Free Budapest Noir by Vilmos Kondor

if not, and they can stand it for three or four years, they end up in the provinces for a couple of years, and then it’s off to Belgrade. You’ve been there, too; you know what they do to Hungarian girls there.”
    Gordon nodded. “And not just Hungarians.”
    “But that’s most of them there. Before the war they got their hands on almost ten thousand Hungarian girls. Back then, Dušan Ranko led the business, now it’s his son. A couple hundred Hungarian girls wind up there every year even nowadays, and then they take them east, to Sofia, Constantinople, Baghdad.”
    “I know the story, Csuli. But that’s not why I came here.”
    “But I already told you everything I know.”
    “I wasn’t saying you’re hiding anything. Let’s start at the beginning. Who was that gentleman who bought her off you?”
    Csuli shook his head. “Gordon, even you should know that I wouldn’t tell you, even if I knew. As it happens, I don’t know.”
    “All right. Then you’ll kindly prevail upon Skublics to talk to me.”
    “What does Skublics have to do with this?” the fat man asked, staring in surprise at Gordon.
    “He took a couple of nude pictures of the girl.”
    “That type?”
    “What type?”
    “For a catalog,” replied Csuli.
    Not that Gordon had any idea, but he nodded. “That type.”
    “I figured as much,” said Csuli. “A fellow doesn’t pay five hundred pengős for a girl just for the heck of it.”
    “You see there,” said Gordon, lighting another cigarette. “How can I get Skublics to talk?”
    “That old goat? There’s not a dirtier bastard in the city. If you only knew the sort of pictures he takes—pictures that can’t even be used in a catalog. Why, he’s got private clients willing to shell out twenty or even fifty pengős for that sort of picture. And he gives the girls five pengős.”
    “I’m listening, Csuli,” said Gordon, blowing smoke.
    Csuli grappled with something for a little while, but not for long. “Only a few guys know this about him, but one of my lookouts once saw him go to a meeting.”
    “What kind of meeting?”
    “Not a scout meeting, that’s for sure.”
    “Then what?”
    “Skublics is a Communist.”
    Nodding slowly, Gordon processed this information, which, as Csuli knew full well, was worth its weight in gold. Even the police must have known how Skublics made his living. That sort of stool pigeon was useful to the detectives. But if it turned out that he was a Communist, why then, nothing could save Skublics from the state security police, headed by József Schweinitzer. And no one had escaped an encounter with them without a scratch. If they escaped at all. Most wound up in a detention camp for undesirables; Gömbös, along with Miklós Kozma, the interior minister, had made sure of that. The fewer of these types that were out in the streets, the better for everyone else. Hungary’s Communists organized themselves in tiny cells and met in the greatest secrecy—never in the same place—and it was impossible to imagine what they could be up to. Not that Gordon believed the rumors that Szilveszter Matuska, who derailed the Vienna Express on a bridge near Budapest back in 1931, killing twenty-two, was a Communist and not just insane. But he knew Skublics was now in the palm of his hand.
    “I see,” he said, looking at Csuli. “Where does he go for meetings?”
    “What do I get in exchange?” The fat man’s eyes lit up from behind his glasses.
    “I won’t write a word about you.”
    “And you’ll let me know if someone else is going to write about me for any reason.”
    “I can’t promise, but I can try.”
    “Good. Then I can try figuring out where Skublics goes for meetings.”
    “You have until eight tonight. Tomorrow I’m meeting with Vladimir Gellért.”
    “I’ll do all I can.”
    “That I believe.”
    G ordon headed down a deserted Rákóczi Street toward the Parliament building. He boarded a tram and transferred to another at