The German press mourns Gyula Gömbös as a fervent Hungarian patriot, a statesman of European stature, and a most sincere friend of the national socialist German empire; as a leader who was first among foreign statesmen, and who was able to forge both political and personal ties with the chancellor, Adolf Hitler, as well as the interior minister, Hermann Göring.
It was past seven by the time Gordon finished writing. His head was abuzz from all the clichés, and he was sorry he’d even read the obituary in the Evening. He gave his piece to Turcsányi, who grumbled something about making sure to be there the next day at the Parliament building. Gordon nodded, then put on his jacket and his hat.
He would have headed home, but it occurred to him that the girl’s autopsy would have been finished by now. He turned along Rákóczi Street toward Apponyi Square. The rain again took hold, and fog had descended on the city, but not even this could keep the newsboys from shouting their lungs out to let anyone in range know: Kálmán Darányi had been declared the acting prime minister. As if it could have been anyone else, thought Gordon.
As he passed by Nagy Diófa Street, Gordon took a look down the block but saw only a few windows shrouded in fog. He couldn’t shake the image of the girl lying there like a rag doll. Or the photograph he’d found in Detective Gellért’s drawer. He’d been on the crime beat for too long now to believe in chance. Moreover, the girl reminded him of the first article he’d ever written, for Philadelphia’s Hungarian newspaper in December 1922. On the twenty-third, to be precise. A girl named Mariska Ifjú had committed suicide, and not even her mother suspected the reason. The girl had taken pills, a lot of them, and Gordon’s editor, Ferenc Pártos, had sent twenty-two-year-old Gordon to check things out. The paper’s owner and editor-in-chief, Béla Green, insisted that the story be covered, and by a reporter on the scene. The young woman lived in West Philadelphia with her mother, and hers was the first corpse Gordon had seen in his life. Mariska was lying on her stomach in front of her bed, her head against the edge, and Gordon couldn’t decide whether it was merely his imagination playing a stupid game on him or if this girl and the one on Nagy Diófa Street really had been found in a similar position. With trembling hands, he took notes, stepping aside to avoid having to look at the sobbing mother or that pompous priest, János Murányi. He wrote as much as he was able to, and the same day he delivered the article to the newsroom on North Sixth Street. Later it occurred to him more than once that he might have guessed why Mariska had done herself in.
Gordon still believed he wouldn’t be devoting so much attention to the case of the dead Jewish girl now if Skublics hadn’t riled him up. Of course, a front-page story wouldn’t hurt, either; if for no other reason than that it would keep Turcsányi’s mouth shut for a while. He’d been writing about crime long enough to form an almost inexplicable sixth sense. He couldn’t even tell Krisztina, but when his stomach churned like this, it was as if his gut was warning him: Things are not what they seem. Gordon couldn’t even remember when he’d last felt this. A long time ago. It wasn’t a yearning to reveal the truth that drove him as he wrote, as he collected facts and sometimes investigated. Gordon had never studied philosophy, but he suspected there was no such thing as the truth. Even if he could reveal the facts, what good would that do? Admitting it to himself was hard, but what interested him most was each person’s fate. And death was the last stop on the road of fate; it all somehow led to death. Gordon was interested in the road. Whether he cared about these people he could not have said for sure, but their fates interested him more than anything else.
At Apponyi Square he boarded a tram. The Budapest transport company had again raised fares; Gordon couldn’t even keep track anymore. He gave the conductor a pengő, pocketed his change, and sat down on the cold, damp wooden bench at the end of the car. Traffic was brisk on Üllői Street. Wagons, horse-drawn carriages, buses, and cars were all heading out of the city. The day was over.
Luckily, a car beeping its horn snapped him to attention; when Gordon looked up, he saw that his stop, Orczy Park, was next. He got off, and in the misty light of the streetlamps, he headed toward number 83. He knew the terra-cotta brick building housing the Institute of Forensic Medicine quite well, and the guard let Gordon in right away. He went down the stairs to the cellar, where a cold light was glowing. Dr. Pazár was sitting at a table in front of the cadaver room and having his supper: bread, a slab of roast bacon, onions, and beer from a clasped bottle. The big, bald man waved to Gordon to sit down.
“Want some?”
“I’ve already had supper.”
“Who did you come to see?” asked Dr. Pazár with a full mouth. The doctor, whom Gordon liked very much, had served for years in the West Indies on a passenger ship, but he’d had enough of the sun and the tourists and returned to his native land, gladly accepting the coroner’s position. Working nights didn’t even bother him. He’d spent quite enough time as it was under the burning hot sun, he told Gordon. He loved the quiet, the calm, the cold lighting, and the patients, who might have been crotchety once but were no longer complaining by the time he saw them.
“A young girl. They brought her in the day before yesterday.”
“For an autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“Young, pretty, black-haired?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Pazár nodded, then took out his cigarette case and held it toward Gordon, who took a cigarette. Gordon liked the coroner’s obscure, aromatic cigarettes. He had asked several times, but Pazár never revealed his source. The doctor took a deep drag, placed the cigarette on the ashtray, and took one calm, final bite of his supper. Gulping down the remaining beer, he leaned back with satisfaction. He raised the cigarette once again to his mouth, inhaled the smoke, then suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Come on, let’s go look at the girl!” He opened the glass door, and Gordon followed. The doctor stopped in the middle of the room. The refrigerated cabinets were to the left, the autopsy table in the middle, and behind that, some stretchers draped with white shrouds. Pazár went over to one of the stretchers and rolled it over and beneath the ceiling light. He took the end of the shroud closest to the head and pulled it back to the girl’s waist. On her chest was a Y-shaped incision, and her face was whiter than when Gordon had seen her last. Her eyes were closed, and her black hair was wet and combed back. Her hands were beside her torso, the birthmark clear as day. Her breasts were as taut in death as in the picture. Her belly was flat. The incision alone disfigured her. Gordon was grateful for the doctor’s aromatic cigarette.
“I don’t know who put a rush on this autopsy, and I don’t even want to know,” said Pazár, looking at Gordon. “Shall I tell you or show you?”
“Tell me.”
“The cause of death was intensive inner bleeding caused by a strong blow to the epigastric region. The left lobe of the liver was ruptured, and the consequent bleeding—as well as the circulatory and respiratory trauma this precipitated—caused the subject’s death, which in my estimation occurred five minutes after the blow.”
“In plain English?”
“Someone hit her so hard in the pit of the stomach that she died.”
“I see,” said Gordon. “How big a blow did it take? I’ve been hit in the gut before, too, but I’m still around.”
“How big? I can’t say exactly, but big. Big indeed. Other signs indicate that the victim was unprepared, that she was taken by surprise.”
“In other words, someone socked it to her good.”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
“Thank you,” said Gordon, extending his hand.
“It’s nothing,” replied Pazár.
As Gordon headed toward the door. Pazár folded the sheet back over the body and pushed it back in place, switching off the light before following Gordon.
“Too bad,” said Pazár, “she must have been a pretty one.”<
br />
Gordon slowly nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
“Someone really didn’t want her kid to be born,” the doctor drily observed. “She was in her fourth month.”
Four
When Gordon awoke in his flat around 6 A.M., Krisztina was not lying beside him. He got out of bed and went to the living room. There she was, curled up in an armchair by the window. Strewn about the floor were sheets of paper, and a cup of coffee was steaming on the little table beside her.
“You got up so early to work?” asked Gordon.
“I woke up, and I’d rather work on these designs than loll about in bed listening to you snore.”
Gordon leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Did you make me a coffee, too?”
“I did, but they didn’t have the kind you like at the Meinl shop, so I bought the coffee at Arabia.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Gordon with a dismissive wave of the hand. He poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and added some milk, then went to sit beside Krisztina. “Will you be here all day?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to finish these designs, and it’s best if I put this day of mourning to good use.”
“I have to leave soon,” said Gordon. “The whole office will be out there reporting on the funeral.”
“But the procession doesn’t start until after eleven,” noted Krisztina.
“Yes,” said Gordon, “I’ve got just enough time to go find Csuli.”
“That Csuli?”
“That one.”
“Then take care of yourself.”
The newsroom was empty except for the one person on duty. Not another soul to be seen—typewriters sitting idle on the desks, notes all over the place, and ashtrays full. Never had Gordon seen the office so desolate by day. Not even Turcsányi was in, and he was always in. Gordon looked at his watch: it was just after seven-thirty. He still had time to carry out his morning plans and get to the Parliament building by nine-thirty.
Despite the early hour, Blaha Lujza Square was even more deserted than the day before. Black flags hung everywhere, and though police officers lined Rákóczi Street, there was not a trace of civilians sauntering curiously about. He turned onto Hársfa Street and headed toward the Tick Bite. The door was slightly ajar, but the place had not opened up yet. Nine tables stood in its longish room, six on the left and three on the right. In the back there was a piano and, beside that, a bar; and a door in the back corner led to the kitchen. The tables were adorned only with clean tablecloths to start the new day, and the bar was empty. But Gordon was in luck. On the left side of the room, at the table farthest back, sat Scratchy Samu, drunk to the core. The tiny little man with the scratchy voice was wearing a grimy blazer, a red scarf, and a tilted cap. He had spent some time in Paris once—on what business, it was hard to say—and ever since, he’d tried to dress the Parisian way. Samu was a member of Csuli’s gang; more precisely, he was its signalman, its chief lookout. Not that Gordon had much to do with him, but for some odd reason Samu was afraid of him. The few times their paths crossed, he always greeted the reporter with much more deference than necessary. Gordon stepped over to the bar and knocked on it loudly. Samu raised his waterlogged eyes toward Gordon but didn’t recognize him. Roused by the noise, the bartender appeared—a fat, fiftyish woman with a hairdo that was all over the place—wiping her hands on her apron.
“We’re not open yet,” she told Gordon.
“I know,” he replied, pointing to Samu, “it’s just that that fellow over there is ready to die of thirst.”
“I don’t serve drinks on credit.”
“I’m not asking you to,” said Gordon, throwing forty fillérs on the counter. “Let’s have whatever this will buy,” he continued, “and make it decent pear brandy, not that poison.”
The woman wanted to reply but had second thoughts. She wiped her nose, took out a bottle from under the bar, and filled two shot glasses. “Keep the change,” said Gordon as he sat down beside a snoring Samu, whose head drooped on his chest. Gordon held one of the shots under the signalman’s nose. Samu snorted and jerked up his head. Blinking, he locked his cloudy eyes first on the glass, then on Gordon, who put the pear brandy down before him.
Samu didn’t reflect for long. He reached for the shot glass with a trembling hand and all at once downed its contents. He shuddered, and Gordon watched intently as the life returned to his eyes.
“What do you want from me, sir?” he asked in a deep voice similar to the creaking of a carriage wheel.
“Take me to Csuli, Samu.”
“To Csuli?”
“To him.”
“But Csuli won’t be happy about that.”
“He won’t be happy, Samu, to hear that you didn’t take me to him when it was important.”
“How important?”
“Very,” replied Gordon, standing up. “Come on, we can’t waste time.”
Samu fretted a bit, but decided he’d probably be worse off not taking Gordon along. Adjusting his scarf and buttoning up his blazer, he rose unsteadily to his feet and headed toward the door.
“Shall I send this one back?” asked Gordon, pointing to the other shot glass. With surprising nimbleness, Samu stepped back to the table, downed the pear brandy, and gave a nod. “Believe me, sir, a man doesn’t need a heartier breakfast than this.”
“If you say so.”
From the restaurant they headed toward Rákóczi Square, Samu in front. Along the way the signalman kept gesturing to associates of his who were mostly invisible to Gordon: It’s okay, no need to worry, I know him, he’s with me. Gordon had to keep an eye out to see who Samu was communicating with in this singular language of thieves. A woman in a window watched as Samu ran his left hand along his blazer; a man leaning up against a wall observed him scratch his left earlobe with his right hand; and a teenage kid flashed his eyes toward them from inside a building doorway as Samu adjusted the visor of his cap. Gordon had to admit that Vogel had done an exceptional job with his series of articles. Everything was just as he’d described. The gang really did keep the neighborhood under surveillance every minute of the day.
Tisza Kálmán Square was lined by sullen, tired-looking buildings. Even the trees looked haggard, and the lawn—if you could call it that—was sparse and gray, with solitary clumps of grass visible here and there. A carriage was rumbling over the cobblestone, its insistent creaking echoed from all directions by the silent buildings. Gordon turned to see the signalman gesticulating dramatically: all at once Samu squatted down, tied his shoes, slowly stood back up, ran a hand over his lapel, and blew a puff of air onto the nails of his left hand before finally wiping that hand on his pants. Gordon didn’t understand a single wordless action, and he couldn’t even see to whom Samu was “speaking” so vivaciously.
“There, he lives in that one,” said Samu, pointing. “The first door on the right on the third floor.” He turned around and took off with unusually quick steps in the direction of Baross Square. Gordon looked around but saw no one. He walked carefully toward the building Samu had pointed out, avoiding dog droppings on the grass of the square, horse manure on the cobblestone. As soon as he reached the building, the front door opened. Whoever opened it was hidden in the interior’s darkness even as Gordon entered. Gordon went up to the third floor and rang Csuli’s doorbell. After a minute or so, he heard someone rummaging about. Then the door opened. When Csuli saw who it was, he immediately slammed the door shut.
“Come now, Csuli, even you know there’s no use. You heard me coming,” said Gordon loudly, “so just let me in.” Csuli didn’t answer. “You live in a lovely building,” Gordon continued. “Much nicer on the inside than the outside. But why am I telling you this, seeing how it’s not by chance you moved here. No doubt the neighbors also know how you earn your bread. The fact is, Csuli, my boy, that I could use a girl.” Gordon was beginning to enjoy
the situation. “A top-notch village tramp. A fiery one, mind you, not some sluggish slut, but the sort who—”
The door now opened, and a brawny hand reached out and yanked Gordon inside. Csuli slammed the door shut behind them and with booming steps went into the living room. Gordon followed. He’d seen a lot of flats, but he hadn’t expected one like this, here. It was as if he’d wound up in one of the elegant, bourgeois flats near Szervita Square. Izsó Skublics’s home was furnished poorly by comparison. In the corner stood a three-door Neo-Baroque hutch; the wooden door in the middle was adorned by a carving of the three Graces, and expensive china filled the shelves behind the glass door on each side. The writing desk had a castle carved right into its façade—which Gordon thought he recognized as the legendary castle of Sümeg—and a thronelike chair was behind the desk. Armchairs sank here and there into the plush Persian carpet, as did a round table with carved lion legs. In jarring contrast, however, the walls were replete with paintings and illustrations by modern artists. A heavy brocade curtain hung in front of the window, and in front of that was a sofa where Csuli himself now sat, wearing a taut, unwrinkled suit and immaculately polished shoes. Gordon could not decide if the man had woken up early or not yet gone to sleep. He’d heard that Csuli resembled the great Hungarian comic actor Szőke Szakáll, and upon seeing him now in person for the first time, Gordon had to agree.
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