Budapest Noir (13 page)

“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.

L
eaving 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 counter 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.

Gordon looked up and, though he sensed there was trouble, could not do a thing about it. He was just about to take a step forward when someone seized his arms from behind him and held them tight. He tried looking up, but his hat slipped over his eyes, and it was in vain that he sought to tear his hands free. He was held in an iron grip. His attacker pulled him into a doorway. The other man now stepped in front of him and tore off Gordon’s hat. Gordon jerked up his head, but a streetlamp shining behind his assailant kept the man’s features obscured. He thought of shouting for help, but he knew it would be pointless. They needed only a couple of seconds to take care of him. One blow, one gunshot, that would be it. The man behind him held tight. Gordon tried scrutinizing the eyes of the man before him, but he still couldn’t get a good look. Lightning-fast, the man socked Gordon in the gut. He doubled over and began heaving. The man behind him still had him in a certain grip. Gordon knew he shouldn’t, but he prepared for the next round by tightening his stomach muscles. The second blow filled him with excruciating pain. Tears came to his eyes. His legs gave way beneath him. He tried catching his breath but couldn’t. It was as if a lead cube locked away in his stomach was now seeping metal toward his lungs. He did everything to keep from letting panic get the best of him. The man raised his arm to ready for another blow, and Gordon tried slackening his body. Although it didn’t hurt as much this time, his stomach contracted and he began heaving once again. A foolish thought popped into his mind: Lucky he hadn’t had supper in the hash house, or he’d have been throwing up as well. Gordon could hear the man’s fingers cracking as he made a fist. He didn’t even see the fourth blow coming—which for once didn’t land in his gut but on his chin. Gordon felt his lips tear and heard his teeth grind as they slid over each other. The man behind him now let him go. Gordon collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut. His head knocked hard against the pavement. He felt blood start running from his forehead. And yet he hadn’t bitten his tongue. Perhaps something had stayed with him from all the boxing matches he’d seen: “Put your tongue to the roof of your mouth, don’t think a thing, and just leave it there.” On the ground, he wanted to spit but couldn’t. Saliva mixed with blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. The man in the hat now leaned over him.

“You should call it quits here and now,” he hissed. Gordon looked in his face. He saw little, but what he saw was quite enough. He caught a glimpse of his mouth, if it could be called a mouth at all. The lower lip curled downward, he had hardly any bottom teeth, and Gordon could make out only his canines up top. Above the mouth was a nose so terribly crooked that Gordon couldn’t even imagine how its owner could take in air. “You should call it quits here and now,” he resumed. “If you don’t, your pretty little girlfriend won’t look so pretty with a sliced-up face.” Gordon groaned. He shouldn’t have. Again he started heaving, and blood gushed from his mouth. The man with the crooked nose stood upright, dusted off his trousers, and stepped back. He kicked Gordon in the belly so hard that Gordon’s world turned black. He didn’t even feel the man level the one solid good-bye punch to his kidneys. But when he stepped onto the palm of Gordon’s right hand, as if stomping out a cigarette butt, Gordon came to. A car turned onto the street, and the two men vanished in an instant. It was all Gordon could do not to focus on the pain, but he was afraid of losing consciousness again if he didn’t. He lay there like the drunk vagabonds in front of the bars on Ülloi Street. The nausea was unrelenting. Finally, he tried sitting up by leaning on his right hand, but a sharp pain shot through him. He rolled onto his back and out onto the sidewalk, then slowly managed to sit up, this time using his left hand for support. He threw his back against the wall and felt his right hand. The slightest touch was enough to make the hand contract. The pain was great, but he tested his fingers one by one. With the exception of his index finger, which alone rested at an unnatural angle, every finger moved. Now came his wrist. He managed to move it left and right, though he heard occasional cracking. There was pain, of course. Slowly his breathing took on a more normal rhythm. He shut his eyes and took ever deeper breaths. At first, he’d wanted to vomit every time he inhaled, but some five minutes later the queasiness passed. He wasn’t in a hurry; he knew he could not count on help.

A couple was approaching on the sidewalk. The woman wore a cocktail dress and a mink coat, and the man had on a tuxedo, hat, and a camel-fur jacket. On noticing Gordon’s filthy, bloody figure, they hastily crossed the street. Gordon waited another couple of minutes. When he felt he had enough strength, he tried staggering to his feet. It didn’t work. His belly throbbed, as did his hand. Again throwing his back against the wall, he began pushing himself to his feet. His legs were nearly straight when all at once he felt the building’s foundation come to an end, and the ornamental brickwork begin. He took a deep breath, placed his hands just above his knees, and pressed himself until he stood erect. Dizziness set in. He leaned against the wall to keep from falling. The blood ran from his forehead into his eyes. He wiped it with his coat sleeve.

He checked to see how far he was from his building door. His flat was at the head of Lovag Street, just two buildings down, close to Nagymező Street. He had four doors to go. Pulling himself together, he pushed himself away from the wall and tried staying on his feet. This is when Gordon really felt the blow leveled against his kidneys. Had he been unable to grab hold of a brick jutting out from the building wall, he might well have fallen again. And he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand up one more time. Gordon leaned against the wall with his left hand. He would be strong enough.

Slowly, step by step, he moved forward. With his left hand he grasped another brick, then moved his left foot, then his right.
Left hand, left foot, right foot. Left hand, left foot, right foot.

On reaching the door, Gordon had to gather all his strength to be able to knock. Then he turned around, fell against the door, and slid slowly to the ground. The door opened and the super looked out. On glimpsing the slumped figure, he moved to close the door, but Gordon called to him: “It’s me, Iváncsik.”

The super leaned down and looked into Gordon’s face. He exclaimed in astonishment: “Don’t you move, Mr. Editor!” Gordon had no intention of moving. “I’ll help you right away.” With that, he carefully reached under Gordon’s arm, did his best to help Gordon to his feet, and led him to his little flat underneath the stairwell. The super’s wife stood in the kitchen as if looking at a ghost. “Don’t just stare like that. Irénke!” Iváncsik yelled at her. “Run, go get the doctor!”

“There’s no need,” Gordon moaned.

“Who are you kidding, Mr. Editor? The last time I saw this sort of thing was on the Italian front. We need a doctor right now.”

“Go up to my flat,” said Gordon softly. “Krisztina is waiting for me there.”

“Right away,” replied the super. “Irénke, don’t just stand there twiddling your thumbs, you heard the man. Get a move on.”

His wife hurried off as Iváncsik now slipped Gordon from his shoulder onto a stool. Not even a minute had passed before Krisztina appeared in the kitchen. But for her cheekbones, which were flushed, her face was a deathly white. She knelt down beside Gordon.