"I would think so," he said. "If you would like a professional evaluation I would be happy to be of service."
"Thank you. I'll pass that information along to our valuation department. The seller was rather keen to unload it, was he?"
Kovacs looked annoyed. "It was a reasonable price. Dr. Molnar took a chance when he bought it, of course, but the arrangement allowed time for the tests, and the seller was very happy with the transaction."
"Well, assuming the Venus checks out, Dr. Molnar certainly got a bargain. You know Dr. Molnar personally, I take it? Didn't he tell me he once had a shop around here?"
"Yes, yes, of course I know him. And he had a shop just down the street a few years ago. But you said 'assuming the Venus checks out'. There can't be a question as to its authenticity!" he said. "Dr. Molnar told me he had submitted it to the most stringent of scientific testing—"
"Yes, indeed. And the tests, which we were intimately involved in arranging, were very reassuring. But you do see what I am getting at, do you not? There is that pesky matter of provenance. As you will know far better than I, in places like Hungary—as one of the Axis countries during the last war, and then afterwards under Soviet occupation— the question of ownership is something an insurer must consider. If someone claimed that it had been stolen, that would be a problem, now wouldn't it? As you are no doubt aware, most countries do not have a statute of limitations on genocide, and if a work of art were to be identified as Jewish cultural property confiscated by the Nazis, for example, and the true owner found, then the object is either returned, or the owner is compensated. I'm not saying that is the case with the Venus. I'm not saying that at all. But as you have already pointed out, the value of the authenticated Venus could well reach into the millions, and due diligence must be exercised. So, if you could just show me your records, that would be extremely helpful. A copy of any documents proving ownership that you have will be fine. I will take copies of them with me, and not take up too much of your time."
Kovacs looked at me very, very carefully. I tried to look crisp and authoritative. "I am afraid that I am not able to help you," he said after a few seconds pause. He was trying to look as if he were consumed with regret. "I understand your reason for asking, but if you have been insuring art for some time, you will know that there are times when the seller asks the dealer not to reveal his name, and I'm afraid this is one of those times. You might speak to Dr. Molnar at the Cottingham, however. I was able to get permission for him to speak to the seller, and he was quite satisfied that all was in order. Now, if I may help you with anything else?"
"I will have to go back to my superiors on this, you understand," I said, pulling Jim McLean's card out of his hand. "I will be back in touch when I've done that. Thank you for your time."
"It has been a pleasure," he said. "I am so sorry I was unable to help." I reached out to shake his hand. He looked at mine as if he thought there might be a gun in it, and then reluctantly shook it. I could understand why he had hesitated. His hand was shaking rather badly.
I had held out faint hope for that conversation, and was not surprised by the outcome. I wouldn't have given someone that kind of information if they'd just wandered into my store, but I had been hoping that decades of Soviet rule had instilled such a fear of authority in people that Kovacs would simply do what he was told if I was sufficiently officious. It had been, I supposed, worth a try. The visit was not without some benefit, in a negative sort of way, in that I had spotted a discrepancy. Karoly had claimed that he hadn't talked to the previous owner, Kovacs said he had. It wasn't a huge lapse, and in and of itself probably meant little, simply a miscommunication between Karoly and Kovacs, perhaps. But still, it was there.
I realized I was hungry and went out to Szent Istvan konit to find myself something to eat. Eventually I discovered a pleasant restaurant in the basement of an old building just off the koriit, the name of which, Keresztapa, I couldn't even guess until I was inside and discovered, from the photos of Manhattan in what was probably the thirties, and the English menu, was called The Godfather. I had a delicious soup of smoked sausage, mushrooms, sour cream, and the ever-present paprika that the waiter, who spoke some English, explained was called bakonyi betydrleves, something to do with young rogues. He recommended palacsinta for dessert, essentially crepes with cottage cheese and lots of whipped cream, dusted with sugar and flavored with vanilla. I was a new person when I was done.
But I was no further ahead. Unless I could think of some other way to persuade Kovacs to tell me at the very least who had owned the Venus most recently, I was in a bind. It certainly made it way harder. The only tack I could take now was to start at the other end, as it were, that is, start with Piper's discovery and try to work forward to the present. In some ways a hundred years is not long where an antiquity is concerned, in others it's an eternity. Right now it could have been a thousand years, not just a hundred as far as I was concerned, sitting here in a restaurant where I couldn't even read the menu without help. Should I start in Budapest with the discovery in the Biikks, or should I head for London and Piper's presentation to his colleagues in the pub? I just didn't know. And so, not defeated exactly, but certainly discouraged, I made my way back to the hotel. I thought I might try for an afternoon nap, given I hadn't slept much at night, and might awake to a more positive attitude. When I got to my hotel, however, I was handed a note.
We're here! the note said. We thought you might need some help. We're having a rest now to get over our jet lag, but meet us in the lobby around seven and we'll all go for dinner. Diana picked a place in her guidebook on the flight over, and the nice people at the desk say it's good. See you at seven. Morgan, Diana, Grace and Cybil.
My plan for shaking one person loose from the pack of suspects in the drugging of my drink had been stunningly unsuccessful, although at least two, Frank and Karoly, hadn't shown up. Not that Karoly was a suspect in this particular matter. He hadn't known who I was at that time, as I'd had occasion to mention since. It now behooved me to try to find out whose idea it had been to come here, and then figure out a way to distance myself from them all.
I thought of changing hotels while they slept, but when it came right down to it, it was probably just as well they were there. They were just as much a part of this puzzle as the Venus was, and perhaps having them where I could see them was for the best. I called Clive, though, to find out who he'd blabbed to.
"Rob called asking where you were, but I didn't tell him," Clive said the minute I reached him. "Wild horses wouldn't have dragged your location out of me."
"But you did tell somebody," I said. It was entirely predictable, and indeed, I'd been counting on it.
"No, I didn't," he said.
"Yes, you did," I said. "I'm betting Morgan. Tall woman, rather attractive, high heels."
"Morgan, of course," he said. "You didn't mean her, did you? Nice-looking woman. She said you were classmates, one of those Divas you occasionally talk about. I didn't think you'd mean her," he said. "When are you coming back?"
"When I'm done," I said.
"Done what? What are you doing over there?" he said.
"I'm not sure. Having a mini-nervous breakdown, maybe?"
He snorted. "Over what?"
"I don't know. Middle age, breakup with Rob, suicide of an old friend." I couldn't believe I was actually saying these words to Clive, of all people. I really needed to get some sleep.