Free Budapest Noir by Vilmos Kondor Page A

Apponyi Square. On Károly Boulevard there were more people milling about, walking with their heads down among the sparse but well-ordered line of soldiers and police. Gordon got off at Constitution Street and headed toward Kossuth Square. All the gas and electric lights along the road were on, but every one was shrouded by a black veil. The crowd seemed to murmur in unison, as if simultaneously praying. It was a couple of minutes after nine-thirty. Gordon had arrived earlier than planned, but despite his aversion to funerals, he didn’t mind: it was a rare occasion when everyone was gathered together—both those who counted and those who did not. The uniformed honor guard that was to accompany the coffin extended in a line all the way to the main steps of the Parliament building. On the flagpoles jutting out from buildings along the route hung not only the Hungarian red, white, and green tricolor but also the flag of Gömbös’s National Unity Party. Gordon shook his head and continued toward the Parliament building. Waiting on the square were the army, infantry, artillery, and cavalry units that would march after the indoor ceremony. All at once Gordon caught the drone of airplanes. Turning his head skyward, he saw nine planes fly in formation over Kossuth Square. Despite having read the official funeral schedule earlier, this display still surprised him. The storm troopers that belonged to the police units led by Dr. Gyula Kálnay clicked their heels and saluted.
    The same detectives who’d stood at the main entrance before were there once again. Gordon nodded, and they waved him on. Several hundred wreaths lined the portico, and the guests trod slowly upward over the red-carpeted stairs.
    No sooner had Gordon ascended to the rotunda than one of his colleagues noticed him and called him over. On his way, Gordon caught a glimpse of Turcsányi standing behind a column. Having seen Gordon as well, the section editor said a few parting words to his company and approached Gordon. “Just in time” was his grumbled greeting. “Before the procession begins, I want you to interview the British and American ambassadors.” Pointing toward a group of elegantly dressed men in derby hats who were seated to the right of the bier, he added, “Hurry, they’re not going to wait for you.” Gordon nodded and went around the open coffin. He cast a sideways glance at the dead prime minister. Gömbös was lying inside decked out in the finest Hungarian ceremonial attire, surrounded by a sea of flowers, bouquets, and wreaths. Gordon recoiled. This corpulent character, this mockery of a soldier, this oldster with failing kidneys had led the country? This was a man who’d had a free pass from several European governments? This was the man who’d led the National Unity Party with an iron fist and the man whose word had made even Kálmán Kánya jump? Gordon shrugged and stepped toward the group of seated gentlemen.
    A smartly dressed man now stepped in front of Gordon with a determination that belied his servile expression. Gordon recognized him as a deputy department head in the foreign ministry, as he asked the reporter what he wanted. “To interview the British and American ambassadors,” Gordon replied. The man shook his head: not here, not now. Gordon finally left with the promise that he would be able to speak with the ambassadors during the procession. He was on his way out when the crowd suddenly fell silent. It was as if a schoolteacher had struck a classroom desk with a reed switch. Gordon slunk behind two hussars and looked on from there. For a couple of minutes nothing happened. Then came the clang of unsheathed swords, the clicking of heels, and the click-clack of stiff, soldierly steps. Gordon peered out from over the hussars’ shoulders.
    First the Bulgarian ambassador, Stoil Stoilov, stepped up to the bier and silently lowered his head. He was followed by Galeazzo Ciano, the Italian foreign minister, and Kurt