For a moment the detective’s expression was one of surprise, but for a moment only. He waved Gordon over.
“I see you really didn’t sleep last night,” Gordon began.
“You see well.”
“In the thick of things? The interior minister and the chief of police are giving you orders in person?”
Gellért didn’t reply, but it seemed he hadn’t even heard the question. Fumbling about in his pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes but realized at once where he was, slipping it back into his pocket with evident annoyance. He looked at Gordon. “What is it you asked?”
“Where is Schweinitzer?”
“How should I know?”
“I thought this was a matter of public order,” noted Gordon.
“Yes, but this is an exceptional situation, and—” He cut his sentence short. “Why am I explaining this to you?”
“I don’t know,” said Gordon with a shrug.
“Then give me a ring next week. I’ve got to be off now.”
“Just one question.”
“Next week you can ask me a million questions about Róna.”
“But it’s not Róna I’m interested in right now.”
“So what is it?”
“Last night a dead girl was found on Nagy Diófa Street,” said Gordon, scrutinizing Gellért’s expression for any reaction. But no.
“Great. It’s been a while since we found a dead hooker there.”
“How do you know she was a hooker?”
“On Nagy Diófa Street? Not far from Klauzál Square? If it had been an upper-class girl, rest assured I’d know about it. But since I don’t know, she could only have been a hooker. Why are you asking me?”
“The case belongs to Unit V. And you’re a section head there, if memory serves me right.”
“First of all, the case is not my section’s. If it were, I’d know about it. Second, even if it were mine, I wouldn’t be dealing with it now. In case you didn’t notice, we’re burying the prime minister on Saturday. Unless the Communists blow up the Chain Bridge, I won’t be doing anything else until Saturday night.”
“The Communists want to blow up the Chain Bridge?”
“I don’t have time for this,” said Gellért with a dismissive wave of the hand. He turned around and headed toward the door leading to the Hunter’s Room. Gordon thought about asking Gellért why the dead girl’s photograph was in his desk drawer, but didn’t. Gellért went through the door, and complete silence descended on the hall. Gordon took his notebook and went off in search of one of the men in charge of the funeral.
From the Parliament building Gordon headed straight toward Krisztina’s. He checked his watch when he reached the Oktogon. He had time to spare and didn’t have to take the underground. Gordon liked to walk along Andrássy Street after dark, and without a soul in sight, this night was no exception. Turning up his collar, he walked along the deserted road under the trees, which by now were shedding their leaves. He turned right onto Szív Street, his steps echoing against the sidewalk, between the gray buildings. Under one doorway a couple was locked in a passionate embrace, but they broke apart on Gordon’s approach. On the corner, a building’s super was shoveling coal. Gordon nodded at the man, who wiped his blackened forehead.
Lövölde Square looked positively destitute, as if the life had been sucked right out of its buildings. Here and there a light glimmered in a window, but the air didn’t move between the trees. At the market, the counters were empty and the trash had been cleared away; stray dogs and cats had eaten every single scrap the stall keepers had left behind.
Krisztina lived in the building on the opposite side of the square, on the fourth floor. The massive wooden door was open. Gordon walked up to the fourth floor, turned right at the landing, and headed toward the flat farthest back. Here, above the building’s inner courtyard, it was quiet. Instead of the usual, cheerful cries of children from down below, two sparrows were wearily chirping to each other in the dried-out sumac trees.
Krisztina was already dressed for the evening when she opened the door. She always managed to look elegant without outdressing Gordon, for whom fashion meant only that in the summer he wore a gray suit thinner than his winter one. Krisztina was wearing a wine-red suit, her ankles flashing from beneath her skirt. Under her blazer, the top of her white blouse was unbuttoned. She never wore makeup, nor did she now. Her glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, but she would never wear them in public. She said they made her look old, which Gordon invariably dismissed. “Kid,” said Gordon not long after they first met, “I’ve seen a few thirty-something women in my time, and believe you me, you can take at least five years off when telling anyone your age.” “I don’t care how many women you’ve seen,” Krisztina had retorted, “and spare me the details. You yourself said that from now on there’s just one lady in your life.” Gordon would gladly have eaten his words, but he knew that doing so would have been in vain.
Krisztina put a dainty little hat atop her medium-length, curly brown hair, and Gordon couldn’t have been grateful enough—he couldn’t stand the wide-brimmed, gaudy hats so many women were wearing.
“Well?” asked Krisztina when they got into the living room.
“Well, what?” came Gordon’s reply.
“You’ve forgotten, right?”
“No doubt. Just what have I forgotten now?”
“You’re the one who wanted to go to the Zanzibar tonight. To listen to that cabaret singer from London.”
“New York,” Gordon corrected her, and with that, he flung his coat onto the bentwood chair beside the bed. As much as he liked being at Krisztina’s place, he did miss normal armchairs. She’d arranged her little flat in keeping with the latest trends. A simple bed in the corner, a two-level coffee table in front of the bed, with a white ashtray on top. At the opposite end of the room stood a dresser with three drawers, topped off with a porcelain figurine, and, above that, a long mirror in an unadorned frame. One of the flat’s two plants rested on a little shelf: a potted flower whose name Gordon couldn’t manage to remember. On the wall, one abstract painting and nothing else. Krisztina had fallen in love with the latest designs in Berlin, and she took care that nothing should disrupt the delicate unity of the room. On more than one occasion Gordon had sworn up and down about the lack of an armchair, but Krisztina wasn’t particularly concerned with his grumbling. “In your own flat, you can sit about in those old-fashioned armchairs as much as you want,” she said, at which Gordon shrugged.
Leaning against the doorjamb, Krisztina now waited for Gordon to finish up in the bathroom. He quickly washed his face, slicked back his hair with his wet hands, and adjusted his necktie before joining Krisztina, who, having removed her glasses, asked: “All right, then, not London but New York. So who are we listening to tonight?”
“Lucy and Nora Morlen,” replied Gordon. “The Morlen sisters.”
“And they’re still performing tonight?”
“You think the Zanzibar is about to cancel their performance after bringing them over here, just because a prime minister has died?”
On reaching the corner of Szív Street, Krisztina turned right toward the underground, but Gordon nudged her gently toward the Oktogon. “Kid, just take a look at Andrássy Street. When have you seen it so quiet? Besides, we’ve only got to go as far as Teréz Boulevard. Surely you’ll make it there in those high-heeled shoes.”
“And will you finally tell me what kept you out so late last night?”
Gordon nodded. “Something happened on Nagy Diófa Street.”
“Something always happens there.”
“But not like this,” said Gordon, buttoning his coat and taking Krisztina’s arm. He described the past twenty-four hours. Krisztina listened in silence and spoke only when they turned onto Teréz Boulevard.