worn Opel Regent appeared in the sparse traffic.
“Where to now?” asked the cabbie with a grin.
“Ponty Street,” said Gordon.
“Shall we hurry?”
“Let’s hurry.”
At the Oktogon, Czövek turned left onto Andrássy Street, not sparing his car. The traffic here was no worse. He drove quickly by the Opera House, which was still draped in black, and then from Count István Tisza Street he turned onto the Chain Bridge. Gordon looked at the Danube. Tugboats and barges were advancing with difficulty in the low river. Fog was slowly descending upon Castle Hill. At the far end of the bridge, Czövek turned from Adam Clark Square onto Fő Street, a block in from and parallel to the river, and soon took a left onto Ponty Street.
“Where, exactly?” asked the driver, looking back.
“I don’t know,” said Gordon, shaking his head, “but wait a bit.” With that, he got out and stared at the steep series of steps that led up the side of Castle Hill to Hunyadi Street. He’d just turned around to get back in the cab when a dubious figure in a sport coat stepped up to the street from a cellar entrance.
“Your name Gordon?” Having received an affirmative reply, the man chucked away his cigarette butt and continued: “Samu is waiting for you at the start of Várfok Street.”
Gordon had no idea what to make of it all. He got back in the taxi and told Czövek where to go. Not even now did the cabbie dillydally as he raced to the far side of Castle Hill. At the start of Várfok Street they stopped, and Gordon had barely gotten out when yet another shady character stepped up to him. “Anna Street,” he said. On they went toward the top of Castle Hill.
The Mass had already begun at Matthias Church, and only a few odd tourists were left dawdling about on Holy Trinity Square. Gordon leaned forward toward Czövek. “Slow down here so I can peek down Anna Street.” Gordon knew that Anna Street was short, comprising but a few buildings. There, not even a veteran lookout like Scratchy Samu could hide. As they rolled by, Gordon saw that he was right. Having asked for the cab to stop, he added, “Czövek, you just go on back to Holy Trinity Square and wait for me there.” The cabbie nodded and the taxi turned around, vanishing into the thickening fog.
Gordon hurried onto Anna Street. He didn’t want to be conspicuous, nor did he have to be: Samu would not have had anyplace to lie low, had he wanted to. At the start of Úri Street he stopped and looked around. There was no one to be seen. He then heard a soft whistle, and Samu stepped from a doorway on the far side of the street. His eyes were red, his stubble grayish, his face sunken, and his voice even raspier than usual as he said, “One Anna Street. First flat on the left.” He continued, “He was on the move all night. Lucky I took a couple of lookouts with me to Mátyás Square, or else he would have gotten away.”
Gordon nodded. “You sure made me run around. So you’re saying he first went to Ponty Street, from there to Várfok Street, and finally over here. You sure he’s in?”
Samu gave a weary nod. Gordon reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and extended a ten-pengő coin to Samu, who only shook his head. “I don’t work for you. I work for Csuli.” With that, he pulled his cap down over his eyes and, coughing, dissolved into the fog.
Gordon stopped in front of 1 Anna Street. He looked around, then opened the front door. The tiny inner courtyard was gray, neglected, run-down. To the right, a set of stairs went up, and to the left, there was a door. By the wall, a dried-up plant in a flowerpot, a threadbare doormat, and hastily swept leaves. He stepped into the courtyard. The shutters were drawn on the windows of the flat the door evidently led to. Gordon began pounding on the door. One of the shutters moved almost imperceptibly. Gordon pounded even harder. The door finally opened a crack, and Skublics’s eyes
“Where to now?” asked the cabbie with a grin.
“Ponty Street,” said Gordon.
“Shall we hurry?”
“Let’s hurry.”
At the Oktogon, Czövek turned left onto Andrássy Street, not sparing his car. The traffic here was no worse. He drove quickly by the Opera House, which was still draped in black, and then from Count István Tisza Street he turned onto the Chain Bridge. Gordon looked at the Danube. Tugboats and barges were advancing with difficulty in the low river. Fog was slowly descending upon Castle Hill. At the far end of the bridge, Czövek turned from Adam Clark Square onto Fő Street, a block in from and parallel to the river, and soon took a left onto Ponty Street.
“Where, exactly?” asked the driver, looking back.
“I don’t know,” said Gordon, shaking his head, “but wait a bit.” With that, he got out and stared at the steep series of steps that led up the side of Castle Hill to Hunyadi Street. He’d just turned around to get back in the cab when a dubious figure in a sport coat stepped up to the street from a cellar entrance.
“Your name Gordon?” Having received an affirmative reply, the man chucked away his cigarette butt and continued: “Samu is waiting for you at the start of Várfok Street.”
Gordon had no idea what to make of it all. He got back in the taxi and told Czövek where to go. Not even now did the cabbie dillydally as he raced to the far side of Castle Hill. At the start of Várfok Street they stopped, and Gordon had barely gotten out when yet another shady character stepped up to him. “Anna Street,” he said. On they went toward the top of Castle Hill.
The Mass had already begun at Matthias Church, and only a few odd tourists were left dawdling about on Holy Trinity Square. Gordon leaned forward toward Czövek. “Slow down here so I can peek down Anna Street.” Gordon knew that Anna Street was short, comprising but a few buildings. There, not even a veteran lookout like Scratchy Samu could hide. As they rolled by, Gordon saw that he was right. Having asked for the cab to stop, he added, “Czövek, you just go on back to Holy Trinity Square and wait for me there.” The cabbie nodded and the taxi turned around, vanishing into the thickening fog.
Gordon hurried onto Anna Street. He didn’t want to be conspicuous, nor did he have to be: Samu would not have had anyplace to lie low, had he wanted to. At the start of Úri Street he stopped and looked around. There was no one to be seen. He then heard a soft whistle, and Samu stepped from a doorway on the far side of the street. His eyes were red, his stubble grayish, his face sunken, and his voice even raspier than usual as he said, “One Anna Street. First flat on the left.” He continued, “He was on the move all night. Lucky I took a couple of lookouts with me to Mátyás Square, or else he would have gotten away.”
Gordon nodded. “You sure made me run around. So you’re saying he first went to Ponty Street, from there to Várfok Street, and finally over here. You sure he’s in?”
Samu gave a weary nod. Gordon reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and extended a ten-pengő coin to Samu, who only shook his head. “I don’t work for you. I work for Csuli.” With that, he pulled his cap down over his eyes and, coughing, dissolved into the fog.
Gordon stopped in front of 1 Anna Street. He looked around, then opened the front door. The tiny inner courtyard was gray, neglected, run-down. To the right, a set of stairs went up, and to the left, there was a door. By the wall, a dried-up plant in a flowerpot, a threadbare doormat, and hastily swept leaves. He stepped into the courtyard. The shutters were drawn on the windows of the flat the door evidently led to. Gordon began pounding on the door. One of the shutters moved almost imperceptibly. Gordon pounded even harder. The door finally opened a crack, and Skublics’s eyes
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