Hard Case Crime: Passport To Peril (15 page)

“Unfortunately, the envelope was not among Blaye’s possessions when he and I came face to face in Vienna. Maria Torres carried it onto the Orient Express. It was on her person when she and Herr Stodder resumed their journey from the frontier with Major Strakhov.”

He took his gun from his pocket. “Hermann,” he said, “you will get two lengths of rope from the car. And my black bag.” He turned back to Orlovska and me. “I call it my doctor bag. You’d be surprised how useful it is in emergencies.”

Schmidt knocked the safety catch off his gun.

“The point is,” he said, “that I want that envelope. And I assure you I am quite prepared to go to any lengths to get it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Orlovska said but she didn’t say it with the assurance she’d had five minutes earlier.

“I told you I don’t know where the envelope is,” I said. I started to say that I had hoped to find out from Orlovska but I managed to check my tongue in time.

Hermann was back in a minute. While Schmidt covered us, Hermann roped first Orlovska, then me to our chairs, our hands tied behind our backs. The redheaded goon took over again with the submachine gun, and Schmidt emptied the contents of the black bag on the rug in front of us. There must have been a couple of dozen stainless-steel instruments, things that resembled dentist’s pliers and surgeon’s scalpels. Schmidt arranged them in a neat row with loving care.

“Unhappily for you two,” he said, “I did not arrive early enough to hear your entire conversation. If I had, I should probably not have to threaten drastic measures to get the truth from you.

“But, as I’ve already informed you, I want that Manila envelope. I happen to want it immediately. It is immaterial to me from which of you I get the truth. If you care to discuss it among yourselves, I shall be quite content.”

The doctor drew his watch from his pocket.

“I’ll allow you three minutes to decide who’ll tell me the truth,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll need more time.”

He motioned to Hermann, and they went into a huddle at the far end of the room. I couldn’t hear what the doctor was saying but I was very conscious of the seconds ticking away.

The sight of Schmidt’s instruments on the floor and the growing realization that help was a long way off had pretty well ended Orlovska’s arrogance. Her fear of me when she thought I was my brother whom she had betrayed, her terror at the thought that I planned to reveal her Nazi associations to the Russians, had disappeared when she’d learned I was wanted for the death of Strakhov. She must have figured then that Lavrentiev wouldn’t have believed anything I told him about her. But now that she was convinced that Schmidt meant business, she was fast approaching a collapse.

“What is he going to do?” she said. “What will happen to us?” She hardly spoke above a whisper.

I wasn’t feeling too courageous myself at that moment but I was damned if I was going to let her know it.

“He’s going to use those instruments unless you tell him where to find Blaye’s envelope,” I said. “I don’t imagine we’ll enjoy the performance.”

Orlovska shuddered. “But I don’t know anything about it. I thought Blaye had it. I thought Blaye had brought it into Hungary. I didn’t know it was you. I thought Blaye had decided to welsh on the agreement. I was sure Maria Torres had talked him into welshing.”

“Think fast,” I said. “Try to remember what Lavrentiev told you.”

I had to know what she knew. Not because I wanted her to tell Schmidt. The moment the doctor learned the truth would be the moment he’d turn Hermann loose with the tommy gun. The truth would be our death sentence. The only hope we had was to find the truth, then use it as a defensive weapon against Schmidt. As long as he thought we were holding out on him, he’d keep us alive. It was a weird situation where I had to concern myself with the life of the woman who had sent my brother to his death. But I knew my salvation depended on hers. For the moment.

“Quick,” I said. “What happened today? What did Lavrentiev tell you? We haven’t much time.”

The shiny instruments on the floor seemed to fascinate her the way a serpent is supposed to hypnotize a rabbit. She’d gotten by, all her life, on her physical charm and her wits. For the first time, she was facing an opponent who wasn’t interested.

“We expected Blaye on the afternoon train,” she said slowly. “Lavrentiev and I went to Keleti to meet Strakhov and Blaye and Mademoiselle Torres.”

“What happened?” I said. “What did you do?” Schmidt was still talking to Hermann in low tones.

“Nothing,” she said. “You didn’t arrive.” It was like the cub reporter who phoned the office to say there was no story because the bride hadn’t shown up at the wedding.

“You must have done something,” I said. “What did you do when you heard Strakhov had been murdered?”

“My God,” Orlovska said. “What difference does it make?”

“Tell me,” I said. “What did you and Lavrentiev do when you heard Strakhov was dead?”

“Lavrentiev ordered an alarm broadcast for you and Maria Torres.”

“Then what did you do?” I said. “You’ve got to think faster.”

“Then we went to Jozsefvaros.” Jozsefvaros is a freight station between suburban Kelenfold, where Maria and I and Schmidt had left the train, and the main Keleti terminal.

“Jozsefvaros?” I said. “Why did you go there?”

“That’s where the car was.”

“What car?”

“The railroad car where Strakhov was murdered. They took it to Jozsefvaros. They took it away from Keleti as soon as the train was empty.

“What railroad car?” she said. “My God, how stupid can you get?”

I could get pretty stupid. But so could Hiram Carr and Herr Doktor Schmidt. All three of us had possessed the answer to the whereabouts of the Manila envelope and none of us had recognized it.

Obviously the MVD would want to photograph Strakhov’s body and its position. They’d try to get fingerprints. They’d examine the luggage we’d left behind, the clothing that had been scattered by Schmidt in his frantic search for the envelope after the murder. The natural course was to haul the death car to another station; there would be too many curious travelers in Keleti and it would hardly be convenient to lug cameras, lights, and fingerprint equipment into the snowbound yards.

I had counted three Austrian carriages in the yards. But there had been plenty of time to substitute another car in the train for the run back to Vienna. That accounted for the fact that the sticker
Reserved for the Embassy of the USSR
hadn’t been in any of the cars I’d searched with Hermann and Otto. The sticker hadn’t been removed but the carriage had.

Marcel Blaye’s envelope with Dr. Schmidt’s secrets was still behind the cushion in a first-class Austrian railway car, in a compartment decorated with the scenic delights of Salzburg and Innsbruck. Because the MVD had no reason to look for the envelope in another compartment. The killer, still known officially as Marcel Blaye, the identification reinforced by the tags on my bags and the labels in my clothing, would have vanished with the envelope at Kelenfold. It was his property. What reason would he have to leave it behind? Why murder, why flight, except to welsh on his deal?

Hiram Carr knew about the envelope because he’d seen me duck into the end compartment. Schmidt knew I’d left it in the car because I’d told him. But we’d searched the wrong carriages in the Keleti yards. The right one was a mile away, sealed and guarded on a freight-station sidetrack by the Russians, who didn’t know what they had.

I was sure Orlovska hadn’t realized the significance of what she’d told me. Even if she’d possessed the background information to make two and two equal four, her nervous and mental state at the moment was hardly conducive to thought. The sight of the German doctor’s stainless-steel instruments and the thought of what he intended to do with them threatened to reduce her to a gibbering idiot.

Schmidt and Hermann recrossed the room to us.

“So,” the doctor said, “you have made up your minds to tell me everything.” It wasn’t a question. There just hadn’t been any room in his mind for doubt.

I didn’t answer. Apparently Orlovska was too frightened for speech. But Schmidt had time.

“You know,” he said with a broad grin, “this is a most amusing situation. I am a German. Countess Orlovska works for the Russians, and Herr Stodder is an American. You represent Germany’s conquerors in the recent, shall we say, battle. Yet you are both my prisoners, answerable to my commands. Shall we call it prophetic symbolism?”

The uneasy suspicion had been growing in my mind, ever since the doctor took Maria and me to his warehouse hideout, that he was more than just a die-hard German nationalist. I had begun to believe he was a madman.

Schmidt wiped his spectacles again. His tiny pig eyes gleamed.

“Now,” he said. “You will please tell me what you have done with Marcel Blaye’s envelope.”

“I know where it is,” I said.

“Where?”

“It’s in the railway car where I left it,” I said.

Schmidt hit me across the face with the back of his hand.

“You told me that a few hours ago,” the doctor said. “How stupid do you think I am? You led one of my men to his death because I took a chance on that story. Oh, no, Herr Stodder, you will have to do better than that. Where is the envelope?”

“I just told you,” I said.

I still don’t think it was a bad idea. He’d been burned once. He wouldn’t believe it again unless—unless Orlovska explained it to him. He’d use those instruments on us but he’d be very careful to keep us alive as long as he thought we were holding back on him. Looking back, I think it was smart to tell him right away. He wouldn’t credit any confession I would make under torture. And I didn’t know what to do at that moment if it wasn’t to stall for time.

Schmidt turned to Orlovska. She was wide-eyed with fear.

“Speak up, Gnaedige Fräulein,” the doctor said. “Where is the Manila envelope?”

“I don’t know,” Orlovska said. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The doctor stepped back and looked at us both.

“So,” he said. “Very well. We shall proceed with our little entertainment. I think it only fair to tell you that I am an expert. You see, as a graduate veterinarian I served some years at Dachau.”

The doctor and Hermann picked me up in my chair and carried me into the center of the room. I was to get the first workout. Schmidt must have figured that if I didn’t know where the envelope was, the sight of my suffering would cause Orlovska to break down before her turn arrived.

The first time I’d been the doctor’s prisoner I’d told him truthfully that I wasn’t the least interested in Marcel Blaye’s envelope. I’d blurted out the real story of my visit to Hungary. I’d told him everything and I’d offered to get the envelope and turn it over to him. All I’d asked in return was the release of Maria Torres and myself so that Maria could return safely to Geneva while I started my search for my brother.

Now I knew what had happened to Bob. The female Judas who had sold him for German promises was only a few feet away from me, bound like me and about to be tortured by a madman. I didn’t care what happened to her but I did care about what Schmidt should learn. There was loyalty to Hiram Carr and to my country. Carr had saved my life. And there was loyalty to Maria Torres and a good deal more than loyalty, too. Schmidt had double-crossed us both. He never had any intention of freeing us in return for the cursed envelope. He’d told Hermann and Otto to shoot me to death in the railway yards as soon as I handed over the envelope. He’d kidnapped Maria, maybe even given her the treatment he was about to administer to me.

Schmidt selected a gleaming instrument from the row on the floor. He held it in front of the light so that Orlovska and I might have a good look. It was a long, thin steel needle.

“This is something I worked out myself,” the doctor said. “I think you’ll appreciate my ingenuity.”

Time from then on was only a blur. Each time I fainted, Hermann threw cold water in my face to revive me. There was nothing brave about me. I repeated the truth and Schmidt didn’t believe it. He used half a dozen instruments. There came a time when I prayed that he’d recognize the truth and let me remain unconscious. But I couldn’t tell him about the Austrian coach that had been hauled to Jozsefvaros. The words came readily to my lips. It was only that each time I gathered strength to utter them I saw the face of Maria Torres, the trusting wide-set black eyes, the slightly hollowed cheeks, and the firm line of her jaw, the way she’d believed me when I’d told my story, the way she’d drawn my face down to hers to kiss me.

I was scarcely aware of being moved back to the wall; I suppose I guessed vaguely that I was being given a breathing-spell when Orlovska’s screams told me she was next. I was drugged with pain. It was some minutes before I managed to raise my head.

I don’t know whether I’ve explained that the sitting room, like the hallway, ran the full depth of the house. I think that was true of all the rooms on the ground floor. There were the usual windows in the front of the house. There were French doors in the back, opening onto a porch which ran the width of the building.

When Schmidt and Hermann had carried me back from the center of the room, they had placed my chair in front of one of the French windows.

It was almost worse to hear Orlovska’s agony than it had been to be on the receiving end of the doctor’s entertainment. I kept telling myself she was only getting for the first time what she had helped hand out a dozen times. She had sent my brother to his death. She was a woman completely without principle, a mercenary who used her body and her wits in the service of the highest bidder. Still she was a woman.

“You lousy bastard,” I called to Schmidt. It wasn’t the first name I’d used for him. “She doesn’t know anything. There isn’t a thing she can tell you. I’ve told you the truth. For God’s sake, let her alone.”

Schmidt didn’t bother to answer. But Hermann jammed the butt of his tommy gun into my stomach, and I passed out again. When I came to, he said, “That’s for Otto.”