Deceptions by Anna Porter (pride and prejudice read .txt) 📕

the ground floor. A modest sign pointed upstairs to Vargas Benő. The name was in the same slanted script that had been sewn into the coat. It was repeated on the glass door that led into the tailor’s entranceway to a modest, well-lit room with two large tables and bolts of cloth in different colours arranged in thick layers on floor-to-ceiling shelving that surrounded the tables. A large window faced the street, and a narrow door interrupted the shelves. One of the tables was piled high with large-format pattern books. Mr. Vargas (because that, indeed, was the man’s name) emerged from an inner room. He wore a big smile, a white shirt with a cravat, and a tape measure that ran down, like suspenders, past the waist of his tidy dark trousers.

“Mrs. Lewis,” he said, using her most recent name, “how nice that you have been able to find me.” He approached with his hand palm up and when Helena put her own hand into his, he lifted it to his mouth for a kiss.

“Mr. Vargas?”

“Who else would be here, my dear? I am so glad that Laci called ahead, I could have gone next door for a coffee or a glass of something stronger and would have missed you altogether . . .”

“Laci?”

“Your concierge, of course. Such a good man. But how impolite I am. Perhaps you would take a coffee or a brandy with me, while we discuss the gift for your husband?”

So much for discretion by the concierge. She could not blame him for phoning Vargas, but whom else would he call? “I am in a bit of a hurry,” she told him. “Only a couple of days in Budapest, but I wanted to get something special for my husband.”

“A coat, I hear, my dear lady. You have come to the right place. It is what I do. Coats and suits for gentlemen. And I have customers all over the world. Why, only yesterday there was a man from Brazil . . .”

Helena let him blather on. No sense in interrupting him, and maybe something useful would drop into the monologue. She waited until he finished the story about the Brazilian and went on to someone from Chicago who ordered a morning coat, before she agreed that a coffee would, after all, be a grand idea, but perhaps they could look at some samples before they went.

She easily found the material she had been looking for and, to Vargas’s considerable delight, mentioned a silk lining. Then he ushered her downstairs and out onto the street where he led the way to a café and pulled out the chair for her, bowing a little as he did. “In this country, madam, we pride ourselves on being old-fashioned,” he said. “We never conclude our business without a little friendship.”

She ordered a double espresso, and he asked for a brandy. Then he inquired how she had learned about Vargas.

“Someone I met in Strasbourg,” she said, “had a coat I liked. His name . . . I don’t remember his name, but he was Hungarian and worked for the government. Perhaps Mr. Nagy? Or Mr. Magyar?”

Vargas shook his head, sadly. “Neither of them buys his coats from me. Magyar, I hear,” he leaned in and lowered his voice, “orders his in Italy. Not at all sure why he would bother to do that when we make as good here as they do there — better — and we are a lot less expensive. He and his wife holiday on the Riviera. Maybe you’re expected to wear Italian there, I don’t know. And Nagy? He told my friend he had his made in London. These men, they want to show off that they can spend a lot of money, and it doesn’t matter because they have already made millions.”

“I met Mr. Vaszary, as well, but I don’t think he recommended you either.”

“He is another one of the new establishment. All it takes is to belong to the right party and presto! You’re rich already! Vaszary, like Nagy, has his suits made in Italy. Perhaps you mean Berkowitz, Gyuszi, he works for them, too, and he is a good customer.”

Vargas nodded when Helena described the killer. “Sounds like Gyuszi,” he said. “And I know he was going somewhere in Europe. He needed the coat before he left. Did Laci tell you I specialize in being on time, never delay on my commitments? If I tell you it will be ready, it will be ready.”

“Mr. Berkowitz,” Helena asked as casually as she could manage, “he lives around here?”

“Up in Buda, on the other side of the Danube. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I would thank him for suggesting you.”

“Only if I deserve it,” Vargas said, and Helena thought this was the kind of man she would really want a coat from, if she wanted a coat at all. She asked whether she could offer him an advance payment while she obtained the exact measurement, but he refused.

Vaszary’s initial reaction to Attila’s news that Magoci had recorded their meetings was one of vague dismissal. The lawyer, he insisted, had never met with him, and he had no interest in any records he may have kept of his discussions with his wife about the divorce. What possible business was it of Attila’s anyway? He had been hired to shadow Vaszary, not to interfere in his personal affairs.

After another tiresome tirade about Attila’s lack of skills, let alone professional behaviour, he went on to detail the reasons why he didn’t need to engage in conversations with men such as Attila, that he would complain to the home office about continuing Attila’s posting here. Although Attila was deeply interested in who, exactly, Vaszary meant by “the home office,” he had to interrupt with the news that Mademoiselle Audet had, actually, retained the records and that she wished to be appropriately rewarded if Mr. Vaszary didn’t wish her to turn them over to the police.

“Oh,” Vaszary said,