Cafe Europa (24 page)

Winifred reached over to grasp my elbow. “Be careful, Edna dear.”

I ignored her, focused on a floundering Endre, then leaning against a chair. “Let me begin by saying that I am troubled by one omission in all the investigations into the two murders. Who delivered the note from Cassandra Blaine to Endre Molnár's door? A question that Harold Gibbon asked. Who slipped it under his door? Probably not Cassandra herself. Maybe Mrs. Pelham.”

The woman called out, “I never. This is a carnival show you put on here. How dare you?”

“Oh, I dare question everything, dear lady. But I doubt if you would violate orders from her parents.” I smiled at her Russian boss. “Such a good servant, this lady.”

The Russian man grumbled, looked unhappy.

I glanced back at Inspector Horváth. “And the authorities have found no one who admitted delivering that note, which makes me wonder. That note informed Endre Molnár of Cassandra Blaine's plan to be in the hotel garden that night. But obviously it also let the bearer—and possibly the killer—learn than she would be alone. So…my question again—who?”

I waited. The violinist, holding his instrument, inadvertently plucked a string, and someone yelped. Behind me a woman tittered, nervous. But then the room went still.

I took a few steps away from the table and faced the room.

“One of the big questions, to me at least, is whether the two murders were connected. It seemed preposterous at first, but perhaps not. After all, Harold Gibbon, an integral fixture of this café here, had become intrigued by the young girl's murder, spurred on by Hearst back in the States. So he decided to investigate, to write a series of explosive exposés. That was his big mistake. Who were these people? he wondered. Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Blaine. Rich and vain and stupid Americans in Budapest. Perhaps he uncovered something questionable about the American investments here. Or Mr. Blaine's shady dealings with the Military Chancery in Vienna.”

I glanced at Ivan Farkas, who smiled back at me. “Or the count and his controlling mother. The ridiculous arranged marriage. Connections with the royal family in Vienna. And another thing—in talking with me, Zsuzsa termed the killing of Harold Gibbon an assassination. A reasonable judgment, I thought, since Harold Gibbon was into politics. But then she also remarked that Cassandra was assassinated. Perhaps simply a slipshod use of language, but it got me wondering if the murder of Cassandra could have been political in nature. After all, the young woman hardly had a connection with the internecine and Byzantine politics of Austria-Hungary. But the marriage of an impoverished—but well-connected count—to the American heiress might have larger implications.”

I paused, reflected. Ivan Farkas was watching me closely. When I hesitated, he nodded his head, encouraging me.

“Yes, Harold Gibbon was a fly in the imperial ointment, buzzing around, trumpeting his views on the coming war and the end of empire. But he was not alone in such conversation—not the first by any means. An annoyance perhaps, and most likely monitored by agents of Franz Josef”—I surveyed the room—“doubtless here today, squirming and trying to memorize my treasonous words. But I believe the marriage of the count and Cassandra had to be stopped. It was too dangerous.”

Mrs. Pelham stood, glanced toward the entrance, but the Russian put out his hand, touching her elbow, and she settled back in the seat. Her steely eyes accused me. I read her lips. “Unseemly, this.”

Probably true, but I was now in it, and focused. Endre Molnár, lazy-eyed, was gripping the back rail of a chair tightly, alert, wary.

“If that's true, then Harold's murder was related to Cassandra's—the result of his investigating. I had to consider another factor. My friend Winifred Moss related that the night before Cassandra died, she was entering her rooms with Mrs. Pelham, and she was happy—loudly so, annoyingly so. She woke my friend up by her laughter.”

Mrs. Pelham bristled. “I…”

I held up my hand. “Let me finish. Please. Cassandra was happy. Or, at least, joking about something with Mrs. Pelham. In high spirits. Yet the next day in the café she was dour, worried, fretful. At Gerbeaud's that afternoon she sought me out and told me she didn't understand something—something that clearly frightened her. What had happened to change her so radically? From happy to frightened in one night. Something in her room perhaps? Hardly possible with Mrs. Pelham there”—the woman's face was purple now—“but perhaps something Cassandra wouldn't discuss with Mrs. Pelham, a woman she didn't like. Yet Mrs. Pelham had her own room, her door shut. Cassandra had left her rooms before—probably with Mrs. Pelham snoring just yards away.”

“I never!”

“My theory is this: Cassandra heard something she didn't quite grasp. Like so many of the guests here, we've battled with the dumbwaiter to the kitchen and that infernal painting of Franz Josef staring us in the face. When I called for tea, I sometimes heard talking below, garbled, muted, faraway. One time someone nearby sang a song. Scattered words in Hungarian, but other languages. German—the one I understood. An English word now and then. Perhaps Cassandra accidentally opened the panel to hear something said
about
her—some danger to her. Some loose tongue, unaware of how voices carried up the shaft. Some plot. Maybe bits and pieces of it. Something didn't come together for her. Just enough words to confuse her, frighten her, make her moody the next day. Make her seek me out. Me, a stranger, but someone she felt she could trust.”

From the corner of my eye I sensed Inspector Horváth shifting his body, arms folded across his chest. “Miss…” he began but stopped. Then in a quiet voice, “Go on.”

“Someone in the kitchen scared her. That's what I believe happened that night. So it came to me that someone else in that kitchen might have delivered the note to Endre Molnár's room, someone Cassandra trusted as a confidant.”

Vladimir Markov, standing against the kitchen door, listening, suddenly blurted out, “Impossible, good lady. Never. Such a…violation. I wouldn't allow it.”

“Violation, indeed,” I answered, “but that's the answer. Who? Of course, I thought of that young boy with the infatuation, your nephew, György, a careless lad, though pleasant, now back in his native Russian village. He'd do it for her.”

Markov was nodding vigorously. “A naive boy, that one. The pretty girl teased…she…”

“She also announced that she wanted him fired, remember that?”

Markov sputtered. “But a foolish boy. Perhaps he did such a stupid thing.”

“Actually, Vladimir Markov, I think Cassandra entrusted the deed to you. The one person she trusted. You probably delivered notes for her before. You, who flattered and tried to please us all.”

He stomped his foot. “She never asked me. I swear.” Wildly, his head flicked around.

“One other point I need to make now.” I glanced down at Bertalan Pór and Lajos Tihanyi. “My talented friends here, two wonderful artists, provided me with another idea. “Last night, poring over dozens of their sketches drawn in this café, a collection of moments and people that fascinated me as I looked for something. But what? All these faces stared back at me. Nothing came to me. But then, stepping back, I examined the drawings again. The kitchen staff is represented in so many, but how? A face peering from the small kitchen door window, over and over, eyes focused on Cassandra's table. A waiter in street clothing standing at the terrace entrance and looking into the room. Two waiters whispering in a corner. Background figures in the drawings, for the most part, but one figure in particular watching Cassandra at her table.”

Markov sputtered, “Ah, Marac the baker. I told you…”

“No, sir. György, that seemingly innocent boy. Oddly in two pictures Lajos Tihanyi caught a rather hateful, almost maniacal, look on his face. Almost caricature, I thought. But something there—something else going on. Those drawings made me reflect on little innocent György. I remember how after the murder he babbled about unlocked doors, the need to tell the police—all talk that shifted suspicion away from him.”

“A farm boy…” Markov threw his hands into the air.

“But another idea came from you, sir.” Now I looked directly at István Nagy, whose eyes grew wide with alarm.

“I beg your pardon. This is all nonsense.”

“You, sir, gave me a motive. In your rather sad harangue about America's place in the world and the disappearance of an old, cherished life, you condemned Mr. Blaine. And I remembered another comment from Zsuzsa that the count had a ton of questions about that rich American man—not the wife nor the daughter. The father. Yes, Mr. Blaine was here to establish a branch of his insurance company. But easily overlooked was that fact that he also was a gun manufacturer. Colt Firearms Industries. Important. Mr. Nagy, you said, ‘America is all
bang bang bang
.' Guns. Lots of them. And Mr. Blaine had them.”

I paused, then went on. “What I'm saying is that Harold was indeed right—there are anarchists running around the city with their plots and schemes and assassination plots. The Back Hand, that Serbian band of thugs hell-bent on battling Austria-Hungary because of Bosnia. War
is
coming—thank you, Harold Gibbon. And should the American heiress of a huge American firearms company marry, the empire would perhaps have an advantage—or so some evil mastermind might have believed. Some rabid anarchist. The Austrian army is outmoded, old-fashioned. A modern army needs weaponry, perhaps help from Colt Firearms in Connecticut. Perhaps Mr. Blaine's secret meetings with Vienna…So the marriage had to be stopped—for political reasons. Such a union could be deadly for Serbia. So it
was
an assassination.”

I stopped, looked around the room, waited.

Ivan Farkas stood now, and I waved my hand toward him. Take over.

He stepped close to me. “My real name is Ivan Farkas, not Jonathan Wolf, as many of you have come to know me.” István Nagy sputtered, his mouth agape. “Yes, it is true that I am in Budapest on business, but my purpose here was to investigate—to monitor—possible discrepancies in some business dealings. Some embezzlement. And yes, I became aware that Mr. Blaine was up to no good—something also going on with Vienna. My investigations led me to observe…well, some suspicious behavior. What I mean is this—largely because of my time in the Café Europa but also because of Harold Gibbon, I started to examine the world through his political eyes. He made me look at the bigger picture here. Mr. Gibbon had a way of focusing all experience through that prism, and while many turned away from him, nevertheless, he had a point—and a valid one. Yes, the demonic Serbian Black Hand is infiltrating every corner of the empire. Radicals, young men, some barely sixteen, firebrands, dangerous. Here, too, in Budapest. So the highly-publicized story of the convenient marriage of Viennese military and American Colt Firearms must have garnered attention—and made some souls nervous.”

He smiled at Zsuzsa who was slumped in her chair, her eyes half closed. “Miss Ferber understood that something vital had been told to Harold Gibbon—by Zsuzsa Kós. So she encouraged me to talk with our Zsuzsa. Harold's last word—the name ‘Zsuzsa'—was the key.

Last night I had a long talk with our beloved Zsuzsa, who'd had long conversations with Harold Gibbon. She told him something, but what? Whatever it was began the chain of events that led to his murder. Last night Zsuzsa, recollecting, mentioned that she'd been on the underground train and thought she'd spotted young György walking off at a stop. A casual observation, not one she considered important. It confused her because she thought he'd returned with his aunt to Russia. Something we'd all been led to believe. That tidbit, a throwaway remark shared with Harold, drove Harold back into the kitchen at this café, accelerated his questioning, and suddenly it all made sense to him. But it also made someone realize the dangerous game was over. Harold had to die.”

At her table Zsuzsa cried out, but János Szabó touched her hand protectively. Ivan Farkas pointed a finger at Vladimir Markov. “You, sir, played a role in the deaths of Cassandra and Harold. Just today the authorities have learned that your absent wife doesn't come from a Russian village but from a small Serbian village in Montenegro. So your nephew György is…”

At that moment, Vladimir Markov, sputtering in anger, darted away from the wall where he stood and rushed into the center of the room, paused, uncertain, and yelled out something inarticulate. In Serbian? In Russian? I had no idea what it was. With those words hanging in the air, a hysterical look on his face, he pushed over a table, smashed glassware, and toppled chairs. Barreling his way, he shoved a man who attempted to confront him. He yelled in English, “I am an innocent man. Such madness there is in this hotel.”

As he hurled himself through the scattered tables, heading to the doorway, a calm and deliberate István Nagy extended his right foot, catching Markov off guard, and the man crumbled to the floor. Nagy's body trembled, but the look on his face was triumphant, proud. Immediately Inspector Horváth and Ivan Farkas were on top of Markov. Screaming and defiant, he was hauled into the lobby.

Stillness in the vast room, save for some incoherent mumbling from Lajos Tihanyi. When I saw his face, he was smiling broadly at me. Still grinning, he saluted me. When I looked at Bertalan Pór, he was also smiling. Pór tapped his friend on the shoulder but addressed me. “Lajos was right. He
did
see what you heard.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, and a little embarrassing to me, the two men started to clap. Others nearby, watching, joined in. Even István Nagy, standing now and grinning exuberantly, bowed to me.

Winifred winked, whispering, “Really, Edna.” And the two of us started laughing.

A chandelier overhead sputtered, and the lights dimmed. A hissing sound, spitfire, and a whiff of something burning filled the room. But then the lights came back on.