Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

Gordon went down the stairs to the cellar, ran over to the white-painted metal filing cabinet, and after a couple of minutes of searching he found the two-page report and its copies. He took one copy, slipped it into the inside pocket of his blazer, and in minutes he was sitting on the tram. He studied the document thoroughly until reaching Crown Prince Rudolf Square.

The apartment building door was open. Gordon walked upstairs to the fourth floor and stopped in front of the familiar door. He knocked. Harder. And harder. Finally, he was pounding. He was raising his fist once more when he heard stirring from within. He stepped back. The little hinged window in the door opened first, then the door itself. Red Margo stood there, her eyes squinting and fixed on Gordon; the apartment behind her was pitch-black. Her hand shot upward to cover her face, then she spoke in a hoarse voice:

“What’s it you want?”

“I want to talk about Fanny,” said Gordon.

“Come back in an hour. I have to get myself together. Who’s this Fanny?”

“We’ve got to talk now.”

“The hell we do,” said Margo, moving to close the door. But Gordon promptly slid his foot between the door and the doorjamb.

“Believe me, Margo, you want to let me in.”

The woman stared down at Gordon’s foot, then looked up at his face. Finally, she released her grip on the door and went back into the dark apartment. Gordon followed her.

“You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to,” he said to the woman’s back.

“I know,” replied Margo, “I’ll just lie on my back and will hardly feel a thing. You’ll take care of everything and I won’t even have to move.”

Red Margo reached for the curtain and pulled it open just a crack. She removed a blanket from the floor lamp she’d evidently flung on it in haste. Gordon saw that the room was just as much of a mess as it had been during his last visit. Cups and cigarette butts littered the coffee table, which had been pushed to the side, and the two armchairs were strewn with clothes. Gordon pushed aside the clothes on one chair and sat down. Margo sat down in the armchair opposite him. She looked disheveled, her eyes were baggy, and she’d hastily flung on her robe. When she leaned forward, it parted slightly. She picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the table, then reached for the box of matches. But the box was empty, and she angrily flung it back on the table. Gordon reached into his pocket, produced his lighter, and held out the flame. Margo leaned forward. She wore nothing underneath the robe. She took a drag and looked up at Gordon, who held the lighter for just a second longer than necessary. Having inhaled the smoke, Margo leaned back in the armchair and pulled the nightgown tight over her legs while not quite doing so over her breasts. She smiled from behind the smoke as she watched Gordon, who had meanwhile also lit a cigarette.

“Do you want a drink?” asked Red Margo, running a hand through her hair.

“Too early in the day for me.”

“But you could use one,” said Margo. “I see someone gave you a good thrashing.”

“A good one.”

Margo stared through narrowed eyes at Gordon, who held her gaze for a while before finally looking away. “You know,” she said, “that cut really looks good on your face.” Gordon leaned back in his armchair. “Going through the wringer just makes a face more attractive,” she continued, sliding slowly to the edge of the armchair. The movement made her nightgown once again open up, and her left breast peeked halfway out from beneath the fabric. Gordon looked at the woman and the desire that had arisen in her eyes, and he could only sense what this was about.

“More attractive?” he asked.

“That’s right,” she languidly replied, coyly drawing her nightgown tight as she slowly stood up. With soft, lazy steps, she went over to Gordon and stood behind him. She put her hands on the back of his armchair, leaned forward, and now slid her hands onto his chest. “Why don’t . . .” she began, slipping her left hand under his shirt. “Why don’t you follow me to the bedroom?” she whispered in his ear. “You won’t be sorry.” With that, she straightened up and started off toward the bedroom. Gordon adjusted his shirt and turned around. Red Margo stood on the threshold of her bedroom, her back to Gordon. With a well-practiced motion, she opened her robe and drew each side up to her shoulders, and throwing back her hands, she let the robe slip right off her. Gordon stood, and looked at the woman’s round ass, her thighs, her shapely shoulders. Margo turned around and leaned against the doorjamb. Her breasts slackened, in a womanly way, but her nipples stood erect. She stood there only for a couple of seconds before suddenly turning back around and vanishing into the room. Gordon heard only the creaking of the bedsprings. He went over to the little table by the window, poured gin into two glasses that looked to be in acceptable shape, and went toward the bedroom.

Margo was leaning on her side, waiting for Gordon. Her hip formed a little hill and her waist a deep vale under the sheet, whose folds only enhanced the bulging breasts underneath. Gordon stopped above her and held out the glass. The woman took the glass, sat up, and downed the gin. The sheet slipped off her. Gordon looked into his own glass and he, too, drank up. The alcohol burned his gullet and then his stomach, and finally it spread out through his veins. His nostrils were filled with the smell of the gin and the heavy stifling scent of the woman, both of which blended with the odor of cigarettes towering in the ashtrays throughout the flat. Margo slid over beside him. She reached up to his tie with one hand while her other hand brushed against his loins. “Come on,” she whispered.

“We can’t,” replied Gordon in a hoarse voice. “Not now.”

“How do you know we’ll have another chance?”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Of course it is,” said Margo, stretching out on the bed. “It’s only up to you.” Turning over to her left side, she took a cigarette from the nightstand. She lit it, took a drag, and blew out the smoke. “Only you,” she repeated, then turned around. The cigarette hung from the left corner of her mouth, from which a thin band of smoke curled upward. Gordon gave the woman a once-over.

“I came here now so we can talk.”

“Then talk,” said Red Margo, removing the cigarette from her mouth.

“Come, I’ll pour us another drink,” replied Gordon, who then left the room. He filled the two glasses once again, and by the time he placed them on the table, Margo was already sitting in the armchair, clutching the nightgown tight just below her neck.

“Go ahead, just tell me what you want,” she asked, picking up her glass off the table.

“What do I want?” asked Gordon, fixing his eyes on Red Margo. “Two things. First of all, I want to know who murdered Fanny. Second, why you didn’t tell me everything you know.”

“You want a lot,” she said, exhaling smoke.

“I suspect it’s not news to you that men want a lot.”

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, drawing in her breath as she did so and then breaking into a smile and pulling her feet under the chair. “That hurt.”

“You know everything. Everything. And still you didn’t tell me a thing. You stuck a letter into my hand and then let me toil away.”

The woman searched Gordon’s face, and gradually the playfulness vanished from her own expression. “Because you would have believed what a drunk whore tells you about an influential merchant—a Valiant Knight, a company owner held in public esteem? Fat chance.”

“I would have,” replied Gordon.

“Pity, pity,” Red Margo chirped, shaking her head and giving a dismissive wave of the hand. “Let me ask you something.”