Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

He rang the doorbell. The super appeared a couple of moments later. Without a word, Gordon pressed a pengő into his hand, whereupon the man sized him up. He didn’t even ask who he’d come to see. “Fourth floor on the left,” he told Gordon, then shuffled back into his little flat beside the stairs. The inner courtyard was clean and ordered, with a few leafless bushes, a robust linden tree, and meticulously manicured flower beds.

Gordon got into the elevator and went up to the fourth floor. On getting out he turned left and stopped in front of the first door. No light filtered through the apartment window overlooking the courtyard. He knocked. A few moments later, the door opened.

The woman was a couple of inches shorter than he was, about five-eight. She had broad shoulders, a full bosom, round hips, and long, sinewy legs. She must have been about twenty-five, but the signs of age were already evident on her face. Tiny wrinkles occupied the corners of her fleshy, sensual mouth. Even finer wrinkles were starting to weave a web around her big, blue, bloodshot eyes with their long eyelashes. Her thick strands of brown hair could have used a bit of combing, and not even her part was straight. The lipstick was wider on one side of her upper lip than on the other side. She wore a wine-red silk nightgown that was wide open on one side and looked awful on her. She had a little run in her stocking just above her left foot. They shook hands, and Gordon felt that hers was soft, warm, and strong. This, then, was Red Margo, who, according to Gordon’s source, had corraled the cream of the nation’s crop of politicians into her bedroom and went to all lengths to satisfy their desires.

“What do you want, pretty boy?” she asked, leaning up against the wall.

“I’m looking for you on account of the Jewish girl.”

“That’s not how things work,” said Margo, looking Gordon in the eye.

“Well, then.”

“If you’ve managed to find me, you should also know how things work. Besides, I don’t know what you’re talking about or who you’re looking for. There’s not a single Jewish gal around here.” She paused and asked, invitingly, “Or do you suppose that would be me?”

Gordon shook his head slightly. “Izsó Skublics said I should look for you.”

“Are you Skublics’s friend?”

“Do you think I am?”

“You can never know with him.”

“Will you let me in?”

“Please,” said Margo, opening the door wide. Gordon shut it behind him and followed the woman into the living room, which at one time must have been elegantly furnished but, by now, was rife with furniture by and large worn and faded. Disarray reigned supreme.

“So you’re here asking about Judit Jeges,” she said while removing a pair of lizard-leather shoes and a cup and saucer from an armchair so Gordon could sit down. Her voice was soft and lazy.

“Yes. But I’m mainly interested in knowing who killed her and why.”

Red Margo knit her brows.

“You’re saying someone killed her?”

“It looks that way.”

“And you, I bet you think . . .”

Gordon interrupted: “I’m the detective here, and I don’t like it when someone else takes over my role and starts asking questions.”

Margo sized him up from head to toe. “You? A detective?”

“Let’s just say I’m investigating,” replied Gordon, pulling a silk stocking out from under him. He didn’t know exactly why he’d said he was a detective. Maybe it would simplify matters, he’d thought, but he already saw he’d made a mistake. Margo sank into the other armchair and watched Gordon in silence.

“I’m investigating,” Gordon repeated. “Not that I’m a detective. I’m a crime reporter for the Evening. ”

“So you’re working on an article?” asked Margo.

“You might say so.”

Red Margo rose and crossed over to a little table in front of the window, full of glasses and bottles. She poured herself a glass of gin, threw in a wilted slice of lemon, and downed the drink in one gulp. Then she filled another cup and set it down in front of Gordon on the coffee table. Gordon looked at the glass, and Margo, still standing, looked down at Gordon, who was trying to select the most appropriate approach. Margo obviously knew the girl, whose name—or, obviously, alias—was Judit Jeges. Gordon took out a cigarette and lit it. Margo stood by the window and stared listlessly down at the street, allowing Gordon to look her over. Evidently she’d gotten on her nightgown in haste, which was why it had opened on the side, exposing her long, sinewy thigh. Although the wine-red didn’t look good on her at all, the nightgown accentuated the fullness of her breasts and her slender waist. Gordon saw her face from the side: her nose had a lovely arch, and her full lips curled downward. There was something feline about her glance—a glance that simultaneously suggested boredom and provocation. Provocation. Gordon sighed. Margo now turned toward him and raised her eyes to his. Gordon stared right back. Gordon knew full well that he had to choose his next step carefully. Something was not right with this woman. The last time he’d seen a woman drinking gin was in America, and not even there had it been a common sight. Not that it mattered, really. What did matter was that Margo, so it seemed, knew everything about Judit. Gordon finally cast aside his every possible tactic, leaned forward in the armchair, and prepared to tell Red Margo everything he’d found out about the girl. Margo kept staring at the street throughout, turning toward Gordon not even once.

“On Tuesday night, a dead Jewish girl was found on Nagy Diófa Street. Her name, as you said it, was Judit Jeges. The police, at least for the time being, are not looking into her death. According to the coroner, someone punched her so hard in the pit of her stomach that it killed her. Izsó Skublics claims someone bought the girl off Csuli, and that he, Skublics, took a couple of pictures of her. You brought her over there.” After a momentary pause, Gordon concluded by asking, “What was her real name?”

At this, Margo turned, scowled, and put her glass on the table—or so she thought. She was off by almost a foot.

“I don’t think I can help you,” said the woman in a calm voice while looking at the spilled drink on the carpet.

“I’m not even sure,” said Gordon, switching tactics, “that I need your information, after all. I think I can make do without it.”

“If you can make do, that’s fine. Just don’t forget that I’m the only one who actually could help you.”

“Is it money you want?” asked Gordon.

“That’s right,” replied Red Margo. “But not from you.” With that, she spit the remains of the lemon rind to the floor, ran her fingers through her hair, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before breaking into a smile.

“All right, then, Mr. Journalist. I’m willing to work with you. Trust me, it won’t cost you a thing. No, I’ll get what’s due me, anyway, before we reach the end of this game. Do you believe me?” she asked provocatively, looking at Gordon as if he were a block away.

This was not the moment to argue about money. “And I do hope you get what’s due you,” Gordon quietly replied.

“Believe you me, I will. Now listen here. You are not drunk, but I am. And I’m so drunk that I’ll tell you everything you want to know. That’s the sort of girl I am. When I meet someone I like, I tell him everything. You only have to ask. So go for it, ask!”

Though Gordon didn’t understand what caused Margo to reconsider, he began asking questions. And the woman answered. Meanwhile, she sat down in the armchair opposite Gordon and crossed her legs, which made her nightgown open even more, allowing Gordon a view of her round belly, the beginning of the curve of her breasts. “What’s certain,” said Margo, “is that she went to a good school. She spoke German perfectly, she was polite, and she knew how to wear fine clothes. We didn’t talk a lot. Judit was withdrawn, she smiled rarely, and she was cold when handling men, which made them completely crazy about her.” Red Margo smiled. “I should know. She was the most popular girl. Zsámbéki asked a lot of money for her. Some customers paid him as much as fifty or even a hundred pengős. Judit lived in her own world. When we sat down for a drink, she sometimes joined us. But she didn’t drink and didn’t say a word. She just listened.”