“Who did you come to see?” asked Dr. Pazár with a full mouth. The doctor, whom Gordon liked very much, had served for years in the West Indies on a passenger ship, but he’d had enough of the sun and the tourists and returned to his native land, gladly accepting the coroner’s position. Working nights didn’t even bother him. He’d spent quite enough time as it was under the burning hot sun, he told Gordon. He loved the quiet, the calm, the cold lighting, and the patients, who might have been crotchety once but were no longer complaining by the time he saw them.
“A young girl. They brought her in the day before yesterday.”
“For an autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“Young, pretty, black-haired?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Pazár nodded, then took out his cigarette case and held it toward Gordon, who took a cigarette. Gordon liked the coroner’s obscure, aromatic cigarettes. He had asked several times, but Pazár never revealed his source. The doctor took a deep drag, placed the cigarette on the ashtray, and took one calm, final bite of his supper. Gulping down the remaining beer, he leaned back with satisfaction. He raised the cigarette once again to his mouth, inhaled the smoke, then suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Come on, let’s go look at the girl!” He opened the glass door, and Gordon followed. The doctor stopped in the middle of the room. The refrigerated cabinets were to the left, the autopsy table in the middle, and behind that, some stretchers draped with white shrouds. Pazár went over to one of the stretchers and rolled it over and beneath the ceiling light. He took the end of the shroud closest to the head and pulled it back to the girl’s waist. On her chest was a Y-shaped incision, and her face was whiter than when Gordon had seen her last. Her eyes were closed, and her black hair was wet and combed back. Her hands were beside her torso, the birthmark clear as day. Her breasts were as taut in death as in the picture. Her belly was flat. The incision alone disfigured her. Gordon was grateful for the doctor’s aromatic cigarette.
“I don’t know who put a rush on this autopsy, and I don’t even want to know,” said Pazár, looking at Gordon. “Shall I tell you or show you?”
“Tell me.”
“The cause of death was intensive inner bleeding caused by a strong blow to the epigastric region. The left lobe of the liver was ruptured, and the consequent bleeding—as well as the circulatory and respiratory trauma this precipitated—caused the subject’s death, which in my estimation occurred five minutes after the blow.”
“In plain English?”
“Someone hit her so hard in the pit of the stomach that she died.”
“I see,” said Gordon. “How big a blow did it take? I’ve been hit in the gut before, too, but I’m still around.”
“How big? I can’t say exactly, but big. Big indeed. Other signs indicate that the victim was unprepared, that she was taken by surprise.”
“In other words, someone socked it to her good.”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
“Thank you,” said Gordon, extending his hand.
“It’s nothing,” replied Pazár.
As Gordon headed toward the door. Pazár folded the sheet back over the body and pushed it back in place, switching off the light before following Gordon.
“Too bad,” said Pazár, “she must have been a pretty one.”
Gordon slowly nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
“Someone really didn’t want her kid to be born,” the doctor drily observed. “She was in her fourth month.”
Four
When Gordon awoke in his flat around 6 A.M., Krisztina was not lying beside him. He got out of bed and went to the living room. There she was, curled up in an armchair by the window. Strewn about the floor were sheets of paper, and a cup of coffee was steaming on the little table beside her.
“You got up so early to work?” asked Gordon.
“I woke up, and I’d rather work on these designs than loll about in bed listening to you snore.”
Gordon leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Did you make me a coffee, too?”
“I did, but they didn’t have the kind you like at the Meinl shop, so I bought the coffee at Arabia.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Gordon with a dismissive wave of the hand. He poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and added some milk, then went to sit beside Krisztina. “Will you be here all day?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to finish these designs, and it’s best if I put this day of mourning to good use.”
“I have to leave soon,” said Gordon. “The whole office will be out there reporting on the funeral.”
“But the procession doesn’t start until after eleven,” noted Krisztina.
“Yes,” said Gordon, “I’ve got just enough time to go find Csuli.”
“That Csuli?”
“That one.”
“Then take care of yourself.”
The newsroom was empty except for the one person on duty. Not another soul to be seen—typewriters sitting idle on the desks, notes all over the place, and ashtrays full. Never had Gordon seen the office so desolate by day. Not even Turcsányi was in, and he was always in. Gordon looked at his watch: it was just after seven-thirty. He still had time to carry out his morning plans and get to the Parliament building by nine-thirty.
Despite the early hour, Blaha Lujza Square was even more deserted than the day before. Black flags hung everywhere, and though police officers lined Rákóczi Street, there was not a trace of civilians sauntering curiously about. He turned onto Hársfa Street and headed toward the Tick Bite. The door was slightly ajar, but the place had not opened up yet. Nine tables stood in its longish room, six on the left and three on the right. In the back there was a piano and, beside that, a bar; and a door in the back corner led to the kitchen. The tables were adorned only with clean tablecloths to start the new day, and the bar was empty. But Gordon was in luck. On the left side of the room, at the table farthest back, sat Scratchy Samu, drunk to the core. The tiny little man with the scratchy voice was wearing a grimy blazer, a red scarf, and a tilted cap. He had spent some time in Paris once—on what business, it was hard to say—and ever since, he’d tried to dress the Parisian way. Samu was a member of Csuli’s gang; more precisely, he was its signalman, its chief lookout. Not that Gordon had much to do with him, but for some odd reason Samu was afraid of him. The few times their paths crossed, he always greeted the reporter with much more deference than necessary. Gordon stepped over to the bar and knocked on it loudly. Samu raised his waterlogged eyes toward Gordon but didn’t recognize him. Roused by the noise, the bartender appeared—a fat, fiftyish woman with a hairdo that was all over the place—wiping her hands on her apron.
“We’re not open yet,” she told Gordon.
“I know,” he replied, pointing to Samu, “it’s just that that fellow over there is ready to die of thirst.”
“I don’t serve drinks on credit.”
“I’m not asking you to,” said Gordon, throwing forty fillérs on the counter. “Let’s have whatever this will buy,” he continued, “and make it decent pear brandy, not that poison.”
The woman wanted to reply but had second thoughts. She wiped her nose, took out a bottle from under the bar, and filled two shot glasses. “Keep the change,” said Gordon as he sat down beside a snoring Samu, whose head drooped on his chest. Gordon held one of the shots under the signalman’s nose. Samu snorted and jerked up his head. Blinking, he locked his cloudy eyes first on the glass, then on Gordon, who put the pear brandy down before him.
Samu didn’t reflect for long. He reached for the shot glass with a trembling hand and all at once downed its contents. He shuddered, and Gordon watched intently as the life returned to his eyes.