Budapest Noir (24 page)

“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.

A
t 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.

T
here 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 about 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.”

G
ordon 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.

I
t was already past quarter to five when he got off the tram at Italian Row. At the head of Pasaréti Street, Gordon lit a cigarette, turned up his collar, and continued forward through the drizzle. Parked in front of the building was Szőllősy’s car, a Maybach Zeppelin. Gordon flung away the cigarette butt and rang the bell.

In no time the maid, who had a shawl draped over her shoulders and who had clearly hurried downstairs, opened the door.

“Dear God,” she spurted out on seeing Gordon, “you’ve come back, sir.”

“Your master is already waiting,” Gordon announced. “The appointment is for five o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She swallowed mightily, opened the gate, and let him in.

Gordon followed her into the house. In the vestibule he handed the maid his jacket and his hat. “I’ll call his lordship right away,” she said, leading Gordon into the living room.

“Call his wife in, too,” said Gordon, turning around. The girl shut the door behind her. Darkness reigned inside the room; a floor lamp was the only source of light. The lace curtain hanging over the window filtered out even that little light that got through the drizzle-permeated dusk. Gordon stepped over to the drinks, chose a bottle of American whiskey, and poured himself a glass. He hadn’t had a respectable glass of whiskey in quite a while. He took a sip and let the alcohol linger in his mouth. He then sat down in an armchair, crossed his legs, and waited.

The door opened. In walked Mrs. Szőllősy. When she saw Gordon, her face froze and the wrinkles hardened around her lips. “You,” she hissed furiously through her teeth.

“Me,” said Gordon, putting down his glass.

“If you want to grill me again about my daughter, you’re wasting your time. I have nothing to say to you.”

“I don’t know why you would have thought I’m here on account of your daughter,” he said, looking her in the eye, “but you’ve hit the nail on the head. Except that I’m not here to grill you. I already know almost everything there is to know about your daughter. True, there are still a couple of minor details, but I can clear those up while I’m here.”

The woman’s face turned pale as she listened. Staggering momentarily, she leaned up against the doorjamb.

“What’s that supposed to mean, that you know everything?” she asked hoarsely.

“Almost everything. But there are a few little details I have to clear up with your husband. I figured it wouldn’t hurt if you’re here, too.”

The woman seemed not to have heard what Gordon said. Her mouth began forming silent words. Gordon waited quietly.

“What . . . what happened to Fanny?” she whispered. “Something happened to her, right? What?”

Gordon wanted to answer, but just then the door opened once again and in stepped András Szőllőshegyi Szőllősy. The man bore a striking resemblance to the great actor Artúr Somlay. He was tall, and his exquisitely tailored English suit clung almost imperceptibly to his eminent belly. He walked with great confidence. His inquisitor’s gaze locked on Gordon at once. His sharp-featured face was topped off by silver, slightly curly hair combed back; and if he hadn’t had a carefully trimmed mustache under his nose, Gordon might in fact have thought he was seeing Artúr Somlay. While taking stock of Gordon with cold, gray eyes, Szőllősy now shut the door behind him.

“And who are you?” he asked in a tone of profound contempt. “I’m expecting an important guest, and it’s not you.”

“Are you waiting for István Bárczy?” asked Gordon.

Szőllősy was taken aback. “That is none of your business.”

“You can wait all you want for Bárczy. He won’t be coming, so you’ll have to make do with me. The undersecretary has more important matters to tend to than to waste his time on your type.”

Rage filled the man’s face. His eyes narrowed, and he tightened his hands into fists. “I asked who the hell you are.”

“Zsigmond Gordon, journalist with the
Evening
.” Gordon did not extend his hand, for he was certain Szőllősy would not accept it.

“Get the hell out of here,” Szőllősy thundered. “I don’t talk with hack writers.”

“András, he said he wants to talk with us about our daughter,” said his wife in a trembling voice.

A shadow passed over Szőllősy’s expressionless face, but Gordon wouldn’t have sworn to it. Before the man had a chance to speak, however, Gordon reached into his pocket, pulled out the autopsy report, and threw the first-page summary on the table.

“What the hell is this?” asked Szőllősy, not even glancing at the sheet of paper. But his wife hurried to the table, picked up the page, and began reading. The paper trembled in her hands. Szőllősy did not move. He looked at his wife and then at Gordon, who already knew he was right. He just sat in the armchair, paging through his notes, and waited.

The woman’s bosom was heaving uncontrollably. The blood drained from her face as her legs buckled. Slowly she sat down on the divan. “Fanny,” she groaned. “Fanny, my sweet little Fanny. My dear little girl . . .”

“What are you talking about?” asked Szőllősy, knitting his brows.

“Fanny’s dead,” whispered the woman almost inaudibly. Her eyes were red, though the tears were yet to flow.

“A while back I did have a daughter . . .” Szőllősy began.

“
Did
have a daughter,” the woman hissed. “Well, now it really is just
did
!”

“What are you talking about, Irma?”

“Sit down! Sit down already, God damn you!” his wife shouted in a rage.

At this, Szőllősy went slowly over to the writing desk, pulled out the chair, and sank into it. His wife meanwhile composed herself, stood, and after staggering only a bit she stepped over to the desk as straight as a ramrod. She threw the first page of the autopsy report on the desk. Szőllősy did not reach for it. “At least read the part about how she died!” the woman hissed.

Having taken an eyeglass case from his jacket’s inner pocket, the man now pulled out a pair of wire-frame glasses, put them on, and began to read.

“This doesn’t say a thing,” he said, slapping the page back down onto the table once he’d looked it over. “Besides, this is just the first page. It doesn’t even have a name on it. Nothing. This is just some dead girl.” Pushing the page away from himself, he added, “This doesn’t prove a thing.”