Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

“Don’t ask me. But I suspect he didn’t travel home for Gömbös’s funeral.”

“Then you’ll wait till Monday.”

“I’ll wait.”

“You don’t want to catch him,” said Gordon, rising from the desk, “you just want a gold star from Schweinitzer.” Kosik put the book and the photograph in his desk drawer. He then locked the drawer and put the key in his vest pocket.

Kosik looked at Gordon. “You have a problem with that?”

“Me? None whatsoever. You can do whatever you want with that picture.”

Gordon left the newsroom for the Tick Bite. Samu was not there. Gordon asked the bartender about the signalman, but he only shook his head. “He left last night, and I haven’t seen him since, though he always starts his day in here.”

Gordon stepped out of the Tick Bite and lit a cigarette before heading toward the Grand Boulevard. All at once a scruffy, beer-scented man stepped out from a doorway. “Your name Gordon?”

“Who wants to know?” Gordon took a step back.

“Scratchy Samu.”

“I’m Gordon.”

“Samu says he’s waiting for you on the Buda side of the river, on Ponty Street. Hurry up—he said that, too. That you should hurry up.”

Gordon telephoned the taxi company from the New York Café and asked for Czövek. The young lady at the other end of the line was as polite as could be. “He’ll be there in ten minutes, sir.”

Gordon went outside to wait for Czövek. Not even five minutes had passed when the worn Opel Regent appeared in the sparse traffic.

“Where to now?” asked the cabbie with a grin.

“Ponty Street,” said Gordon.

“Shall we hurry?”

“Let’s hurry.”

At the Oktogon, Czövek turned left onto Andrássy Street, not sparing his car. The traffic here was no worse. He drove quickly by the Opera House, which was still draped in black, and then from Count István Tisza Street he turned onto the Chain Bridge. Gordon looked at the Danube. Tugboats and barges were advancing with difficulty in the low river. Fog was slowly descending upon Castle Hill. At the far end of the bridge, Czövek turned from Adam Clark Square onto Fő Street, a block in from and parallel to the river, and soon took a left onto Ponty Street.

“Where, exactly?” asked the driver, looking back.

“I don’t know,” said Gordon, shaking his head, “but wait a bit.” With that, he got out and stared at the steep series of steps that led up the side of Castle Hill to Hunyadi Street. He’d just turned around to get back in the cab when a dubious figure in a sport coat stepped up to the street from a cellar entrance.

“Your name Gordon?” Having received an affirmative reply, the man chucked away his cigarette butt and continued: “Samu is waiting for you at the start of Várfok Street.”

Gordon had no idea what to make of it all. He got back in the taxi and told Czövek where to go. Not even now did the cabbie dillydally as he raced to the far side of Castle Hill. At the start of Várfok Street they stopped, and Gordon had barely gotten out when yet another shady character stepped up to him. “Anna Street,” he said. On they went toward the top of Castle Hill.

The Mass had already begun at Matthias Church, and only a few odd tourists were left dawdling about on Holy Trinity Square. Gordon leaned forward toward Czövek. “Slow down here so I can peek down Anna Street.” Gordon knew that Anna Street was short, comprising but a few buildings. There, not even a veteran lookout like Scratchy Samu could hide. As they rolled by, Gordon saw that he was right. Having asked for the cab to stop, he added, “Czövek, you just go on back to Holy Trinity Square and wait for me there.” The cabbie nodded and the taxi turned around, vanishing into the thickening fog.

Gordon hurried onto Anna Street. He didn’t want to be conspicuous, nor did he have to be: Samu would not have had anyplace to lie low, had he wanted to. At the start of Úri Street he stopped and looked around. There was no one to be seen. He then heard a soft whistle, and Samu stepped from a doorway on the far side of the street. His eyes were red, his stubble grayish, his face sunken, and his voice even raspier than usual as he said, “One Anna Street. First flat on the left.” He continued, “He was on the move all night. Lucky I took a couple of lookouts with me to Mátyás Square, or else he would have gotten away.”

Gordon nodded. “You sure made me run around. So you’re saying he first went to Ponty Street, from there to Várfok Street, and finally over here. You sure he’s in?”

Samu gave a weary nod. Gordon reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and extended a ten-pengő coin to Samu, who only shook his head. “I don’t work for you. I work for Csuli.” With that, he pulled his cap down over his eyes and, coughing, dissolved into the fog.

Gordon stopped in front of 1 Anna Street. He looked around, then opened the front door. The tiny inner courtyard was gray, neglected, run-down. To the right, a set of stairs went up, and to the left, there was a door. By the wall, a dried-up plant in a flowerpot, a threadbare doormat, and hastily swept leaves. He stepped into the courtyard. The shutters were drawn on the windows of the flat the door evidently led to. Gordon began pounding on the door. One of the shutters moved almost imperceptibly. Gordon pounded even harder. The door finally opened a crack, and Skublics’s eyes appeared.

“What in the fucking hell do you want?” he hissed. Gordon didn’t reply; instead, he shoved the door in, together with the old man, and shut it behind him. Skublics came at Gordon from the fireplace, hands high above his head. Gordon waited for Skublics to strike before grabbing the old man’s wrist and twisting the poker from his grip, forcing him into a grimy armchair. Silently Gordon reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph, which he threw in the old man’s lap. Skublics didn’t move. At this, Gordon took a candlestick from the fireplace mantel. Lighting the candle with his cigarette, he held it in Skublics’s face. The old man stared right back at Gordon, who now said, softly, “I won’t ask you again who it is in that picture.”

“What picture?” asked Skublics, his eyes wide. “This one?”

“No. The one I spoke with you about in your studio. If you can call it a studio.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

Gordon made a fist and then slowly opened his hand. “Go ahead,” he said, stepping away and placing the candle on the table. “Call the cops. At least then they won’t have to go looking for you.”

“You . . .” snapped Skublics. Animal loathing flashed in his button eyes.

“Let’s have it. Who’s in the picture?”

“Why should I tell you? They’ll nab me, anyway. You’ve already given them this picture here, and the state security police have men everywhere. I bet you’re one of them.”

“Skublics, if I were from the security police, I’d have broken down your door with gendarmes and summoned every paper to the scene. And don’t be so sure about them. They’ll get the picture on Monday. So you’ve got time to disappear.”

“Why should I trust you?” asked the old man in a shrill voice.

“Trust me?” Gordon shot him a stare in reply. “You don’t need to trust me. You do understand, don’t you, that several pictures were taken?”

Skublics nodded. With his withered hands, he stroked his beard, and hope now flickered in his eyes.

“A couple pictures show only you. A couple show you in the company of the Communist Ernő Gerő. And there are other shots of Gerő by himself. So then, it’s one of those I gave my man. Either you believe me or you don’t.”