Death’s Visage

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1888. May 21. Monday. Budapest.

9:30 a.m.

“How’s Carnot faring with his Third Republic?” I asked Róbert, my friend who owned the clothier’s next door, for he and I enjoyed sparring on the finer points of French politics.

I’d arrived at the coffeehouse on Andrássy Avenue late that gray morning, and he was already sitting at a window table where I joined him. He was reading a copy of Le Figaro, the Parisian daily. Newspapers from Vienna, Paris, and Berlin had become de rigueur for the fashionable Budapest coffeehouses, and as the proprietor of Café Nádasdy, I worked hard to satisfy my clientèle.

János arrived with my coffee and I motioned for him to check on the group of men sitting toward the back. Our resident intelligentsia always needed looking after.

But Róbert tossed aside my question and went straight to his agenda. “I’ve someone coming to meet you.”.

I gestured to the crowded tables and said, “We’re very busy this morning.”

Róbert set the paper down. “This will only take a moment. The man has a problem that will interest you.”

Nine years prior, I’d served in the Royal Hungarian Honvéd at Sarajevo, and Róbert knew of the investigations I conducted for Feldzeugmeister Filipović, for we were close. But I’d walked away from all that, and Róbert couldn’t accept I was peddling coffee to socialites.

“The gossip in here is enough,” I said. “I don’t need other people’s problems.”

“Baron Tamás Havas. Do you know him?”

The mention of titled nobility caused my nose to wrinkle. Despite the rise of a new aristocracy in Budapest, self-made with money from manufacturing and trade, the ancient land-owning nobility persisted.

 “The weather is chasing away my en terrasse customers.” Ignoring Róbert’s question, I looked away to the rain-soaked street and sipped my coffee.

“He’s a collector of all things at once hideous and valuable.” Róbert’s voice was almost a whisper, as if he were confiding a customer’s measurements to an assistant.

“Hagyjon békén! Leave me be!” In my frustration, I set the spoon down on my saucer with a clack. A little of the coffee spilled.

Róbert waited for me to meet his eyes. “In the Honvéd, you thrived on puzzling out where a run-away soldier had disappeared to, or what sergeant was selling goods on the black market.”

“I’m older now, and I don’t miss those days.”

“Yes, you’re a pensioner at thirty-three,” he snapped, rolling his eyes. “Look here. Coffeehouse life doesn’t suit you.”

Just then a broad-shouldered young man was standing over our table, dressed in a gray wool suit that drew out his steel-blue eyes.

“Ah, here he is.” Róbert stood and moved his homburg from the vacant chair.

“Baron Havas,” I said, giving him a slight nod.

“Heavens, no,” the man replied. “I’m György Vaskó, his secretary.”

His expression was serious, but carried a sense of amusement, as though he’d recognized an original turn of phrase lost on present company.

“Lieutenant Nádasdy, I’m eager to meet you. I understand you investigate … difficult situations,” he said and sat in the vacant chair.

“Please, call me Máté. I left the Honvéd years ago, and I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“He’ll be interested when he hears about the case,” Róbert said. “Just listen, Máté.”

“This is a complicated affair, so I can understand your reluctance,” György said.

“Sorry to waste your time.” I lifted my cup for another sip.

“Tell him,” Róbert urged György.

I sighed in a moment of weakness, and the corners of Róbert’s mouth turned up…

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