Vilmos Kondor - Budapest Noir

It was already past quarter to five when he got off the tram at Italian Row. At the head of Pasaréti Street, Gordon lit a cigarette, turned up his collar, and continued forward through the drizzle. Parked in front of the building was Szőllősy’s car, a Maybach Zeppelin. Gordon flung away the cigarette butt and rang the bell.

In no time the maid, who had a shawl draped over her shoulders and who had clearly hurried downstairs, opened the door.

“Dear God,” she spurted out on seeing Gordon, “you’ve come back, sir.”

“Your master is already waiting,” Gordon announced. “The appointment is for five o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She swallowed mightily, opened the gate, and let him in.

Gordon followed her into the house. In the vestibule he handed the maid his jacket and his hat. “I’ll call his lordship right away,” she said, leading Gordon into the living room.

“Call his wife in, too,” said Gordon, turning around. The girl shut the door behind her. Darkness reigned inside the room; a floor lamp was the only source of light. The lace curtain hanging over the window filtered out even that little light that got through the drizzle-permeated dusk. Gordon stepped over to the drinks, chose a bottle of American whiskey, and poured himself a glass. He hadn’t had a respectable glass of whiskey in quite a while. He took a sip and let the alcohol linger in his mouth. He then sat down in an armchair, crossed his legs, and waited.

The door opened. In walked Mrs. Szőllősy. When she saw Gordon, her face froze and the wrinkles hardened around her lips. “You,” she hissed furiously through her teeth.

“Me,” said Gordon, putting down his glass.

“If you want to grill me again about my daughter, you’re wasting your time. I have nothing to say to you.”

“I don’t know why you would have thought I’m here on account of your daughter,” he said, looking her in the eye, “but you’ve hit the nail on the head. Except that I’m not here to grill you. I already know almost everything there is to know about your daughter. True, there are still a couple of minor details, but I can clear those up while I’m here.”

The woman’s face turned pale as she listened. Staggering momentarily, she leaned up against the doorjamb.

“What’s that supposed to mean, that you know everything?” she asked hoarsely.

“Almost everything. But there are a few little details I have to clear up with your husband. I figured it wouldn’t hurt if you’re here, too.”

The woman seemed not to have heard what Gordon said. Her mouth began forming silent words. Gordon waited quietly.

“What . . . what happened to Fanny?” she whispered. “Something happened to her, right? What?”

Gordon wanted to answer, but just then the door opened once again and in stepped András Szőllőshegyi Szőllősy. The man bore a striking resemblance to the great actor Artúr Somlay. He was tall, and his exquisitely tailored English suit clung almost imperceptibly to his eminent belly. He walked with great confidence. His inquisitor’s gaze locked on Gordon at once. His sharp-featured face was topped off by silver, slightly curly hair combed back; and if he hadn’t had a carefully trimmed mustache under his nose, Gordon might in fact have thought he was seeing Artúr Somlay. While taking stock of Gordon with cold, gray eyes, Szőllősy now shut the door behind him.

“And who are you?” he asked in a tone of profound contempt. “I’m expecting an important guest, and it’s not you.”

“Are you waiting for István Bárczy?” asked Gordon.

Szőllősy was taken aback. “That is none of your business.”

“You can wait all you want for Bárczy. He won’t be coming, so you’ll have to make do with me. The undersecretary has more important matters to tend to than to waste his time on your type.”

Rage filled the man’s face. His eyes narrowed, and he tightened his hands into fists. “I asked who the hell you are.”

“Zsigmond Gordon, journalist with the Evening .” Gordon did not extend his hand, for he was certain Szőllősy would not accept it.

“Get the hell out of here,” Szőllősy thundered. “I don’t talk with hack writers.”

“András, he said he wants to talk with us about our daughter,” said his wife in a trembling voice.

A shadow passed over Szőllősy’s expressionless face, but Gordon wouldn’t have sworn to it. Before the man had a chance to speak, however, Gordon reached into his pocket, pulled out the autopsy report, and threw the first-page summary on the table.

“What the hell is this?” asked Szőllősy, not even glancing at the sheet of paper. But his wife hurried to the table, picked up the page, and began reading. The paper trembled in her hands. Szőllősy did not move. He looked at his wife and then at Gordon, who already knew he was right. He just sat in the armchair, paging through his notes, and waited.

The woman’s bosom was heaving uncontrollably. The blood drained from her face as her legs buckled. Slowly she sat down on the divan. “Fanny,” she groaned. “Fanny, my sweet little Fanny. My dear little girl . . .”

“What are you talking about?” asked Szőllősy, knitting his brows.

“Fanny’s dead,” whispered the woman almost inaudibly. Her eyes were red, though the tears were yet to flow.

“A while back I did have a daughter . . .” Szőllősy began.

“ Did have a daughter,” the woman hissed. “Well, now it really is just did !”

“What are you talking about, Irma?”

“Sit down! Sit down already, God damn you!” his wife shouted in a rage.

At this, Szőllősy went slowly over to the writing desk, pulled out the chair, and sank into it. His wife meanwhile composed herself, stood, and after staggering only a bit she stepped over to the desk as straight as a ramrod. She threw the first page of the autopsy report on the desk. Szőllősy did not reach for it. “At least read the part about how she died!” the woman hissed.

Having taken an eyeglass case from his jacket’s inner pocket, the man now pulled out a pair of wire-frame glasses, put them on, and began to read.

“This doesn’t say a thing,” he said, slapping the page back down onto the table once he’d looked it over. “Besides, this is just the first page. It doesn’t even have a name on it. Nothing. This is just some dead girl.” Pushing the page away from himself, he added, “This doesn’t prove a thing.”

“No?” asked Irma, casting him a bewildered stare. “No?” she repeated, gasping for breath before she finally snapped. Her tears erupted, again her bosom heaved, and the air at times seemed stuck inside her throat. She tottered over to the divan, leaned against it with her left arm, and, hunched over, sobbed. Within a couple of minutes, though, she’d collected herself once more. She stood up straight. She took a handkerchief from under her sleeve and wiped her eyes. In vain. The tears gushed silently on. Szőllősy now raised his gray eyes to Gordon.

“You . . .” he began, gesturing with a hand toward the door, “you can just get out of here.” Gordon glanced at the woman.

“This man is not going anywhere,” Mrs. Szőllősy declared hoarsely. “He is not going anywhere until we’ve listened to what he has to say.”

“If you have a need for this, then go ahead, listen,” said Szőllősy, rising to his feet. “I’ve got business. I’m waiting for the undersecretary.”

Bowing her head, the woman stared up at her husband from beneath the lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes. She tightened a hand into a fist and stepped before him. “You have no business more important than this,” she said to him softly. “You are not going anywhere.”