it, we sign petition. Now . . . it makes job harder, not easier.â
She clicked her mouse, then clicked again.
âYou read, Mr. Copeland? Newspaper?â
âSometimes.â
âBut not Hungarian press, I think. Or television. You know we have bogeyman here? âBudapest Bloodsuckerâ? That is name you know?â
I shook my head. âI donât know Budapest that well. Or Hungary . . .â
âIn this case, you are lucky, I think. Though that,â and for the first time, there was just the flicker of a smile, âwill change.â
She swung the monitor around so we could both see it. The screen showed thumbnails; another click, and I was looking at a large, impressive building façade; the beautiful Budapest buildings, dressed in soot. Little windows and a rainy sky. A big sign: Hollywood Hotel .
âYou know this place, Mr. Copeland? You have seen, perhaps?â
I think Iâm good at hiding my feelings; a natural poker player. Not good in relationships, but good at times like this. Even so, she watched me just a little bit too long, I felt.
I said, âIt looks familiar. I might have passed it sometime. I donât know.â
âNot luxury hotel, but good enough, I think. Above the budget of Hungarians. Of ordinary Âpeople. Of you and me.â
I nodded, pursed my lips, and tried not to incriminate myself in any way.
Â
CHAPTER 13
THE DEATH BRINGER
D etective Ganz talked on. From time to time she raised a hand and pushed her hair back from her face; a nervous gesture, as it seemed to me. She was a handsome woman, with strong, pointed features, a straight nose, tapered chin, and large, pale blue eyes. Yet she seemed harassed, her eyes offset by shadows of fatigue, her lips inclined to press together; now and then sheâd chew the lower one. She smoked a string of strong-Âsmelling cigarettes until the room grew gray. Smoking was a habit I had not so far acquired, but if I ever cared to start, I was certainly getting in some practice.
âTwo years ago,â she said.
She clicked another picture. It showed a hotel room: anonymous, a bit old-Âfashioned; familiar-Âlooking, but then, hotels often are.
âHe died in bed.â
I was looking at a puppet. A dried-Âup, broken-Âlooking puppet. It had been carefully arranged upon the bed, one elbow crooked at a peculiar angle, the sheets creased and furled around it like a nest. It had been dressed up in pajamas. From the collar, the head protruded like a wrinkled turnip. Thereâd been some crude attempt to shape it into human form, the sharp ridges of cheekbones, the radiator grill of teeth fixed grinning where the mouth should have been. Objects like yellow peas sat in the orbits of the eyes, which were deep and shadowed. Gray hair splayed across the pillow. It looked wrong, like something put together out of sticks and rags, and it lay there, lit up stark and bleak by the photographerâs flash.
She told me, âHe was forty-Âfour years old.â
I stared down at the desktop.
âDealer in jewelry and quality watches. Making good life in new Hungary. Wife, children. Probably mistress, too. Underworld connections, not one doubt; you cannot run such business otherwise. But he himself, no misdemeanor.â
I said, âYouâre sure thatâs the man?â
âSure one hundred percent.â
âBut what makes you thinkâÂlike, how can this be murder? Surely, itâs more, more . . .â
She flicked through screens. Here was a body lying on a tiled floor, mercifully covered by a sheet.
âWoman, unidentified. Probable vagrant. Only case, so far, out of city.â
I didnât want to ask. I really did not want to ask. But I said, âWhere?â
âEsztergom,â she said.
I felt myself go rigid for a moment; then I shrugged, as if Iâd never heard of it.
âThis, five months later. Three months after that,