Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

For his part, Gordon had no problem with it, even if he did regard the quill as a backward and antiquated tool. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and placed it on the corner of the desk, bending to jot down a couple of questions, but paused. He figured he’d might as well sit down at the desk to write, as he’d done more than once while waiting for Gellért. He stepped around the desk and tried to pull out Gellért’s chair, but it wouldn’t budge. Gordon looked to the right and saw that the chair was stuck against an open drawer. This was a first. Over the past five years, Gordon had cultivated a truly exceptional relationship with Gellért, but not once had the immaculate detective left his desk drawer open. Indeed, he always took care to lock it shut, hiding the key in his vest pocket. Having freed the chair, Gordon took a seat and examined the open drawer. A file folder lay at the bottom—a standard official file folder, with an empty space where the title would have been written on the front. The corner of a photograph stuck out from the bottom.

Gordon sat there for a while in silence, motionless. He stared at the folder and at the corner of that photograph. He lit another cigarette. He threw the match into the marble ashtray, exhaled, and locked his eyes again on the photo. He balanced his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and reached for the drawer, pulling it open a bit more, just enough to lift the cover of the file.

He took up the cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he lifted the file from the drawer and placed it open on the desk. It contained nothing but two photographs. The first depicted a young woman standing beside a covered table, a thick drapery curtain in the background. Her expression was at once forlorn and flirtatious. You like me, right? the girl’s look suggested. I know you like me; everyone likes me.

Except for her smile and a pair of slender shoes, the girl was naked. She stood there lasciviously, her bright eyes awash with salaciousness and sadness. Long thighs; unusually full, round breasts; and dark, slightly curly hair that flowed over her shoulders. Gordon scrutinized her eyes. He realized it wasn’t dalliance but defiance that he saw in them. Her body was faultless, lithesome, young. Or maybe not so faultless, after all. He held the photograph under the lamp and looked more closely at her left arm. An inch or so under her elbow was a brownish birthmark about the size of a two-pengő coin, hardly any bigger.

Gordon put the picture aside and picked up the other one. It, too, had been taken in a studio, but under entirely different circumstances. It was the same girl staring into the lens, her hair pinned up, her expression stern. Not even a trace of the defiance or, perhaps, the sadness could be seen. Regular features, vigorous eyebrows, bright eyes.

Gordon placed the two photographs back in the folder, then returned it to the drawer. He stood, adjusted the chair, and stepped to the window. He looked out at the city and then at his watch.

He was about to leave when the door opened. Gellért stepped in vigorously, but with an expression even glummer than usual. His blazer was wrinkled, and his glasses just barely concealed the rings under his eyes. Every motion of his lanky frame now bespoke exhaustion. Gordon turned to greet him, but the detective raised his hand.

“Don’t say a thing,” said Gellért, faltering out his excuse, “I know we agreed to meet this evening, but the chief of police called us to a meeting.”

“The train carrying the prime minister’s body is arriving tomorrow morning in the East Station,” said Gordon.

“I can’t say we expected him to die, especially since Darányi took over day-to-day affairs. I would have bet he’d resign. But when it comes down to it, it doesn’t really matter.”

“It doesn’t,” Gordon concurred.

“Sure, we had a plan in place for the prime minister’s burial,” explained Gellért, “but even so, we’ve got a million things to do. The chief has called all detectives, police officers, and gendarmes to duty so as to adequately secure the funeral procession from the East Station to the Parliament building.”

“Will the interior minister lift the ban on public gatherings?” asked Gordon.

“Why would he do that?”

“Aren’t the funeral procession and the burial public gatherings?”

“You’re not serious, are you?” asked Gellért, peering out from above his glasses.

“No,” replied Gordon. “Then I won’t bother you anymore. Did you hear that Turcsányi-Schreiber testified for Róna?”

“Sure I heard. Dániel is an intelligent and logical fellow. If you don’t mind . . .”

“Naturally,” said Gordon, stepping away from the window. “No point looking you up until the funeral, I suppose.”

“No,” said Gellért, sitting down in his chair and pushing the drawer back in its place.

“I’ll give you a call. Good night.”

“Under order of Valiant Knight Miklós Kozma, the interior minister, and his secret order of the Council of Ministers, not a single officer of the law will sleep tonight,” replied Gellért. He pulled his typewriter over on top of his calendar and rolled a sheet of paper into it. Blinking behind his lenses, he began to type. Gordon couldn’t decide whether he’d heard a bit of sarcasm in the detective’s voice.

There were noticeably fewer people about on Rákóczi Street. Some bars and nightclubs had already closed, and the coffeehouses, too, were slowly emptying out. But Gordon saw an unusually large number of policemen and gendarmes, standing rigidly along the street in preparation for the long night to come. Passing by the Balaton Coffeehouse, he glimpsed a sign hung on the door: WE WILL BE CLOSED ON OCTOBER 10 DUE TO THE PRIME MINISTER’S DEATH. Though he wasn’t particularly interested in coffee, he realized the notice hung on the door of every shop, restaurant, office, and coffeehouse.

The city had fallen almost completely silent by the time Gordon reached the editorial offices of the Evening . The night-duty concierge gave him a cheerful wave from behind the window of his booth. If it wasn’t the demijohn of wine in his little cabinet that explained his good mood, then perhaps it was the prime minister’s death. “Good evening, Mr. Editor!” he exclaimed with a tip of his hat. Leaning out his tiny window, he watched as Gordon vanished at the top of the stairs.

The newsroom was empty but for the on-duty typist. Ever since Gordon had started working for the Evening , this role was filled by Valéria. Even now she sat there at her desk, a sheet of paper rolled into her machine, the lamplight shining on her snow-white hair, dark glasses—her most prized possession—covering her eyes. She proudly showed this rare treasure to everyone in the office: mountain climbers’ glasses equipped with leather side-shields brought home from Bern, Switzerland, by one of her girlfriends. By lamplight she could read only while wearing them, and—she insisted—she hadn’t seen the sun in ten years. “The fate of albinos,” she had once explained to Gordon. “But I don’t mind. Here, everything is calm and quiet, and in the wee hours I can always get in a few hours of reading.” Tonight she raised the volume in her hand: the latest in a series of mystery novels published by Athenaeum Press.

“What’s wrong, Zsigmond?” Valéria asked, having lowered her book. “Can’t you sleep? Has Krisztina sent you packing?”

“I won’t have time tomorrow morning to write the article about that barber from out in Szentlőrinckáta.”

“The dismemberment?”

“Yes.” With that, Gordon went to his desk while Valéria raised the thin little book before her black glasses and went on reading. Turning on the lamp, he pulled his notebook from his pocket. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter and began to type: