Authors: Vilmos Kondor
Squeezing his way through the crowd, Gordon headed over to Kocsis. The thin little fellow had his hair combed back and set with Brilliantine, and he was wearing a well-tailored suit and his familiar kindly smile.
“Antal!” Gordon greeted him. “Antal, what on earth are you doing here?”
Kocsis turned around, and on seeing Gordon he gave him a hug. “Zsigmond! For crying out loud, it’s so good to see you. When was it we last met?”
“April 27, 1930,” replied Gordon at once. “You were up against a Polish guy, and in the sixth round you knocked him out. Wajda—that was his name, wasn’t it?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Kocsis, patting Gordon on the side, “you remember better than I.”
“I did write about it, after all.”
“You wrote about every match of mine you could make it to.”
“I tried being there as often as I possibly could. Say, Antal, you just got back home, right?”
“Right,” said Kocsis.
“Were you there at the fight between Louis and Schmeling in New York?”
“You bet I was.”
“I want to know everything. Every single jab, hook, stick and move, clinch, block, and knockdown. The whole thing.”
Kocsis’s eyes lit up as he began recounting the legendary bout. He was so caught up in the story that he practically played out each and every round. A crowd soon formed beside Gordon and Kocsis. Even Strausz edged closer, but there were so many people standing there that he had to step up on the edge of the ring.
“And then Schmeling did a stick and move, dancing about and jerking his head out of the way again and again, blocking with his right hand. And then Louis approached. Schmeling held him in, and when Louis wasn’t paying attention, Schmeling gave him a right hook,
bang
, and then another, and then into his belly,
bang, bang, bang
. . .” Kocsis continued fervently, and Gordon was so into it himself that he began involuntarily mimicking Kocsis’s movements, grunting at the heavier blows and counting right along with Kocsis over the downed Louis. They were so caught up in it all that they hadn’t even noticed that Bruno Butcher was already into the second round with Micsicsák.
Surprisingly, Bruno Butcher looked only like a middleweight: he hardly had a belly, and his arms were long and muscular. Micsicsák didn’t know how to handle him. In the fifth round, all at once the butcher threw a merciless straight right into the pit of his willowy opponent’s stomach. Micsicsák dropped to the ground and didn’t move. The head referee leaned over him and started counting, and when Micsicsák still didn’t move, he called in the doctor. He raised the butcher’s right hand into the air.
Gordon waited a bit, then turned to Kocsis. “Antal, so what’s it all about, a jab in the pit of the stomach?”
“What do you mean?” asked the boxer.
“Did Micsicsák collapse because he wasn’t prepared for the jab, or . . .”
“Zsigmond, you can’t really prepare for this sort of thing—especially not from a beast like this butcher.”
“Let me ask one more thing. What happens when someone levels a jab that strong into the pit of the stomach of, say, a woman?”
Kocsis sighed. “What are you getting at?”
“Just a question, nothing else.”
“Well, that could have a bad ending.”
“How bad?”
“In the worst-case scenario, the girl might even get killed. Why do you ask? Are you preparing for something?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m just working on a case in which something similar happened.”
“It all comes down to chance. I’ve been hit like that in my gut so hard the air just stopped dead in its tracks inside me and I couldn’t even stand up. The air just got stuck, simple as that. It’s practically impossible to prepare for a jab like the one the butcher just threw. His hand just shot in, and Micsicsák couldn’t block. That was that.”
Gordon nodded. Soon the next match began, and Gordon stood there between Strausz and Kocsis until six in the evening: they lambasted the boxers and analyzed the punches, and during intermissions they conjured up famous old bouts. But around six, Gordon sighed. “I’ve got to be off.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to work?” asked Strausz.
“Yes. In a certain sense, yes.” Gordon shook hands with Kocsis and with Strausz, said his good-byes to the others on his way out, and then he hurried out onto Podmaniczky Street and headed toward Berlin Square.
F
alk Miksa Street—which ran from the Grand Boulevard near the Margaret Bridge to the Parliament building—was almost completely deserted. Expensive chandeliers, curtains, and an occasional fleeting shadow shone clearly from behind the tall windows of the narrow thoroughfare’s elegant apartments. Gordon found the address easily. Standing in front of the building , he even found himself admiring what a grand neighborhood Red Margo occupied. It was understandable, of course: since Margo supervised and otherwise managed the girls in the apartment on Báthory Street, she had to live nearby. At the same time, Gordon was certain that the flat was not her own, but that the rent was paid for by the secretive Mr. Zsámbéki who had bought the black-haired girl from Csuli.
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.”
“That’s it?” Gordon looked at her. “Anything else?”
Margo shook her head. She stood and walked over to the little table once again, pouring herself another gin in a clean glass. Leaving out the lemon this time, she gulped the gin down. “There’s one more thing.”
“What would that be?”
“Whenever we had coffee, she always asked where we bought the beans. One time Manci didn’t buy the coffee at Meinl, like usual, but at Arabia instead. ‘I don’t want any of that,’ said Judit. ‘It’s the same coffee,’ we told her. She looked at me and declared, ‘I don’t drink that stuff.’ She crumpled up the paper she’d been reading and stormed out of the kitchen.”
“That’s it?” asked Gordon.
“That’s it,” replied Red Margo.
“There’s nothing else you know?”
“I told you everything I know. Too much at that.”
Gordon stood. “No. Just enough.”