. I am not the vendor. The deal is with Dr. Krestin. The buyer may wish to keep it in Hungary. If he decides to take it elsewhere, he would, of course, need to get the proper paperwork.”
“Of course.”