Budapest Noir (3 page)

Gordon shook his head. It wasn’t possible that everyone was mourning Gömbös. Nor were they worried about the government—Hungarians didn’t worry over the government even when they should. Kálmán Darányi had been overseeing day-to-day affairs for a good month already, and Gömbös was missed by few. There certainly was no crisis. Of course, the government ministers all submitted their resignations, and the nation’s regent, Miklós Horthy, accepted them. But it would be days yet before Horthy would formally assign Darányi the task of forming a new government. At such times Gordon didn’t mind being a crime reporter. He had little affinity for politics, and when he thought about the impassioned and hot-blooded politicians clashing over which political faction Darányi would invite into his government alongside his National Unity Party, Gordon found the whole affair simply ludicrous. He had no patience for it, and he also knew this: he wasn’t alone in his silent apathy. The question wasn’t really who Darányi would share power with, but in what direction he would go. And unfortunately he knew full well—he could see—which way the new head of government was moving. It wasn’t by chance that Gömbös had been receiving medical treatment near Munich of all places.

At the same time, Gordon was also certain that a huge crowd had gathered along the route of the funeral procession and in front of the Parliament building. Even in this country, it wasn’t an everyday occurrence for a prime minister to be brought home dead from abroad.

Gordon grabbed a newspaper,
8 O’Clock News
. He flipped through, then picked up the next. He got through the
Budapest News
every bit as fast. In the city’s German-language daily,
Pester Loyd
, he read the accounts of the German stock exchange, the most vivid reading possible of that country’s situation. Gordon noticed his coffee sitting in front of him on the table and, beside it, a brioche. He leaned back in his chair and savored the unusually silent spectacle of the Oktogon along with his breakfast; he wouldn’t have another minute’s rest until evening, that much was certain.

Gordon grabbed his hat and caught the next tram, watching the eerily deserted boulevard in the half light of dawn until he reached Berlin Square. Just as all the police officers and gendarmes had been ordered to the streets on account of the procession, so, too, were journalists assigned to cover only the funeral that day. Sports reporters, Gordon’s colleagues on the police blotter, stock exchange correspondents, editors, and apprentices—all were focused on Gömbös. Gordon couldn’t complain about his assignment; he was to go into the Parliament building to speak directly to the funeral’s organizers, those doing the real work, versus those merely giving their names to the event. On Berlin Square he fought his way toward Kaiser Wilhelm Road through the crowd of people making their way to the West Railway Station carrying suitcases, bags, and baskets. No matter the occasion, there was always a huge hubbub at the station.

On Kaiser Wilhelm Road, however, it was utterly quiet and calm. Although the procession carrying Gömbös’s body had long since arrived at the Parliament building, the police officers and the stone-faced gendarmes still lined the road, standing there so erect it seemed they might snap.

Gordon picked up his pace a bit. He’d already had enough, and he wanted to get to Krisztina on time today. He still had half an hour. Anything that couldn’t be found out in that much time wasn’t even worth it, he figured.

In front of the Parliament building stood an honor guard and even more policemen, as if concerned that someone might want to cart Gömbös’s body off to a taxidermist. A small group of detectives stood by the main entrance. Gordon didn’t even have to take out his ID; one of the detectives recognized him at once and waved a hand to the policemen by the door to let him in. Gordon gave an appreciative nod and stepped inside. The bier was already there in the rotunda under the building’s imposing dome, filling the cavernous space with all due somberness but a bit too much grandeur. Gordon was just about to look for the person in charge of the funeral when he noticed three men behind one of the columns. He took a step back and to the side, to get a better look without being seen. There was nothing unusual about two of the three men; they, of all people, certainly belonged here. Miklós Kozma, the interior minister—a tad plump, with a full mustache and slicked-back hair, wearing a dark, simple suit—stood opposite Tibor Ferenczy. Budapest’s chief of police had to lean down a bit to catch the interior minister’s glib yet soft voice. The chief also wore a dark suit and his graying hair was likewise combed back; his eyes were piercing. Although the third man stood with his back toward him, Gordon had no problem recognizing the lanky, slightly stooped figure with his hands, as always, clenched behind his back. Gellért had been up and about all night, and so his jacket was just as wrinkled as before.

Gordon drew back farther into the shadows.
What was Gellért doing here?
Of course, he had to know the details of the funeral procession, but why was he beside the bier of all places? What was one of the heads of the homicide unit talking about so intensely with the interior minister and the chief of police? Gömbös’s funeral was not an occasion for investigating a murder. Gordon glanced about for József Schweinitzer. In the best-case scenario the state had to be on the lookout for a modest public disturbance—at worst, an assassination. And this was the job of the state security police, under Schweinitzer’s command. But Schweinitzer was nowhere to be seen, and the body language of these three men told Gordon no one else around would be privy to their discussion.

Having finished speaking, Kozma looked at Ferenczy, who said something to Gellért, whereupon the two senior officials went off toward the building’s north wing. Gellért turned, and Gordon stepped out of the shadows.

For a moment the detective’s expression was one of surprise, but for a moment only. He waved Gordon over.

“I see you really didn’t sleep last night,” Gordon began.

“You see well.”

“In the thick of things? The interior minister and the chief of police are giving you orders in person?”

Gellért didn’t reply, but it seemed he hadn’t even heard the question. Fumbling about in his pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes but realized at once where he was, slipping it back into his pocket with evident annoyance. He looked at Gordon. “What is it you asked?”

“Where is Schweinitzer?”

“How should I know?”

“I thought this was a matter of public order,” noted Gordon.

“Yes, but this is an exceptional situation, and—” He cut his sentence short. “Why am I explaining this to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Gordon with a shrug.

“Then give me a ring next week. I’ve got to be off now.”

“Just one question.”

“Next week you can ask me a million questions about Róna.”

“But it’s not Róna I’m interested in right now.”

“So what is it?”

“Last night a dead girl was found on Nagy Diófa Street,” said Gordon, scrutinizing Gellért’s expression for any reaction. But no.

“Great. It’s been a while since we found a dead hooker there.”

“How do you know she was a hooker?”

“On Nagy Diófa Street? Not far from Klauzál Square? If it had been an upper-class girl, rest assured I’d know about it. But since I don’t know, she could only have been a hooker. Why are you asking me?”

“The case belongs to Unit V. And you’re a section head there, if memory serves me right.”

“First of all, the case is not my section’s. If it were, I’d know about it. Second, even if it were mine, I wouldn’t be dealing with it now. In case you didn’t notice, we’re burying the prime minister on Saturday. Unless the Communists blow up the Chain Bridge, I won’t be doing anything else until Saturday night.”

“The Communists want to blow up the Chain Bridge?”

“I don’t have time for this,” said Gellért with a dismissive wave of the hand. He turned around and headed toward the door leading to the Hunter’s Room. Gordon thought about asking Gellért why the dead girl’s photograph was in his desk drawer, but didn’t. Gellért went through the door, and complete silence descended on the hall. Gordon took his notebook and went off in search of one of the men in charge of the funeral.

F
rom the Parliament building Gordon headed straight toward Krisztina’s. He checked his watch when he reached the Oktogon. He had time to spare and didn’t have to take the underground. Gordon liked to walk along Andrássy Street after dark, and without a soul in sight, this night was no exception. Turning up his collar, he walked along the deserted road under the trees, which by now were shedding their leaves. He turned right onto Szív Street, his steps echoing against the sidewalk, between the gray buildings. Under one doorway a couple was locked in a passionate embrace, but they broke apart on Gordon’s approach. On the corner, a building’s super was shoveling coal. Gordon nodded at the man, who wiped his blackened forehead.

Lövölde Square looked positively destitute, as if the life had been sucked right out of its buildings. Here and there a light glimmered in a window, but the air didn’t move between the trees. At the market, the counters were empty and the trash had been cleared away; stray dogs and cats had eaten every single scrap the stall keepers had left behind.

Krisztina lived in the building on the opposite side of the square, on the fourth floor. The massive wooden door was open. Gordon walked up to the fourth floor, turned right at the landing, and headed toward the flat farthest back. Here, above the building’s inner courtyard, it was quiet. Instead of the usual, cheerful cries of children from down below, two sparrows were wearily chirping to each other in the dried-out sumac trees.

Krisztina was already dressed for the evening when she opened the door. She always managed to look elegant without outdressing Gordon, for whom fashion meant only that in the summer he wore a gray suit thinner than his winter one. Krisztina was wearing a wine-red suit, her ankles flashing from beneath her skirt. Under her blazer, the top of her white blouse was unbuttoned. She never wore makeup, nor did she now. Her glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, but she would never wear them in public. She said they made her look old, which Gordon invariably dismissed. “Kid,” said Gordon not long after they first met, “I’ve seen a few thirty-something women in my time, and believe you me, you can take at least five years off when telling anyone your age.” “I don’t care how many women you’ve seen,” Krisztina had retorted, “and spare me the details. You yourself said that from now on there’s just one lady in your life.” Gordon would gladly have eaten his words, but he knew that doing so would have been in vain.

Krisztina put a dainty little hat atop her medium-length, curly brown hair, and Gordon couldn’t have been grateful enough—he couldn’t stand the wide-brimmed, gaudy hats so many women were wearing.

“Well?” asked Krisztina when they got into the living room.

“Well, what?” came Gordon’s reply.

“You’ve forgotten, right?”

“No doubt. Just what have I forgotten now?”

“You’re the one who wanted to go to the Zanzibar tonight. To listen to that cabaret singer from London.”

“New York,” Gordon corrected her, and with that, he flung his coat onto the bentwood chair beside the bed. As much as he liked being at Krisztina’s place, he did miss normal armchairs. She’d arranged her little flat in keeping with the latest trends. A simple bed in the corner, a two-level coffee table in front of the bed, with a white ashtray on top. At the opposite end of the room stood a dresser with three drawers, topped off with a porcelain figurine, and, above that, a long mirror in an unadorned frame. One of the flat’s two plants rested on a little shelf: a potted flower whose name Gordon couldn’t manage to remember. On the wall, one abstract painting and nothing else. Krisztina had fallen in love with the latest designs in Berlin, and she took care that nothing should disrupt the delicate unity of the room. On more than one occasion Gordon had sworn up and down about the lack of an armchair, but Krisztina wasn’t particularly concerned with his grumbling. “In your own flat, you can sit about in those old-fashioned armchairs as much as you want,” she said, at which Gordon shrugged.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Krisztina now waited for Gordon to finish up in the bathroom. He quickly washed his face, slicked back his hair with his wet hands, and adjusted his necktie before joining Krisztina, who, having removed her glasses, asked: “All right, then, not London but New York. So who are we listening to tonight?”

“Lucy and Nora Morlen,” replied Gordon. “The Morlen sisters.”

“And they’re still performing tonight?”

“You think the Zanzibar is about to cancel their performance after bringing them over here, just because a prime minister has died?”

On reaching the corner of Szív Street, Krisztina turned right toward the underground, but Gordon nudged her gently toward the Oktogon. “Kid, just take a look at Andrássy Street. When have you seen it so quiet? Besides, we’ve only got to go as far as Teréz Boulevard. Surely you’ll make it there in those high-heeled shoes.”

“And will you finally tell me what kept you out so late last night?”

Gordon nodded. “Something happened on Nagy Diófa Street.”

“Something always happens there.”

“But not like this,” said Gordon, buttoning his coat and taking Krisztina’s arm. He described the past twenty-four hours. Krisztina listened in silence and spoke only when they turned onto Teréz Boulevard.

“And what do you want to do?”

“Do? What do I want to do?”

“Yes. What do you want to do? That’s what I asked.”

“Why do I need to do anything at all?”

“Because it’s suspicious, Zsigmond. Don’t you think so?”

“I’m not saying a few details don’t add up.”

“Add up?” Krisztina stopped in her tracks. “A few details?”

“Krisztina, don’t go making a fuss. A girl died on Nagy Diófa Street. That’s it. It’s not exactly a safe neighborhood.”

“Let me put it another way. Even if that picture hadn’t been in Gellért’s desk drawer, doesn’t it seem suspicious to you that a Jewish girl should be found dead not far from Klauzál Square? In a seedy neighborhood like that?”