“When did that happen?”
“Last Sunday.”
“On the fourth.”
Red Margo nodded.
“And?” asked Gordon.
“And? I saw Fanny for the last time on Tuesday morning. Last Tuesday. On Wednesday I heard that a dead girl had been found on Nagy Diófa Street. When I found out what she had on, I knew right away it was her. On Saturday morning you came by, pounding at my door. And asking questions.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I didn’t even know who you were,” said Red Margo. “For all I knew, you were from the secret police or were a private eye. Look at me. Go ahead, just look at me.” Gordon tried, but she averted her eyes. “Do I look that stupid? Like I’d tell everything to just any old bum who comes knocking? So the same thing would happen to me that happened to Fanny?”
“I’m neither a secret policeman nor a private eye,” said Gordon.
“Now I know.”
“And what happened to Fanny’s money?”
“You know,” she said, “I always did tell her not to keep it on her. Because that could spell trouble. You know what she replied?” Gordon shook his head. “That she might decide at any moment to buy the ticket to New York. She wanted to leave on October 28 on the President Harding. And she didn’t trust anyone, not even me. Maybe she was right.” Red Margo stared straight ahead.
“I understand,” said Gordon.
“You think the mother . . .” said Margo, raising her eyes.
“No,” said Gordon, shaking his head. “I hope not. I met her a couple days ago. I don’t think it would have been her.”
“Then what will you do now?” asked Margo.
“Sure you want to know?”
The woman didn’t answer. She rose from the chair, poured herself another gin, and found a box of matches among the glasses. She lit a cigarette and replied, “You’re right,” turning away. “I don’t need to know.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Gordon. “Why did you open up to me at all when I first came knocking?”
Red Margo said nothing at first. She returned to the armchair, leaned back, and adjusted her hair. She crossed her legs, then looked at Gordon from under her long eyelashes. “Isn’t it obvious enough?”
“Maybe,” said Gordon, holding her gaze.
“What’s wrong with that?” she asked, and amid a smile she pursed her lips. “You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you,” he said, “and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing.” He cleared his throat. Gordon looked at the clothing strewn about the place: leftovers of a recent liaison. He stole a glance at the unmade bed that seemed to sprawl out in the other room, and at the thin streak of sunlight that shone upon it. Margo followed his gaze. Gordon now looked at the woman stretched out in the armchair opposite him—at her nightgown, her full round bosom, her slender ankles, her succulent lower lip. “Nothing in the whole damn world,” he added, all at once catching Margo’s gaze. He now saw clearly the fear in her eyes.
“Are you that scared?” he finally asked.
Margo did not reply.
“Don’t tell me you realized only now what sort of people your customers are and what they’re capable of.”
Almost imperceptibly the woman winced.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Too long,” replied Red Margo.
Gordon rose from the armchair. “I’m off.” But he only stood there, staring at Margo. “That there,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the bedroom, “would have been only a reward for me doing the dirty work instead of you, huh?” The woman didn’t answer. “I know you’re afraid of them. And you’re right to be.”
“What do you think I should have done?” she asked.
“Everyone does what they know best,” said Gordon.
“What are you getting smart with me for?” Looking down, she added, “You don’t understand a damn thing.”
“You’re right,” said Gordon. “I don’t understand a damn thing.”
“You said you’re going. So go.”
Gordon was already at the door when she called after him: “Wait.”
He turned and looked at the woman. The sun lit her face from behind, and he couldn’t see her eyes. “Nothing,” Red Margo said softly before turning back to the window.
Gordon just caught a tram on Crown Prince Rudolf Square and got to the Abbázia in fifteen minutes. This time the waiter led him to his regular table, where he took Gordon’s order—a coffee and a brioche. On appearing with the tray, the man also handed him a sheet of paper.
“A note left here for you, Mr. Editor,” said the waiter, and left. The message was from Jenő Strausz, who had tried telephoning Gordon at nine-thirty to say he’d be at the Ironworks Sport Club in the afternoon. Gordon put away the paper and looked up at the clock on the wall. Almost noon. He pored over the papers and drank his coffee but left the brioche untouched. He then paid and left.
Despite the nippy autumn weather, Mór’s balcony door was open. Gordon shook his head with irritation and went upstairs to his grandfather. He knocked. No answer. He sighed. The old man must have nodded off by the stove. Gordon knocked once more, this time with more force, at which the door began to open with a creak. On its own. His stomach was in knots. Slowly he opened the door all the way, then stepped inside. Through the dark vestibule he headed toward the kitchen. He heard no noise and smelled no smoke, but this made him all the more uneasy. Gordon was just passing the bedroom when the door suddenly opened. He spun around and there saw Mór, holding a kettle of respectable size above his head with an iron grip.
“Hey, Opa, what are you doing?” he asked with great relief.
“I must have forgotten to lock the door,” said the old man, lowering the kettle. “A bunch of fresh chestnuts just arrived at the market from the hills, so I went out, bought a couple of kilos, and told myself I’d get started on the cooking right away. I went into the kitchen but forgot to lock the door on my way into the flat. Then you knocked, and . . .”
“I understand, Opa.”
“No matter who it was, with that kettle I would have let them have it,” said Mór.
“Without a doubt.”
They went to the kitchen. “I need your help, Opa.”
“No, son,” said Mór, shaking his head.
“No?”
“I’m not doing a thing until you tell me what you found out. I need to know why you wound up in danger and so did Krisztina.” He sat down at the table and waited.
Gordon pulled out a chair, sat down opposite his grandfather, and told him the whole story. He didn’t leave anything out. Not even that he knew who had left the dead chicken in front of Krisztina’s door. Nor that he’d been to Margo’s. And certainly not what he’d learned about Szőllősy. Mór listened in silence, asking not a thing, even though he clearly had questions. When Gordon finished, the old man stood up and went to the window.
“I don’t understand this, son,” he said.
“What don’t you understand?”
“What happened, I understand. But I don’t understand how this sort of thing can happen.”
“These things happen everywhere, Opa.”
“You know, son,” Mór began, “your grandmother and I really did have a privileged life back in Keszthely. We had everything—everything. Your father had a lovely childhood. They say that was an era of peace. I myself was ten years old when Buda and Pest united. We used to visit Budapest and Vienna. True, not often. Your grandmother would have gone even more, but I didn’t want to. Keszthely is a small town by comparison, but there were people of all sorts of backgrounds living there, too. Germans, Jews, and even a few Poles.” He sighed. “No matter. I don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t understand a thing about this count
ry of ours. The war, I understood. They shot at us; we shot back. By the end, that got murky, too. And what came after, that was even more muddled up. It’s been almost ten years since I moved to Budapest. I might have followed your parents to America. Not that I would have understood that country, either, but at least I would have known it was foreign. A foreign country, foreign language, foreign culture. This country here is my own, and I still don’t understand it.”
Gordon waited for his grandfather to turn around. “I know, Opa. I know.”
“So, what can I do?”
“I want you to get on your nicest suit and your surliest expression and go to Kaiser Wilhelm Road.”
“And?”
“Go up to the head office of the Arabia Coffee Company and look for András Szőllősy.”
“And?” asked the old man, knitting his bushy brows.
“Tell him you were sent by an advisor to István Bárcziházi Bárczy. The undersecretary must speak with him in a confidential matter. So confidential that he couldn’t say even by telephone, which is why you were sent in person.”
“You can’t just do that, son. Even I know who István Bárcziházi Bárczy is. He’s the prime minister’s right-hand man. And Horthy’s trusted advisor.”
“Don’t you worry, Opa. There won’t be any trouble. I guarantee you that Szőllősy won’t ask any questions.”
For a while the old man just sat there pondering the matter. “If you say so, son,” he finally said.
“I say so, Opa.”
“Good. So I go into his office and say that one of István Bárcziházi Bárczy’s advisors sent me. And?”
“Say he wants Szőllősy to get home by five o’clock, because he’s going to pay him a visit. There’s been a change in the German situation that they must discuss. No one is to know.”
“Do you know what you’re doing, son?” asked Mór, looking Gordon squarely in the eye.
“I hope so, Opa,” Gordon replied.
“That’s all? And why do you need me for that?”
“Because no one would believe me if I told them I work for an advisor of the prime minister’s undersecretary. And no one is capable of a sterner expression than are you. If the chestnuts can wait, I won’t be going anywhere just yet; I’ll go over with you.”
Mór thought it over one more time, and finally he stood up and went into the bedroom. In a couple of minutes Gordon heard the bathroom door open, then close. Ten minutes later Mór stood before him in a dapper black suit, a tight-fitting vest, the thick gold watch chain hanging from a pocket, a hard felt hat on his head, and a wolf head walking stick in his hand. Unusually, even his mustache and beard looked neat and trim.
At the Circle they boarded the underground that ran the length of Andrássy Street, and they got off at the Oktogon. From there they went on foot, turning from Andrássy Street onto Nagymező Street, and from there to Ó Street. The Arabia Coffee office building, a stately edifice that stood practically across from Arany János Street, had the company’s well-known logo on its façade: an Arabian man whose eyes alone gleamed from his face, which was otherwise covered by his raised arm. Mór took a deep breath, and after adjusting his hat and twirling his mustache, he went inside.
Gordon had a smoke while waiting. Behind him, buses and trams came and went, cars beeped their horns, and a cop kept blowing his whistle. Not even ten minutes had passed when Mór stepped out the front door of the Arabia Coffee building.
“He’ll be there,” he told Gordon.
“Did everything go okay?”
“Everything,” replied the old man.
“Well, Opa, I thank you. Krisztina will be getting to your place around seven this evening. She’ll be angry, for good reason, but not at you.”
“What did you do with her?”
“Nothing special, Opa. I left her there in Lillafüred to rest a bit more.”
“Then why will she be angry?”
“Because I didn’t exactly talk this over with her. I’ll calm her down later. The point is that you should just wait for me there. As soon as I’m done, I’ll head on over to your place.”
“And now?”
“I’m off to the boxing arena,” replied Gordon. The old man nodded, then headed with slow, labored steps back toward Ó Street as Gordon boarded a bus.
There wasn’t much of a crowd at all in the boxing arena at the Ironworks Sport Club, which was not surprising. The training bouts didn’t draw much public interest. So when Gordon stepped inside, he saw Strausz immediately beside one of the rings. A thin cigar in his hand, he was watching the boxers go at it. Gordon realized that one of the boxers was none other than Bruno Butcher. He walked over to Strausz.
“You out to polish this diamond?” Gordon asked the coach. Strausz looked at Gordon and gave a dismissive wave of the hand.
“Who the hell knows what’ll become of him. I thought I’d give it a try, that maybe I can carve a bona fide boxer out of the guy. Never mind that he’s sluggish; that, you can do something about. But his head! That’s where the problem is. He thinks it’s enough to throw a helluva punch, and that’s that, he’s the winner.”
“But he can throw a helluva punch, right?”
“A mother of a helluva punch, no question there. But if he finds himself up against a faster opponent, someone with technique, why then he can have all the strength in the world, he’s still gonna end up on the mat.” Strausz took a drag of his cigar, then stepped over to the ring. “Bruno, Bruno!” he shouted. “Don’t just move that arm! Move your legs, too. I’m not asking you to dance, but don’t just stand there like half a hog up against a wall.” Bruno Butcher gave a nod with his thick head and took two steps to the side, whereupon his opponent went at him and Bruno leveled a punch on the other man’s chin as hard as if he’d whacked a cow upside the head.
“That’s more like it!” snapped the old man. “You see, this is what happens. I tell him what to do, we go over it again, he steps in the ring, and then he knocks his opponent flat in no time.”
“Not bad.”
“Of course it’s not bad, but before long I won’t be able to find him a decent sparring partner. This blockhead knocks everyone out, as if this were a slaughterhouse, and then he just stands there looking like a nincompoop.” Strausz opened his arms wide. Bruno Butcher meanwhile stood about, looking befuddled, arms down, as his opponent groaned away below him on the mat.
“Come on out of there, Bruno,” said Strausz. “And then go on home. I’ll let you know if I find someone else for you to knock out.”
Bruno Butcher climbed out of the ring and, head drooped, headed off toward the locker room.
“I got your message,” said Gordon.
Strausz sat down in one of the chairs and gestured to Gordon to take a seat beside him. “You know, I really don’t like this whole affair. Antal Kocsis was supposed to be here, too, but something came up for him, and so he asked me to tell you what he found out.”
“What’s it you don’t like?”
“This whole Pojva affair,” Strausz anxiously replied. “I asked around a bit. Pojva is worse than ever. He’ll knock the brains out of anyone for twenty pengős.” Looking at Gordon’s wounded forehead and faintly swollen lip, he added, “For ten pengős, he’ll do it halfway.”
“Ten pengős?” asked Gordon.
“That’s right.”
“I would have done better giving him ten pengős to lay off me,” said Gordon.
“The sort of character he is, he would have taken your ten pengős and then beat you good just because. But all that’s nothing, compared to the illegal matches. Nothing interests him except money.” Strausz shook his head. “For fifty pengős he’ll let any opponent beat his face to a pulp. You know what the funny thing is?”
“Is there anything funny about this?”
“Just that everyone knows this abou
t him, and lots of folks bet on him, anyway. Because I don’t even have to say how much the bookies rake in on this sort of . . .” He searched for the right word. “ . . . brawl. Because this isn’t sport. This doesn’t have anything to do with boxing.”
“When is he fighting next?”
“Tomorrow night,” Strausz replied.
“Where?”
“You want to go there?” said Strausz, raising his eyebrows.
“I do,” said Gordon.
“Whatever. It’s on Gubacsi Road in southern Pest, by the river and next to the Slaughterhouse Bridge, on the grounds of a factory. Supposedly it begins at six.” Strausz hesitated for a moment before continuing. “You know where to find this Pojva fella?” he finally asked.
Gordon recalled his last meeting with Gellért. “Out in that slum,” he said, “the Mária Valéria Colony. And who is he up against?”
“The name’s Jacek,” said Strausz. “A Polish kid. He’s slow; he’s a blockhead. Just about the same as Bruno Butcher, but if someone gets his temper up, this guy can dole out ruthless punches, I’m telling you. And he works right there in the neighborhood, at the slaughterhouse. Maybe there really is something about butchers.”
“Thanks,” said Gordon.
“Don’t thank me. I get sick thinking about this stuff.”
“So do I.”
“And you haven’t even seen them brawl yet.”
“I’m not too happy about going, but I need to be there. And now I’ve got to be off; I’m due in Buda at five.”
“You’re writing an article about some gentlemen?”
“Something like that,” Gordon replied. “Except it’s not exactly an article and not about gentlemen.”
Gordon caught a bus back to the intersection of Kaiser Wilhelm Road and Nagymező Street. He got off and looked at his watch. Just past four. If he hurried, he’d make it to Buda by five. A couple of minutes later he shut the door behind him in his flat on Lovag Street and went over to his desk. Removing the stenciled copies of his notes from his blazer pocket, he slid one beside the copy of the autopsy report while placing the rest in the drawer. He quickly changed his shirt and was on the road in no time.
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