Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

“Go ahead.”

“Now that you suspect what happened, what do you want to do about it? Leave it be?”

Gordon shook his head. “No.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Let that be my secret.”

“What a mysterious character you are,” said Margo, pursing her lips. “You think it was so easy for me to digest what happened to Fanny? You think I didn’t want to take revenge?” The last glimmer of lasciviousness now vanished from her eyes. Her expression was cold, but Gordon thought he saw in it a trace of fear.

“I don’t want to take revenge,” said Gordon, shaking his head.

“Sure you do. Otherwise, why would you be here? You came here because you’re thirsting for revenge—either because the girl was killed or because you were beaten up. I don’t know which, and I don’t really care. Or are you angry only because they threatened your girlfriend? Krisztina is her name, right?”

Gordon didn’t reply. He didn’t ask her how she knew; he just sat there, motionless, watching the woman.

“In your shoes I’d be angry, too,” Margo continued. “Infernally at that. You have every reason for revenge—whether because someone died who didn’t deserve to, because they punched a hole right into your self-respect, or because you’re worried for your girl.”

“So the reason you didn’t say anything is because you were afraid I’d fly into a rage,” said Gordon.

“That’s right,” said Margo. “Don’t go telling me your pride and your sense of justice haven’t been wounded.”

“Let’s just drop it,” said Gordon with a wave of his hand. “Tell me about them instead.”

“Fanny . . .” But Margo here fell silent, incredulously shaking her head. Gordon saw with satisfaction that she had taken the bait. “What people are you talking about? What do you want to know about Fanny’s family?”

“I didn’t say a thing about her family,” said Gordon. “I know almost everything about them. But it seems there’s one thing you don’t know. You see, Fanny was . . .” Now it was Gordon who fell silent.

“Pregnant!” Margo shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me that before, you rotten scoundrel?” She sat up angrily in the armchair.

“Because I didn’t think it necessary.”

“And now you do?”

“And now I do,” said Gordon, leaning forward. “Help me, Margo. Just help me a little.”

“So you want to do something, after all? Catch the murderer and drag him off to the police? Not even you can seriously be thinking that.”

“Enough of this already!” snapped Gordon. Margo gave him a surprised look. “The other day you tossed me a scrap of information that allowed me to figure everything out. Practically everything. And now I’m here again. I didn’t go to the police with what I know, but to you, Margo.”

“I see,” replied Red Margo. “But why?”

“I came here because I’m interested in what happened to Fanny. Because it doesn’t leave me cold. Trust me, Margo. I don’t want anything more than to know what you know, too.”

“There’s just no satisfying you,” said Red Margo.

“You’re off on that point, but I don’t want to prove you wrong.”

Margo stood up, went to the table, poured herself another gin, and turned to the window. For a while she just looked down at the street, but finally she downed the gin and adjusted her robe, drawing it tight even at the neck, and sat back down in the armchair. “Go ahead—ask away.” Again her eyes sparkled with fear.

“I know why Fanny’s father disowned her. I also know how she wound up with you, by way of Csuli. And that her love, Shlomo, is now in New York. But I don’t know what Fanny was after.”

“I do,” replied Margo. “To put aside enough money to follow the boy. Even her mother gave her funds.”

“All I knew was that they met,” said Gordon. “So she gave her money, too?”

“You think a mother is capable of tearing her child out of her heart just because that’s what her husband says?” asked Margo with contempt.

Not wanting to ratchet up her temper, Gordon didn’t say a thing.

“One time they met up by chance on Rákóczi Street. Fanny worked at night, you see, and she counted on everything—except that she’d meet up with her mother.”

“When did that happen?”

“About a month ago. But Fanny didn’t tell her mother what she was up to. How she was making money. If you can call it money, those couple of wretched pengős the pimp left her every night. All she told her mother is that she was working; she didn’t say anything more. And right then and there her mother gave her two hundred pengős.”

“Did they meet again?”

“Yes. Twice. The second time the mother gave her four hundred pengős; and then even more, almost six hundred.”

“That would have been plenty for a train ticket to Hamburg,” said Gordon, “and from there for a ship to New York.”

“That’s true, but Fanny didn’t want to arrive with an empty pocket. She knew that the rabbi hadn’t given his son any money, that he’d put him in the care of relatives and forbade them from giving the boy a cent. Fanny wanted her and Shlomo to start a new life without the two of them being penniless. But the third meeting with her mother turned out badly.”

“What happened?”

“After their first meeting, the mother hired a private detective to figure out where Fanny was working. The man somehow got his hands on that picture Skublics took. The mother showed it to Fanny and demanded an explanation. When Fanny saw the picture, she ran away.”

“When did that happen?”

“Last Sunday.”

“On the fourth.”

Red Margo nodded.

“And?” asked Gordon.

“And? I saw Fanny for the last time on Tuesday morning. Last Tuesday. On Wednesday I heard that a dead girl had been found on Nagy Diófa Street. When I found out what she had on, I knew right away it was her. On Saturday morning you came by, pounding at my door. And asking questions.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“I didn’t even know who you were,” said Red Margo. “For all I knew, you were from the secret police or were a private eye. Look at me. Go ahead, just look at me.” Gordon tried, but she averted her eyes. “Do I look that stupid? Like I’d tell everything to just any old bum who comes knocking? So the same thing would happen to me that happened to Fanny?”

“I’m neither a secret policeman nor a private eye,” said Gordon.

“Now I know.”

“And what happened to Fanny’s money?”

“You know,” she said, “I always did tell her not to keep it on her. Because that could spell trouble. You know what she replied?” Gordon shook his head. “That she might decide at any moment to buy the ticket to New York. She wanted to leave on October 28 on the President Harding . And she didn’t trust anyone, not even me. Maybe she was right.” Red Margo stared straight ahead.

“I understand,” said Gordon.

“You think the mother . . .” said Margo, raising her eyes.

“No,” said Gordon, shaking his head. “I hope not. I met her a couple days ago. I don’t think it would have been her.”

“Then what will you do now?” asked Margo.

“Sure you want to know?”

The woman didn’t answer. She rose from the chair, poured herself another gin, and found a box of matches among the glasses. She lit a cigarette and replied, “You’re right,” turning away. “I don’t need to know.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Gordon. “Why did you open up to me at all when I first came knocking?”

Red Margo said nothing at first. She returned to the armchair, leaned back, and adjusted her hair. She crossed her legs, then looked at Gordon from under her long eyelashes. “Isn’t it obvious enough?”