Attila had always been fond of Tibor’s mother. During the days when he lacked the funds for a good meal, Mrs. Szelley used to serve him thick slices of fresh chewy bread with butter and salami, one or two short sticks of Csabai sausage, and a piece of strudel or cake. Learning that he had just returned from Slovakia, she dished up her famous Dobos torte with the élan of a master pastry chef, a smile in place for his groans of appreciation.
Attila didn’t disappoint her, although he had promised the girls that he would start reducing his belly. He was confident that an hour or two in the baths would do the trick; he didn’t have to be churlish about dessert. Nor did he have to decline Mrs. Szelley’s offer of a generous splash of J&B. Tibor lingered by his elbow, drinking but not eating. “I saw myself in shorts yesterday,” he explained, much to Attila’s annoyance.
The Király Bath was an easy walk from the Szelleys’ apartment, but Tibor drove anyway. The car smelled of scented cigarettes and aftershave. “What is the point of having a flashy car,” he said, “if you don’t get to show it off?” At the bath, a valet parked the car for them in a guaranteed secure place.
Once they were settled in the Turkish thermal pool, Attila told him about the woman who had saved his life in Bratislava, about his conviction that Németh could not have wanted his old friend dead, and about Jenci not being Krestin’s son.
“That would explain why they separated. Though for a while he seemed to be fond of the boy.” Tibor said. “But he was frugal with support payments to his ex. She used to send the boy down to Budapest every few months to beg for cash. And Krestin would keep him waiting for hours, paying him no heed, so I’ve been told.”
“What did Vera make of that?” Attila asked.
“No idea. She is a hard woman to read. But one of my friends who was a frequent guest at the Krestins said she actually liked the boy.”
“That’s another thing,” Attila said. “Everyone talks about him as a boy. The guy is thirty-six, not much younger than Vera. Did you ever see them together?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Tibor ducked underwater for a moment, then raised his head and shoulders out of the water. “It’s too damned hot in here today. We’ll have a beer when you finish grilling me about the Krestins. This time it’s your treat.”
“Why wouldn’t they get it on?” Attila persisted. “He is not a bad looking guy in a weedy, undernourished sort of way, and she is pretty in an icy sort of way. It’s not like Krestin was likely much of a sex fiend, not at his age.”
“Because he wasn’t her type.”
“How would you know?”
“I know.”
“So who is her type?”
“Someone more like me, buddy,” Tibor was squinting up at the spots of daylight shining through the dome. “In fact, much more like me.”
Attila started to laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I am not kidding,” Tibor said. “I never kid about women.” But he was laughing and flapping about in the water like a carp in mating season. “But I didn’t kill him, in case you’re wondering. Ask my mother. She and I were drinking J&B on the balcony with a couple of her bridge-playing friends until suppertime, when I left to dine at the Gellért.”
“Whew!” Attila said. When he recovered, he asked whether Tibor was still fucking the widow.
“None of your business,” Tibor said. “Besides, since you seem interested, I was not the only one. And no, she sure as hell didn’t kill that asshole. She enjoyed his money while it lasted and all the perks that went with it.”
***
After downing a beer in the outdoor bar, where Tibor could finally smoke, and a short stroll with Gustav, Attila checked in with Tóth to see if there were any new developments. Tóth seemed almost sad. He complained about pressure from upstairs to make an arrest, no new evidence, the uncooperative widow, and a persistent pain in his gut.
Vera Krestin’s alibis had all checked out, the diary was still missing. Krestin had phoned Németh in Bratislava in the morning, but there was no evidence that Németh had visited Krestin the day of the murder. He had also talked either with Gertrude or his son four times during the day. They had phoned him, not the other way around. He had also called Kis. The Russian and the Ukrainian were both gone the afternoon Krestin died, and Tihanyi was in Rome. Krestin had owed a lot of money to Tihanyi and to the bank. “I would be grateful if you could identify the person who almost killed Németh,” he suggested, rather than ordered — a whole new phase of their relationship.
Then Attila called Helena at the Gresham and left her a message, saying, “It would be good to know whether you like the coffee in Bratislava.” He left his cell number.
A mistress of many disguises, Alexander had said. And a deft hand with a knife. She may have saved his life in Bratislava and, even if she did kill the Bulgarian, it was probably in self-defence. No one cared about that man anyway, except maybe his mother.