“Well, that could have a bad ending.”
“How bad?”
“In the worst-case scenario, the girl might even get killed. Why do you ask? Are you preparing for something?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m just working on a case in which something similar happened.”
“It all comes down to chance. I’ve been hit like that in my gut so hard the air just stopped dead in its tracks inside me and I couldn’t even stand up. The air just got stuck, simple as that. It’s practically impossible to prepare for a jab like the one the butcher just threw. His hand just shot in, and Micsicsák couldn’t block. That was that.”
Gordon nodded. Soon the next match began, and Gordon stood there between Strausz and Kocsis until six in the evening: they lambasted the boxers and analyzed the punches, and during intermissions they conjured up famous old bouts. But around six, Gordon sighed. “I’ve got to be off.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to work?” asked Strausz.
“Yes. In a certain sense, yes.” Gordon shook hands with Kocsis and with Strausz, said his good-byes to the others on his way out, and then he hurried out onto Podmaniczky Street and headed toward Berlin Square.
Falk Miksa Street—which ran from the Grand Boulevard near the Margaret Bridge to the Parliament building—was almost completely deserted. Expensive chandeliers, curtains, and an occasional fleeting shadow shone clearly from behind the tall windows of the narrow thoroughfare’s elegant apartments. Gordon found the address easily. Standing in front of the building , he even found himself admiring what a grand neighborhood Red Margo occupied. It was understandable, of course: since Margo supervised and otherwise managed the girls in the apartment on Báthory Street, she had to live nearby. At the same time, Gordon was certain that the flat was not her own, but that the rent was paid for by the secretive Mr. Zsámbéki who had bought the black-haired girl from Csuli.
He rang the doorbell. The super appeared a couple of moments later. Without a word, Gordon pressed a pengő into his hand, whereupon the man sized him up. He didn’t even ask who he’d come to see. “Fourth floor on the left,” he told Gordon, then shuffled back into his little flat beside the stairs. The inner courtyard was clean and ordered, with a few leafless bushes, a robust linden tree, and meticulously manicured flower beds.
Gordon got into the elevator and went up to the fourth floor. On getting out he turned left and stopped in front of the first door. No light filtered through the apartment window overlooking the courtyard. He knocked. A few moments later, the door opened.
The woman was a couple of inches shorter than he was, about five-eight. She had broad shoulders, a full bosom, round hips, and long, sinewy legs. She must have been about twenty-five, but the signs of age were already evident on her face. Tiny wrinkles occupied the corners of her fleshy, sensual mouth. Even finer wrinkles were starting to weave a web around her big, blue, bloodshot eyes with their long eyelashes. Her thick strands of brown hair could have used a bit of combing, and not even her part was straight. The lipstick was wider on one side of her upper lip than on the other side. She wore a wine-red silk nightgown that was wide open on one side and looked awful on her. She had a little run in her stocking just above her left foot. They shook hands, and Gordon felt that hers was soft, warm, and strong. This, then, was Red Margo, who, according to Gordon’s source, had corraled the cream of the nation’s crop of politicians into her bedroom and went to all lengths to satisfy their desires.
“What do you want, pretty boy?” she asked, leaning up against the wall.
“I’m looking for you on account of the Jewish girl.”
“That’s not how things work,” said Margo, looking Gordon in the eye.
“Well, then.”
“If you’ve managed to find me, you should also know how things work. Besides, I don’t know what you’re talking about or who you’re looking for. There’s not a single Jewish gal around here.” She paused and asked, invitingly, “Or do you suppose that would be me?”
Gordon shook his head slightly. “Izsó Skublics said I should look for you.”
“Are you Skublics’s friend?”
“Do you think I am?”
“You can never know with him.”
“Will you let me in?”
“Please,” said Margo, opening the door wide. Gordon shut it behind him and followed the woman into the living room, which at one time must have been elegantly furnished but, by now, was rife with furniture by and large worn and faded. Disarray reigned supreme.
“So you’re here asking about Judit Jeges,” she said while removing a pair of lizard-leather shoes and a cup and saucer from an armchair so Gordon could sit down. Her voice was soft and lazy.
“Yes. But I’m mainly interested in knowing who killed her and why.”
Red Margo knit her brows.
“You’re saying someone killed her?”
“It looks that way.”
“And you, I bet you think . . .”
Gordon interrupted: “I’m the detective here, and I don’t like it when someone else takes over my role and starts asking questions.”
Margo sized him up from head to toe. “You? A detective?”
“Let’s just say I’m investigating,” replied Gordon, pulling a silk stocking out from under him. He didn’t know exactly why he’d said he was a detective. Maybe it would simplify matters, he’d thought, but he already saw he’d made a mistake. Margo sank into the other armchair and watched Gordon in silence.
“I’m investigating,” Gordon repeated. “Not that I’m a detective. I’m a crime reporter for the Evening.”
“So you’re working on an article?” asked Margo.
“You might say so.”
Red Margo rose and crossed over to a little table in front of the window, full of glasses and bottles. She poured herself a glass of gin, threw in a wilted slice of lemon, and downed the drink in one gulp. Then she filled another cup and set it down in front of Gordon on the coffee table. Gordon looked at the glass, and Margo, still standing, looked down at Gordon, who was trying to select the most appropriate approach. Margo obviously knew the girl, whose name—or, obviously, alias—was Judit Jeges. Gordon took out a cigarette and lit it. Margo stood by the window and stared listlessly down at the street, allowing Gordon to look her over. Evidently she’d gotten on her nightgown in haste, which was why it had opened on the side, exposing her long, sinewy thigh. Although the wine-red didn’t look good on her at all, the nightgown accentuated the fullness of her breasts and her slender waist. Gordon saw her face from the side: her nose had a lovely arch, and her full lips curled downward. There was something feline about her glance—a glance that simultaneously suggested boredom and provocation. Provocation. Gordon sighed. Margo now turned toward him and raised her eyes to his. Gordon stared right back. Gordon knew full well that he had to choose his next step carefully. Something was not right with this woman. The last time he’d seen a woman drinking gin was in America, and not even there had it been a common sight. Not that it mattered, really. What did matter was that Margo, so it seemed, knew everything about Judit. Gordon finally cast aside his every possible tactic, leaned forward in the armchair, and prepared to tell Red Margo everything he’d found out about the girl. Margo kept staring at the street throughout, turning toward Gordon not even once.
“On Tuesday night, a dead Jewish girl was found on Nagy Diófa Street. Her name, as you said it, was Judit Jeges. The police, at least for the time being, are not looking into her death. According to the coroner, someone punched her so hard in the pit of her stomach that it killed her. Izsó Skublics claims someone bought the girl off Csuli, and that he, Skublics, took a couple of pictures of her. You brought her over there.” After a momentary pause, Gordon concluded by asking, “What was her real name?”
At this, Margo turned, scowled, and put her glass on the table—or so she thought. She
was off by almost a foot.
“I don’t think I can help you,” said the woman in a calm voice while looking at the spilled drink on the carpet.
“I’m not even sure,” said Gordon, switching tactics, “that I need your information, after all. I think I can make do without it.”
“If you can make do, that’s fine. Just don’t forget that I’m the only one who actually could help you.”
“Is it money you want?” asked Gordon.
“That’s right,” replied Red Margo. “But not from you.” With that, she spit the remains of the lemon rind to the floor, ran her fingers through her hair, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before breaking into a smile.
“All right, then, Mr. Journalist. I’m willing to work with you. Trust me, it won’t cost you a thing. No, I’ll get what’s due me, anyway, before we reach the end of this game. Do you believe me?” she asked provocatively, looking at Gordon as if he were a block away.
This was not the moment to argue about money. “And I do hope you get what’s due you,” Gordon quietly replied.
“Believe you me, I will. Now listen here. You are not drunk, but I am. And I’m so drunk that I’ll tell you everything you want to know. That’s the sort of girl I am. When I meet someone I like, I tell him everything. You only have to ask. So go for it, ask!”
Though Gordon didn’t understand what caused Margo to reconsider, he began asking questions. And the woman answered. Meanwhile, she sat down in the armchair opposite Gordon and crossed her legs, which made her nightgown open even more, allowing Gordon a view of her round belly, the beginning of the curve of her breasts. “What’s certain,” said Margo, “is that she went to a good school. She spoke German perfectly, she was polite, and she knew how to wear fine clothes. We didn’t talk a lot. Judit was withdrawn, she smiled rarely, and she was cold when handling men, which made them completely crazy about her.” Red Margo smiled. “I should know. She was the most popular girl. Zsámbéki asked a lot of money for her. Some customers paid him as much as fifty or even a hundred pengős. Judit lived in her own world. When we sat down for a drink, she sometimes joined us. But she didn’t drink and didn’t say a word. She just listened.”
“That’s it?” Gordon looked at her. “Anything else?”
Margo shook her head. She stood and walked over to the little table once again, pouring herself another gin in a clean glass. Leaving out the lemon this time, she gulped the gin down. “There’s one more thing.”
“What would that be?”
“Whenever we had coffee, she always asked where we bought the beans. One time Manci didn’t buy the coffee at Meinl, like usual, but at Arabia instead. ‘I don’t want any of that,’ said Judit. ‘It’s the same coffee,’ we told her. She looked at me and declared, ‘I don’t drink that stuff.’ She crumpled up the paper she’d been reading and stormed out of the kitchen.”
“That’s it?” asked Gordon.
“That’s it,” replied Red Margo.
“There’s nothing else you know?”
“I told you everything I know. Too much at that.”
Gordon stood. “No. Just enough.”
“Are you trying to say you already know who killed the girl?”
“Not yet. I still need to clear up one or two things to figure it out.”
“Who is it? Who?” Red Margo snapped, completely sober. She seized his coat by the lapels. “Tell me who killed her!”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Be a good boy!”
“Not yet.”
The woman let go of his coat, crossed her arms behind her back, and laughed in his face.
“Fine then. Keep it to yourself. Just go ahead and try figuring out what’s true of what I said.”
“No matter what’s true,” said Gordon, looking at Red Margo, “thanks all the same. For the gin, too.” He turned and went toward the door. The woman stood by the window and didn’t even look his way. Gordon shut the door behind him and was already at the stairwell when Red Margo called after him. “Wait a second, Mr. Journalist.”
Gordon stopped and turned around. “For what?”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Do you want to know?”
“What?”
Through half-shut eyes, Red Margo looked at Gordon. “You’re the one here playing detective, isn’t that right?”
“Go ahead,” said Gordon, returning to the door, “tell me.”
“Wait here,” replied the woman, and she slammed the door shut.
Gordon waited. Minutes passed. He lit a cigarette. Finally, Margo appeared with a letter in her hand. “I just remembered this letter.”
“A letter.”
“That’s right.”
“And you just thought of it.”
“Just now. If you don’t believe me or if you aren’t interested . . .”
“What is it you want?” asked Gordon, exhaling smoke.
“Nothing,” said Margo, leaning up against the doorjamb. “Nothing from you.”
Gordon crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the woman.
“This is a love letter,” said Margo.
Gordon held out his hand. The woman dropped the letter in. “It slipped out of her purse one time.”
“And you picked it up.”
“I wanted to give it back to her, but I didn’t have the chance.”
Gordon didn’t say a thing. He slipped the letter into the pocket of his blazer and started toward the stairs. The woman once again called after him. “You don’t know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in.”
Gordon turned around.
“You don’t know,” Margo repeated, “what you’ve got yourself mixed up in. These folks don’t kid around. Keep an eye out behind you.” With that, she slammed the door shut and disappeared.
Gordon shrugged. What could they do to him? And who did he have to watch out for? Would they shoot him? This was Budapest, not Chicago.
Leaving the building, Gordon turned left, toward Crown Prince Rudolf Square. The moment he arrived on the Grand Boulevard, he was struck by an icy wind off the Danube. He shuddered. Looking toward the Margaret Bridge, he saw dark clouds gathering in the sky. Gordon pulled his overcoat tight around him and walked over to the tram stop. The Comedy Theater was lit up, off in the distance, with expensive cars parked out front. The wind died down for a moment, and he heard music filtering out of a nearby coffeehouse.
The tram rolled to a stop with bells clanging. Gordon hopped aboard and got off on Berlin Square. As always, there was quite a crowd at the West Railway Station. The massive edifice seemed to pour out those freshly arrived and suck in those preparing for their journeys. Gordon stopped in the middle of the square beside a large concrete kiosk topped off by a clock prominently bearing the name of its sponsor, the Italian firm Modiano. From there, he looked back at the tram stop. He felt as if he was being followed. But no one looked suspicious. Not that he knew, of course, who might have counted as suspicious at this hour. Young men were waiting in front of the Westend Hotel, brooding away as they wondered if they could afford sixty pengős a month for a room or if they should move a bit farther from downtown, where they might get by on a bit less. A big poster in front of the Jolly Bar carried an ad for “Berta Türke’s Schrammelmusik Band Playing Tonight.” Gordon shook his head. Was there a night when they didn’t play? Berlin Square had a charm of its own, what with its ever-present mass of humanity, its trams and their constant clinging and clanging, its shouting cabbies, whistling policemen, and sundry spectacle of civil servants making their way from month-to-month rooms to the nearest bar, poor young boys from the provinces, and men who’d just left their wives for good. Inside the kiosk, right below the Modiano clock, was a tobacconist’s shop. Gordon often bought cigarettes there, and the wounded veteran behind the cou
nter gave him a cheery welcome even now.
“Mr. Editor! The usual?”
“Let’s have it,” said Gordon, slipping the pack of Turkish cigarettes into his pocket at once. “How goes business, Krámer?”
“Don’t remind me,” said the scruffy fellow with a resigned wave of the hand. “I’m sure Finance Minister Fabinyi is doing what he thinks best, you know, but it’s us who get the raw end of the deal again.”
“You mean that new rule making it illegal to loan out newspapers?”
“That wasn’t the problem, sir. A gentleman would come in, ask for some tobacco, and skim the paper. No, I had no problem with that. Why, I even let regulars look at a paper or magazine for just a couple of fillérs.” He shook his head before continuing in a newly dignified tone: “But if I got it back all torn up, he had to pay! I’m not saying it added up to much every month, just a couple pengős—okay, let’s say ten. Now we can’t do it. Now folks can’t just page through the papers, you know, because it’s been banned from the top.”
Gordon gave a commiserating nod, then left the shop. He walked along Teréz Boulevard to Podmaniczky Street, turned, and followed that to Jókai Street. Mouthwatering aromas streamed out of a hash house on the corner of Horn Street, and Gordon nearly went inside, but he’d had enough for one day. He was exhausted, and he wanted to get home as soon as possible. Lovag Street was quiet at first, but as he approached Nagymező Street, the cacophony of sounds of Budapest’s Broadway grew ever more intense. He looked at his watch. It was just past seven. He had just enough time to wash up and change. A Night at the Opera started at eight at the West Motion-Picture Theater, which was at the start of the Erzsébet Boulevard stretch of the Grand Boulevard. Gordon was not ashamed that he liked the Marx Brothers; nor was it by chance that he made an effort to watch the Fox International newsreel at least once a week. True, the constant war reporting from Spain and Abyssinia was a bit boring already, but sometimes there was a story from America. The other day, for instance, President Roosevelt—
“Sir, do you have the time?” asked a man in a hat who suddenly approached him.
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