Budapest Noir

by Vilmos Kondor

  For a moment Gordon just stood there in the doorway, taken aback. Szőke Szakáll himself could have been sitting on the sofa. The same plump frame, the same blond hair, the same double chin, and the same voluptuous smile he’d seen in the movies—only the glasses were different. Instead of Szakáll’s tortoiseshell glasses, Csuli’s were wire-frame and oblong, somehow transfiguring his smile. Csuli’s expression was cold, calculating, menacing.

  “I know you’ve made a name for yourself, but I know lots of people, and I demand that—”

  “Demand?” snapped Gordon, plopping down in one of the lion-legged chairs beside the round table. He lit a cigarette and took a leisurely drag. “Demand? Now that’s something. What do you demand? In the best-case scenario, you can demand a lawyer. Because this is the end of your little business, Csuli. We’ll see how demanding you are when the cops take you in. Because this time you’ve overshot the mark.”

  “What are you talking about?” replied Csuli, rising to his feet with surprising speed, given his proportions and the early hour.

  “The Jewish girl found dead Tuesday night on Nagy Diófa Street.”

  “I don’t know about any girl.”

  “In your shoes,” said Gordon, “I wouldn’t, either. The only problem is that everyone else knows the girl was part of your racket.” From behind the cigarette smoke, Gordon watched to see if his ruse would pay off.

  “Who are you talking about, you wretch?”

  “Oh, I see that you really don’t know her then.” Gordon stood up. “I beg your pardon. My mistake.”

  “You’re damn right you got it wrong. You have the nerve to come by here at this hour, you practically break the door down, shout in the hallway, and spout all sorts of lies.”

  “I must again beg your pardon. I only figured that I’d check with you before writing my article. I knew you’d deny it, but I had to try. So I’ll write that you deny it.”

  “Deny? Me? What are you planning to write?”

  “I was thinking something like, ‘Csuli, the gang leader based out of Hársfa Street, denies that the girl found dead was working for him.’ ”

  “You can’t write that, because it’s not true.”

  “Look, I wasn’t seriously hoping you’d admit it. The point is, I was here and you denied it, and that I can write. After all, it’s your girl they killed.” Gordon turned around and headed toward the door. Now or never. He turned back. “And what’s the worst that can happen to you? The cops can cart you off to the lockup for a couple of weeks. But the business will go on in the meantime, right?”

  Beads of sweat appeared on Csuli’s forehead.

  “Even you know that would be the end of me.”

  “I know, I know, but there’s nothing I can do. If she’d been a village girl-turned-whore, I’d say this sort of thing happens. But this was a Jewish girl from a good family. Only the general public will be more upset than the police have been at the news that she was pregnant. To send an expecting mother to the streets? Hell, Csuli, are you human? A pregnant woman’s death is scandalous—even if she was a hooker—but socked so hard in the belly that she died? According to the coroner, death wasn’t immediate, and was all the more painful on account of that. For both the girl and her fetus.”

  From Csuli’s face it was obvious what was going through his head. He did some quick calculations—the dividing and multiplying—that led him to conclude there was no winning. Gordon meanwhile started off toward the apartment door again, but he hadn’t yet reached it when Csuli called out, “She wasn’t working for me anymore.”

  Gordon turned back, stuck his hands in his pockets, and listened to Csuli without a word.

  “The girl had been recruited by Józsi Laboráns. It must have been a good two months back. She never did say her name. But she was a viciously pretty one; I just don’t get it how Józsi Laboráns could have picked her up. He’s always got such ladies . . .” Csuli waved a hand in annoyance. “We had no idea what her name was or where she’d come from. Nothing. Just that she was pretty, young, and Jewish.” By now, Csuli was seated once again on the sofa, wiping his face with a handkerchief. “The customers liked her so much that she got quite the reputation. And one day a gentleman showed up in a fur coat, a hat, and cane, and he said we should talk. So we talked. You can’t say no to such a gentleman. Then, the next day, the girl disappeared.”

  “Just like that. Like smoke.”

  “Well,” Csuli faltered, “not so easily, though.”

  “How much did he pay you?”

  The fat man raised his eyes to Gordon.

  “You can’t write that.”

  “Do you see a notebook in my hand? A pen?”

  “You won’t write it?”

  “That’s up to you. If you tell me what I want to know, then no. But you’d be well advised to know a lot, because it’s been a while since I’ve had a front-page story. I’m listening.”

  “Five hundred pengős,” Csuli finally replied.

  “Five hundred pengős?”

  “Yes. Gordon, right? You know gentlemen, too. Not that I’m complaining, because he could have had me carted off to the lockup instead. You think I drove a hard bargain? On the one hand, five hundred pengős; on the other, the lockup.”

  “Talk, Csuli,” said Gordon, sitting down, “and start at the beginning.” He looked at his watch. It was just past eight. He had plenty of time.

  “But you know exactly how this sort of thing happens.”

  “I know. But do be so kind as to remind me. Or you know what? I’ll look up Józsi Laboráns, and he’ll tell me.”

  “You can look for him if you want. But you won’t find him. He died a month ago of TB.”

  “A great loss,” said Gordon. “Then there’s no one left to tell it but you.”

  Csuli reluctantly began. One of Józsi Laboráns’s girls, Teca, was caught by the detectives and sent to the lockup for two weeks. Józsi Laboráns felt the need to go in search of fresh labor. He looked around the “market,” which is to say, along the Grand Boulevard and on Rákóczi Street. He couldn’t help but notice this ebony-haired girl in front of a store window display. He hit on her, invited her to supper, and found her suitable. But he encountered unexpected resistance—the girl didn’t want to go along with him. It was time for his tried-and-true “breaking in” routine. Józsi stepped away from the girl and over to a cop. He asked the cop if he was going in the right direction if he wanted to get to Andrássy Street, pointing toward the thoroughfare, which was just beyond the girl. The cop naturally looked in that direction, nodded, then told Józsi to keep going the same way. Of course the girl saw the scene, and because she thought this was about her, she got scared. Then Józsi went back to her and said he’d shown her to the cop, who now knew who she was, and if he saw her again, he’d arrest her. But if she stayed with him, continued Józsi, he’d protect her; he knew cops well, and it would take only a word from him to smooth things out. The girl believed him, and so she had to join Józsi, who told her what she had to do and how to behave on the street. He entrusted her to a friend of his called Dezső, who was a full-time signalman along the Grand Boulevard and accepted other “discreet” jobs as well. The girl moved in to Józsi’s flat, where she was registered as a servant. She made good money for her services, and soon word of her spread among Józsi’s clients.

  When Csuli finished, Gordon looked at him incredulously. “You’re telling me there are women who fall for this?”

  Csuli gave a snorting laugh. “They all do, Gordon. You’ve seen lockups on the inside, right? Well, what woman wants to wind up there for even a week? She’ll leave the place with syphilis so bad she’ll be a stiff in no time, and even if she does avoid that or gonorrhea, she’ll no doubt pick up a few nice little chancre sores.”

  “But why didn’t she just leave Józsi?” asked Gordon.

  “You see ther
e, that you’d have to ask her.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “This is what happens to these girls, Gordon,” said Csuli, leaning back. “Or, if not, and they can stand it for three or four years, they end up in the provinces for a couple of years, and then it’s off to Belgrade. You’ve been there, too; you know what they do to Hungarian girls there.”

  Gordon nodded. “And not just Hungarians.”

  “But that’s most of them there. Before the war they got their hands on almost ten thousand Hungarian girls. Back then, Dušan Ranko led the business, now it’s his son. A couple hundred Hungarian girls wind up there every year even nowadays, and then they take them east, to Sofia, Constantinople, Baghdad.”

  “I know the story, Csuli. But that’s not why I came here.”

  “But I already told you everything I know.”

  “I wasn’t saying you’re hiding anything. Let’s start at the beginning. Who was that gentleman who bought her off you?”

  Csuli shook his head. “Gordon, even you should know that I wouldn’t tell you, even if I knew. As it happens, I don’t know.”

  “All right. Then you’ll kindly prevail upon Skublics to talk to me.”

  “What does Skublics have to do with this?” the fat man asked, staring in surprise at Gordon.

  “He took a couple of nude pictures of the girl.”

  “That type?”

  “What type?”

  “For a catalog,” replied Csuli.

  Not that Gordon had any idea, but he nodded. “That type.”

  “I figured as much,” said Csuli. “A fellow doesn’t pay five hundred pengős for a girl just for the heck of it.”

  “You see there,” said Gordon, lighting another cigarette. “How can I get Skublics to talk?”

  “That old goat? There’s not a dirtier bastard in the city. If you only knew the sort of pictures he takes—pictures that can’t even be used in a catalog. Why, he’s got private clients willing to shell out twenty or even fifty pengős for that sort of picture. And he gives the girls five pengős.”

  “I’m listening, Csuli,” said Gordon, blowing smoke.

  Csuli grappled with something for a little while, but not for long. “Only a few guys know this about him, but one of my lookouts once saw him go to a meeting.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “Not a scout meeting, that’s for sure.”

  “Then what?”

  “Skublics is a Communist.”

  Nodding slowly, Gordon processed this information, which, as Csuli knew full well, was worth its weight in gold. Even the police must have known how Skublics made his living. That sort of stool pigeon was useful to the detectives. But if it turned out that he was a Communist, why then, nothing could save Skublics from the state security police, headed by József Schweinitzer. And no one had escaped an encounter with them without a scratch. If they escaped at all. Most wound up in a detention camp for undesirables; Gömbös, along with Miklós Kozma, the interior minister, had made sure of that. The fewer of these types that were out in the streets, the better for everyone else. Hungary’s Communists organized themselves in tiny cells and met in the greatest secrecy—never in the same place—and it was impossible to imagine what they could be up to. Not that Gordon believed the rumors that Szilveszter Matuska, who derailed the Vienna Express on a bridge near Budapest back in 1931, killing twenty-two, was a Communist and not just insane. But he knew Skublics was now in the palm of his hand.

  “I see,” he said, looking at Csuli. “Where does he go for meetings?”

  “What do I get in exchange?” The fat man’s eyes lit up from behind his glasses.

  “I won’t write a word about you.”

  “And you’ll let me know if someone else is going to write about me for any reason.”

  “I can’t promise, but I can try.”

  “Good. Then I can try figuring out where Skublics goes for meetings.”

  “You have until eight tonight. Tomorrow I’m meeting with Vladimir Gellért.”

  “I’ll do all I can.”

  “That I believe.”

  Gordon headed down a deserted Rákóczi Street toward the Parliament building. He boarded a tram and transferred to another at Apponyi Square. On Károly Boulevard there were more people milling about, walking with their heads down among the sparse but well-ordered line of soldiers and police. Gordon got off at Constitution Street and headed toward Kossuth Square. All the gas and electric lights along the road were on, but every one was shrouded by a black veil. The crowd seemed to murmur in unison, as if simultaneously praying. It was a couple of minutes after nine-thirty. Gordon had arrived earlier than planned, but despite his aversion to funerals, he didn’t mind: it was a rare occasion when everyone was gathered together—both those who counted and those who did not. The uniformed honor guard that was to accompany the coffin extended in a line all the way to the main steps of the Parliament building. On the flagpoles jutting out from buildings along the route hung not only the Hungarian red, white, and green tricolor but also the flag of Gömbös’s National Unity Party. Gordon shook his head and continued toward the Parliament building. Waiting on the square were the army, infantry, artillery, and cavalry units that would march after the indoor ceremony. All at once Gordon caught the drone of airplanes. Turning his head skyward, he saw nine planes fly in formation over Kossuth Square. Despite having read the official funeral schedule earlier, this display still surprised him. The storm troopers that belonged to the police units led by Dr. Gyula Kálnay clicked their heels and saluted.

  The same detectives who’d stood at the main entrance before were there once again. Gordon nodded, and they waved him on. Several hundred wreaths lined the portico, and the guests trod slowly upward over the red-carpeted stairs.

  No sooner had Gordon ascended to the rotunda than one of his colleagues noticed him and called him over. On his way, Gordon caught a glimpse of Turcsányi standing behind a column. Having seen Gordon as well, the section editor said a few parting words to his company and approached Gordon. “Just in time” was his grumbled greeting. “Before the procession begins, I want you to interview the British and American ambassadors.” Pointing toward a group of elegantly dressed men in derby hats who were seated to the right of the bier, he added, “Hurry, they’re not going to wait for you.” Gordon nodded and went around the open coffin. He cast a sideways glance at the dead prime minister. Gömbös was lying inside decked out in the finest Hungarian ceremonial attire, surrounded by a sea of flowers, bouquets, and wreaths. Gordon recoiled. This corpulent character, this mockery of a soldier, this oldster with failing kidneys had led the country? This was a man who’d had a free pass from several European governments? This was the man who’d led the National Unity Party with an iron fist and the man whose word had made even Kálmán Kánya jump? Gordon shrugged and stepped toward the group of seated gentlemen.

  A smartly dressed man now stepped in front of Gordon with a determination that belied his servile expression. Gordon recognized him as a deputy department head in the foreign ministry, as he asked the reporter what he wanted. “To interview the British and American ambassadors,” Gordon replied. The man shook his head: not here, not now. Gordon finally left with the promise that he would be able to speak with the ambassadors during the procession. He was on his way out when the crowd suddenly fell silent. It was as if a schoolteacher had struck a classroom desk with a reed switch. Gordon slunk behind two hussars and looked on from there. For a couple of minutes nothing happened. Then came the clang of unsheathed swords, the clicking of heels, and the click-clack of stiff, soldierly steps. Gordon peered out from over the hussars’ shoulders.

  First the Bulgarian ambassador, Stoil Stoilov, stepped up to the bier and silently lowered his head. He was followed by Galeazzo Ciano, the Italian foreign minister, and Kurt Schnuschnigg, the Austrian chancellor. Finally, a fat m
an with an oily complexion started toward the bier. He wore black boots polished to a sparkle, a leather jacket pulled tight around his belly by a belt, and a flat service cap that covered his eyes. Gordon shuddered. This was Hermann Göring, supreme commander of the Luftwaffe, Prussian interior minister, the man in charge of the four-year plan of the empire’s military economy, and Hitler’s most loyal backer and devotee. Göring stopped in front of the coffin, the Iron Cross hanging from his neck. He clicked his heels, threw back his head, and then, swinging his arms forward to clasp his hands, he stood in silence for a few moments. The quiet was broken only by the snapping of cameras and the popping of their flashes. Göring now turned around and took his seat to the right of the bier. He had barely reached his seat when Archbishop Jusztinián Serédi appeared, stood mutely for some moments, and then sat down to the left of the bier. Gordon glanced over at the Prussian interior minister, whose face remained unreadable, and suddenly Gordon recalled what Gömbös had boasted to Göring in the spring: by applying the fascist principles learned from the Germans, Gömbös would reshape Hungary within two years and would preside over the new state as its dictator.

  Kálmán Darányi stood up and went to the steps leading to the rotunda. Gordon winced the moment he heard the sound of clicking heels. He glanced at the red velvet chair set apart on its own beside the bier. Hungary’s regent, Miklós Horthy, now appeared on the steps in his admiral’s uniform, his head topped off by a calpac, and his chest bearing the Grand Cross of the royal Order of Saint Stephen of Hungary. It was practically with piety that Darányi—in the company of the two speakers of Parliament, Sándor Sztranyavszky and Bertalan Széchenyi—greeted the head of state, who took determined steps toward the velvet chair, adjusted his sword, and sat down. Gordon shook his head with silent glee at the sight of the admiral’s uniform. The regent, his face somber, knit his brows and stared into the air. Silence had once again descended upon the hall when the clergy arrived, with Lutheran bishop Sándor Raffay in the lead. Gordon looked at his watch. A few minutes past ten. He sighed deeply, took a seat in the rows reserved for the media, and proceeded to listen to one speech after another as the funeral began. After Raffay came Darányi, who in turn was followed by Sztranyavszky, and then Széchenyi and, finally, Béla Ivády, president of the National Unity Party. Gordon’s head was buzzing by the end. It seemed as if this was the funeral for someone like the American president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, instead. A champion of freedom, said the orators. A man who struggled for the rise of the nation; someone whose efforts brought the country order, security, and economic prosperity. A creative genius hammering out his people’s future. Sometimes Gordon glanced up at the given speaker in surprise. Was it only now that he would learn how great a loss this was? A champion of democracy—luckily that was left off the list. Only then would the laudation have been complete.