“Hitler Square, you mean?”
“That’s what I mean,” said Gordon, taking his suitcase and hurrying into the station. The conductor was already blowing his whistle when Gordon boarded the train. He sat down in an empty compartment and pulled his hat over his eyes. The conductor woke him up in Gyöngyös. Gordon paid for the ticket, stared out at the black landscape all the way into Budapest, and pondered where he would begin Wednesday and where it would all end.
In front of the East Railway Station, Gordon waved down a cab and asked to be taken home. It was well past midnight when he opened the door of his flat on Lovag Street. He threw aside his suitcase and blazer, soaked a rag with cold water, and rebandaged his right hand. Still in his clothes, Gordon lay down on his bed.
Nine
Gordon woke up early. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he saw that the wounds on his mouth and his forehead were healing nicely indeed. But since he looked at least ten years older on account of his stubble, he got out his razor and whipped up some cream. He tried shaving with his right hand. It worked, even if it wasn’t a rousing success. He’d cut himself in several places and had torn up a few scabs, but a block of alum solved this problem, too.
He got dressed, checked that he had everything he needed, and then headed toward the Grand Boulevard. At the corner of Szondi Street, he entered the stencil shop, and after a bit of persuasion he convinced the man that, no, he didn’t need a hundred copies of his couple of pages of notes but that five would be enough. They settled on a price of twenty fillérs, which was nearly five times the usual rate. Then Gordon walked to the Abbázia. The headwaiter greeted him warmly and apologized for the fact that Gordon’s usual table was occupied. Gordon gave a little wave of the hand and ordered breakfast at another table. Skimming the papers, he saw he hadn’t missed a thing. Citing his health, Béla Ivády had resigned as president of the National Unity Party. Meanwhile Darányi had wasted no time in submitting to Parliament the proposals accepted at the first cabinet meeting. Great, thought Gordon, taking a gulp of coffee. Ivády could resign all he wanted, but doing so was pointless; for the party wouldn’t find a suitable replacement. After all, any leadership role for Béla Márton, the party’s combative secretary-general, who was causing enough trouble as it was, was out of the question. Gordon read on. The usual internal struggles. Ivády, he concluded, was the least of all evils. Gordon turned the page. Miklós Kozma expressed his hope that the ban on public gatherings could soon be lifted. Gordon closed the paper, downed the remaining coffee, and headed off toward Berlin Square. Along the way, he picked up his stenciled notes. On the square he boarded Tram No. 5 and opened 8 O’Clock News.
Dr. Pazár had arrived at the Institute of Forensic Medicine not long before. Gordon found him in his office. His secretary was still announcing Gordon’s arrival as he followed her into the room. With evident annoyance, Pazár continued arranging the papers on his desk. In the ashtray was a lit cigarette.
“I’m sorry, Gordon,” he said, looking up, “but I’ve got a million things to do. There’s been restructuring in the ministry; I can’t even tell my head from my toes just now.”
“I don’t want to hold you up,” said Gordon. “The only thing I ask for is a copy of the autopsy report.”
“The only thing?” said Pazár, jerking up his head. “It was quite enough that I showed you, and I shouldn’t even have done that.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. But I still need a copy of the report.”
“And I need a house on Lake Balaton. I can’t give it to you.”
“All right, then I’ll borrow it.”
“You know full well we’re not a lending library. Or did the sign out front say, ‘Institute and Library of Forensic Medicine’? If that’s what you saw, of course we’ll get you a copy right away.”
Gordon didn’t reply.
“What do you need it for?” Pazár finally asked.
“Let’s just say it’s for personal use. I’m not planning to write about it, but if I do, I’d let you know.”
“Personal use? You’ve started collecting autopsy reports? Who’s kidding whom?”
“No kidding,” replied Gordon, “really. But maybe I know what happened to that girl, and maybe I’d like to do something about it.”
“Do?” said Pazár, looking up for a moment. “So you want to do something, do you? Well, I can’t do a thing myself, but if you go downstairs right now to the autopsy room, you won’t find anyone there. I’m the one who should be there, but instead I’m here, having a completely pointless argument with you, and I’ve even left the filing cabinet open.”
“Then I won’t disturb you any longer,” said Gordon, opening the door.
“Mici!” shouted Pazár. “Call up the ministry at once and find someone I can speak with.”
Gordon went down the stairs to the cellar, ran over to the white-painted metal filing cabinet, and after a couple of minutes of searching he found the two-page report and its copies. He took one copy, slipped it into the inside pocket of his blazer, and in minutes he was sitting on the tram. He studied the document thoroughly until reaching Crown Prince Rudolf Square.
The apartment building door was open. Gordon walked upstairs to the fourth floor and stopped in front of the familiar door. He knocked. Harder. And harder. Finally, he was pounding. He was raising his fist once more when he heard stirring from within. He stepped back. The little hinged window in the door opened first, then the door itself. Red Margo stood there, her eyes squinting and fixed on Gordon; the apartment behind her was pitch-black. Her hand shot upward to cover her face, then she spoke in a hoarse voice:
“What’s it you want?”
“I want to talk about Fanny,” said Gordon.
“Come back in an hour. I have to get myself together. Who’s this Fanny?”
“We’ve got to talk now.”
“The hell we do,” said Margo, moving to close the door. But Gordon promptly slid his foot between the door and the doorjamb.
“Believe me, Margo, you want to let me in.”
The woman stared down at Gordon’s foot, then looked up at his face. Finally, she released her grip on the door and went back into the dark apartment. Gordon followed her.
“You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to,” he said to the woman’s back.
“I know,” replied Margo, “I’ll just lie on my back and will hardly feel a thing. You’ll take care of everything and I won’t even have to move.”
Red Margo reached for the curtain and pulled it open just a crack. She removed a blanket from the floor lamp she’d evidently flung on it in haste. Gordon saw that the room was just as much of a mess as it had been during his last visit. Cups and cigarette butts littered the coffee table, which had been pushed to the side, and the two armchairs were strewn with clothes. Gordon pushed aside the clothes on one chair and sat down. Margo sat down in the armchair opposite him. She looked disheveled, her eyes were baggy, and she’d hastily flung on her robe. When she leaned forward, it parted slightly. She picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the table, then reached for the box of matches. But the box was empty, and she angrily flung it back on the table. Gordon reached into his pocket, produced his lighter, and held out the flame. Margo leaned forward. She wore nothing underneath the robe. She took a drag and looked up at Gordon, who held the lighter for just a second longer than necessary. Having inhaled the smoke, Margo leaned back in the armchair and pulled the nightgown tight over her legs while not quite doing so over her breasts. She smiled from behind the smoke as she watched Gordon, who had meanwhile also lit a cigarette.
“Do you want a drink?” asked Red Margo, running a hand through her hair.
“Too early in the day for me.”
“But you could use one,” said Margo. “I see someone gave you a good thrashing.”
“A good one.”
Margo stared through narr
owed eyes at Gordon, who held her gaze for a while before finally looking away. “You know,” she said, “that cut really looks good on your face.” Gordon leaned back in his armchair. “Going through the wringer just makes a face more attractive,” she continued, sliding slowly to the edge of the armchair. The movement made her nightgown once again open up, and her left breast peeked halfway out from beneath the fabric. Gordon looked at the woman and the desire that had arisen in her eyes, and he could only sense what this was about.
“More attractive?” he asked.
“That’s right,” she languidly replied, coyly drawing her nightgown tight as she slowly stood up. With soft, lazy steps, she went over to Gordon and stood behind him. She put her hands on the back of his armchair, leaned forward, and now slid her hands onto his chest. “Why don’t . . .” she began, slipping her left hand under his shirt. “Why don’t you follow me to the bedroom?” she whispered in his ear. “You won’t be sorry.” With that, she straightened up and started off toward the bedroom. Gordon adjusted his shirt and turned around. Red Margo stood on the threshold of her bedroom, her back to Gordon. With a well-practiced motion, she opened her robe and drew each side up to her shoulders, and throwing back her hands, she let the robe slip right off her. Gordon stood, and looked at the woman’s round ass, her thighs, her shapely shoulders. Margo turned around and leaned against the doorjamb. Her breasts slackened, in a womanly way, but her nipples stood erect. She stood there only for a couple of seconds before suddenly turning back around and vanishing into the room. Gordon heard only the creaking of the bedsprings. He went over to the little table by the window, poured gin into two glasses that looked to be in acceptable shape, and went toward the bedroom.
Margo was leaning on her side, waiting for Gordon. Her hip formed a little hill and her waist a deep vale under the sheet, whose folds only enhanced the bulging breasts underneath. Gordon stopped above her and held out the glass. The woman took the glass, sat up, and downed the gin. The sheet slipped off her. Gordon looked into his own glass and he, too, drank up. The alcohol burned his gullet and then his stomach, and finally it spread out through his veins. His nostrils were filled with the smell of the gin and the heavy stifling scent of the woman, both of which blended with the odor of cigarettes towering in the ashtrays throughout the flat. Margo slid over beside him. She reached up to his tie with one hand while her other hand brushed against his loins. “Come on,” she whispered.
“We can’t,” replied Gordon in a hoarse voice. “Not now.”
“How do you know we’ll have another chance?”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Of course it is,” said Margo, stretching out on the bed. “It’s only up to you.” Turning over to her left side, she took a cigarette from the nightstand. She lit it, took a drag, and blew out the smoke. “Only you,” she repeated, then turned around. The cigarette hung from the left corner of her mouth, from which a thin band of smoke curled upward. Gordon gave the woman a once-over.
“I came here now so we can talk.”
“Then talk,” said Red Margo, removing the cigarette from her mouth.
“Come, I’ll pour us another drink,” replied Gordon, who then left the room. He filled the two glasses once again, and by the time he placed them on the table, Margo was already sitting in the armchair, clutching the nightgown tight just below her neck.
“Go ahead, just tell me what you want,” she asked, picking up her glass off the table.
“What do I want?” asked Gordon, fixing his eyes on Red Margo. “Two things. First of all, I want to know who murdered Fanny. Second, why you didn’t tell me everything you know.”
“You want a lot,” she said, exhaling smoke.
“I suspect it’s not news to you that men want a lot.”
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, drawing in her breath as she did so and then breaking into a smile and pulling her feet under the chair. “That hurt.”
“You know everything. Everything. And still you didn’t tell me a thing. You stuck a letter into my hand and then let me toil away.”
The woman searched Gordon’s face, and gradually the playfulness vanished from her own expression. “Because you would have believed what a drunk whore tells you about an influential merchant—a Valiant Knight, a company owner held in public esteem? Fat chance.”
“I would have,” replied Gordon.
“Pity, pity,” Red Margo chirped, shaking her head and giving a dismissive wave of the hand. “Let me ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“Now that you suspect what happened, what do you want to do about it? Leave it be?”
Gordon shook his head. “No.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Let that be my secret.”
“What a mysterious character you are,” said Margo, pursing her lips. “You think it was so easy for me to digest what happened to Fanny? You think I didn’t want to take revenge?” The last glimmer of lasciviousness now vanished from her eyes. Her expression was cold, but Gordon thought he saw in it a trace of fear.
“I don’t want to take revenge,” said Gordon, shaking his head.
“Sure you do. Otherwise, why would you be here? You came here because you’re thirsting for revenge—either because the girl was killed or because you were beaten up. I don’t know which, and I don’t really care. Or are you angry only because they threatened your girlfriend? Krisztina is her name, right?”
Gordon didn’t reply. He didn’t ask her how she knew; he just sat there, motionless, watching the woman.
“In your shoes I’d be angry, too,” Margo continued. “Infernally at that. You have every reason for revenge—whether because someone died who didn’t deserve to, because they punched a hole right into your self-respect, or because you’re worried for your girl.”
“So the reason you didn’t say anything is because you were afraid I’d fly into a rage,” said Gordon.
“That’s right,” said Margo. “Don’t go telling me your pride and your sense of justice haven’t been wounded.”
“Let’s just drop it,” said Gordon with a wave of his hand. “Tell me about them instead.”
“Fanny . . .” But Margo here fell silent, incredulously shaking her head. Gordon saw with satisfaction that she had taken the bait. “What people are you talking about? What do you want to know about Fanny’s family?”
“I didn’t say a thing about her family,” said Gordon. “I know almost everything about them. But it seems there’s one thing you don’t know. You see, Fanny was . . .” Now it was Gordon who fell silent.
“Pregnant!” Margo shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me that before, you rotten scoundrel?” She sat up angrily in the armchair.
“Because I didn’t think it necessary.”
“And now you do?”
“And now I do,” said Gordon, leaning forward. “Help me, Margo. Just help me a little.”
“So you want to do something, after all? Catch the murderer and drag him off to the police? Not even you can seriously be thinking that.”
“Enough of this already!” snapped Gordon. Margo gave him a surprised look. “The other day you tossed me a scrap of information that allowed me to figure everything out. Practically everything. And now I’m here again. I didn’t go to the police with what I know, but to you, Margo.”
“I see,” replied Red Margo. “But why?”
“I came here because I’m interested in what happened to Fanny. Because it doesn’t leave me cold. Trust me, Margo. I don’t want anything more than to know what you know, too.”
“There’s just no satisfying you,” said Red Margo.
“You’re off on that point, but I don’t want to prove you wrong.”
Margo stood up, went to the table, poured herself another gin, and turned to the window. For a while she just looked down at the street, but finally she
downed the gin and adjusted her robe, drawing it tight even at the neck, and sat back down in the armchair. “Go ahead—ask away.” Again her eyes sparkled with fear.
“I know why Fanny’s father disowned her. I also know how she wound up with you, by way of Csuli. And that her love, Shlomo, is now in New York. But I don’t know what Fanny was after.”
“I do,” replied Margo. “To put aside enough money to follow the boy. Even her mother gave her funds.”
“All I knew was that they met,” said Gordon. “So she gave her money, too?”
“You think a mother is capable of tearing her child out of her heart just because that’s what her husband says?” asked Margo with contempt.
Not wanting to ratchet up her temper, Gordon didn’t say a thing.
“One time they met up by chance on Rákóczi Street. Fanny worked at night, you see, and she counted on everything—except that she’d meet up with her mother.”
“When did that happen?”
“About a month ago. But Fanny didn’t tell her mother what she was up to. How she was making money. If you can call it money, those couple of wretched pengős the pimp left her every night. All she told her mother is that she was working; she didn’t say anything more. And right then and there her mother gave her two hundred pengős.”
“Did they meet again?”
“Yes. Twice. The second time the mother gave her four hundred pengős; and then even more, almost six hundred.”
“That would have been plenty for a train ticket to Hamburg,” said Gordon, “and from there for a ship to New York.”
“That’s true, but Fanny didn’t want to arrive with an empty pocket. She knew that the rabbi hadn’t given his son any money, that he’d put him in the care of relatives and forbade them from giving the boy a cent. Fanny wanted her and Shlomo to start a new life without the two of them being penniless. But the third meeting with her mother turned out badly.”
“What happened?”
“After their first meeting, the mother hired a private detective to figure out where Fanny was working. The man somehow got his hands on that picture Skublics took. The mother showed it to Fanny and demanded an explanation. When Fanny saw the picture, she ran away.”
Budapest Noir Page 18