Butcher of Belgrade

Three

Early the next morning I checked out some small hotels in the Cite de Trevise, and on the third stop I ran into a little luck. Two men had registered the day before yesterday. One had been slim and the other had been a big man. The slim man had signed in as Henri Depeu, a name that matched the initials in the man’s jacket The big one had been called Navarro.

I could make some guesses by putting my scraps of information together. Depeu was to report to a man called Klaus Pfaff after he had disposed of Skopje and me. The L after gasthaus on the note probably meant Lausanne. At least that was what I had to presume. Depeu was to meet Pfaff at the time designated, midnight, and tell him how things had gone here in Paris. Presumably, Pfaff would then report to the head of Topcon. Unless Pfaff himself were the big man.

My course of action was clear to me. I would go to Lausanne because that was where the stolen monitor would go aboard the Orient Express. And I would meet Pfaff in Depeu’s place. If Pfaff himself was not the Topcon chief who would carry the device on the train, he probably would know the identity of the leader. Maybe I could persuade him to reveal that secret identity.

I could have caught the Orient Express in Paris at the Gare de Lyon, but since I expected to spend quite some time aboard later and since time was of the essence, I hired — a car to drive to Lausanne. I rented a Mercedes-Benz 280SL, a sporty yellow one that still had the new smell inside. By late morning I was out of Paris and on the road to Troyes and Dijon. The weather had warmed up, and the driving was pleasant. The countryside was rolling and green, but it became more hilly as I got closer to Switzerland.

In mid-afternoon I crossed into Switzerland, and the road became narrow and winding for a while. Snowy peaks were appearing in the distance, but they stayed in the background for the rest of the drive. Just outside Lausanne, in the grassy hills of the surrounding countryside, I spotted a car that had broken down on the shoulder of the road. A girl was looking under its hood. I pulled over and stopped, offering to help.

“Anything I can do?” I asked as I walked over to the bright blue Lotus Plus 2.

She looked up and studied me carefully. She was a beautiful, long-limbed blonde in a leather miniskirt and boots. Her hair was not quite shoulder length and had a windblown look about it. After she had focused on me for a moment, her face lit up.

“Nick!” she said. “Nick Carter!”

Now it was my turn to take a second look. “I’m afraid you have the advantage,” I said uncertainly. “I don’t believe...”

“Bonn, last year about this time,” she said in her German accent. “The Groning case. Nick, you don’t remember!”

Then I remembered, too. “Ursula?”

She smiled a wide, sexy smile.

“Ursula Bergman,” I added.

“Yes,” she answered, the smile radiating from her lovely face. “How nice of you to come along, just to aid an old friend in distress.”

“You had brown hair in Bonn,” I said. “Short, brown hair. And brown eyes.”

“This is my real hair,” she said, touching the flaxen-colored strands. “And the eyes were contact lenses.”

Ursula laughed a melodic laugh. We had worked together for about a week in Bonn and Hamburg last year to gather information on a left-wing German named Karl Groning who was suspected of passing West German military information to certain persons in East Berlin. Ursula had been on special assignment in that case. Her regular work was with a division of West German intelligence that concerned itself solely with the tracking down and apprehension of ex-Nazis who had committed war crimes. That was all AXE had told me about her, and I had had little opportunity to learn more.

“I didn’t keep up with the Groning case after I was called back to Washington,” I said. “Did the courts in Bonn find him guilty as charged?”

She nodded smugly. “He is presently whiling away his time in a German prison.”

“Good. You like to hear some happy endings to these cases occasionally. What are you doing in Switzerland, Ursula, or shouldn’t I ask?”

She shrugged her lovely shoulders. “The same old thing.”

“I see.”

“And what are you doing in Switzerland?”

I grinned. “The same old thing.”

We both laughed. It was pleasant seeing each other again. “What’s wrong with the Lotus?”

“I’m afraid the fan belt is kaput, Nick. Do you think I can beg a ride into town?”

“It would be my pleasure,” I answered.

We got into the Mercedes, and I backed out onto the road and headed for town. After I had gotten into high gear, I looked over at her as she continued talking about Karl Groning, and I saw how her breasts pushed against the jersey blouse and how the miniskirt hiked up high on her long full thighs. Ursula had blossomed since I knew her in Bonn, and the result was impressive.

“Are you stopping in Lausanne?” Ursula asked as I shifted onto a winding downgrade. The panorama of Lausanne was appearing before us, the town nestled in the hills with patches of snow from the recent winter’s snowfalls above it.

“Just tonight,” I said. “Maybe we could get together for a drink in some discreet little rathskeller.”

“Oh, I would enjoy that very much. But I’m busy this evening, and I must leave tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think your car will be ready by then?”

“I go by train in the morning,” she said.

There was only one train leaving Lausanne the next morning, and that was the Orient Express, my train. “How interesting,” I commented. “I leave by train tomorrow morning, too.”

She looked over at me with her clear blue eyes. We were both assessing the significance of this coincidence. If we had not worked together, if we were not familiar with each other’s employers, both of us would have been suspicious. But I had seen Ursula Bergman at work, and I trusted my judgment that she was no double agent.

She had already made her decision. Her eyes flashed genuine friendliness. “Why, that’s very nice, Nick. We’ll be able to have a drink together on board.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” I smiled.

When we got into town, I dropped Ursula off at the Hotel de la Paix on the Avenue B. Constant, in the heart of town, and then I drove to an innocuous little pension in the Place St. François.

When I got to my room, I opened up my luggage and started to get ready for my meeting. I was going to make myself up to look like Henri Depeu, and I had to do it from memory.

I got out the case that the Special Effects and Editing boys had given me. It was a disguise kit, an imaginative one at that. Hawk himself had put a lot of it together — he had been a disguise expert in his day. The kit included strips of plastic “skin” and various colored contact lenses, wigs and toupees, and a lot of different shades of make-up. There were even plastic scars that could be affixed to any portion of the face or body.

I set the kit up in front of the dressing-table mirror. I applied the plastic “skin” first, building up layers to thicken the bridge of my nose and lengthen the tip. Then I built up my cheekbones to make my cheeks look sunken below the build-up. After I lengthened my earlobes and chin, my face began to resemble Depeu’s. Then I put on make-up that matched his coloring, inserted brown contact lenses, and chose a light brown wig. I looked at myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t really pass for Depeu if anyone looked too closely, but I might fool Pfaff momentarily.

At eleven-thirty I drove across the Pont Besseres on Rue de la Caroline to the Gasthaus Lucerne. When I entered, I was sorry to see that there were a half dozen customers in the place.

I had no way of knowing what Klaus Pfaff looked like. I could only hope that I had beaten him there and that when he arrived, he would recognize my pseudo-Depeu face.

Twelve o’clock came, the time of the appointment, and nothing happened. A young student couple had come in and taken a table at the front, I had asked for one near the back of the room, facing the door. Five after came, and then ten after. I was beginning to think that Pfaff was not going to show or that he was already there. There was only one man alone, and he was a barrel-bellied German type. I did not think he could be Pfaff. A whole new group of customers came in, and the place was humming. I did not have the slightest idea how I would handle Pfaff under these circumstances. Quarter after twelve arrived, and I was forced to order a sandwich and beer. Just after the waiter had brought my order, the door opened, and a short, thin man entered. There appeared to be a bulge under his suit jacket. He stopped just inside the door and looked around. When his eyes found me, he started right for my table. This had to be Klaus Pfaff.

He stopped at my table and looked around the room again before seating himself. He was a nervous man, with slicked-down blondish hair and a thin scar across his left ear. “Bonjour, Klaus,” I said to him.

He seated himself across from me. “Sorry to be late,” he said. “And please speak English. You know the rules.”

He had not really looked squarely at me yet, and I was grateful. The waiter returned and took an order of knockwurst and sauerkraut from Pfaff. While that was going on, I eased Wilhelmina out of my jacket pocket and trained the Luger on Pfaff. Nobody had seen the gun yet.

The waiter was gone. Pfaff glanced at me and then peered over his shoulder. “All right. What happened in Paris?”

The idea had occurred to me when I was preparing for this meeting that Pfaff might just be the head of Topcon, the one who was to carry the stolen goods. But now that I saw him before me, I knew that he could not be the leader.

“Quite a lot happened in Paris,” I said.

My voice startled him. He focused on my face for the first time, and his eyes narrowed. I saw them size me up. Then his face changed as he gazed at my face again.

“No, I am not Henri Depeu,” I said.

Anger and fear showed plainly on his narrow face. “What is this?” he asked in a low voice.

“Where I come from, we call it truth or consequences.”

“Who are you? Where is Henri?”

“Henri is dead,” I said. “And I killed him.”

His eyes slitted down even further and his mouth twitched slightly at the corner. “I don’t know whether you are telling the truth or not. I am leaving. My meeting was with Depeu.”

He started to rise, but I stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that,” I warned.

He hesitated, still in his chair. His eyes flicked to my right arm, which held the Luger under the table.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I am holding a gun on you. And I intend to use it if you get up from that chair.”

Pfaff swallowed and studied my face. I could see his mind working, trying to figure out who I was and trying to assess my purpose. “You would not dare shoot a gun in here,” he said.

“I can be through the back entrance within fifteen seconds of your hitting the floor.” I hoped he would accept the bluff. “And I have friends waiting outside. Do you want to try me?”

The anger in his face was gone now; fear had taken control of it. He was not a brave man — which was good for me.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Information.”

He laughed nervously. “The Tourist Bureau is down the street.”

I sighed. “Be coy with me, and I’ll blow your head off.”

His grin faded. “What kind of information do you want?”

“I think we’d better discuss it in private,” I said. I reached into my jacket pocket with my free hand and threw a wad of Swiss francs to pay for our orders on the table. “The meal is on me,” I said with a small smile. “Now, I want you to get up and walk very slowly to the front entrance. I’ll be right behind you, and this gun will be aimed at your back. When we get on the street, I’ll give you further instructions.”

“Do you think you can get away with this stupid thing?” he demanded.

“You’d better hope I do.”

I stuck Wilhelmina into my pocket, and we went outside. I walked him to the Mercedes and told him to get into the driver’s seat. I got in beside him, flipped him the keys, and told him to start driving toward the edge of town.

Pfaff was getting very frightened now. But he drove the car into the green hills as I had ordered. I directed him onto a dirt road that ran off to the right into some trees and ordered him to stop when we were out of sight of the main road. When the motor was off, I turned and leveled the Luger at his head.

“You are committing suicide with this farce,” he said loudly.

“Because your Topcon hoods will get me?”

His lips worked together. That was the first time I had mentioned the organization. “That is correct,” he said flatly.

“We’ll see, but in the meantime, you’re going to cooperate with me, aren’t you?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know who is boarding the Orient Express tomorrow morning.”

“Many people.”

“I know already that Topcon’s chief is going to carry the stolen device on the train personally,” I said. “But you can tell me who he is, and give me a description of him.”

“You must be insane.” He looked incredulous.

I was not in the mood for insults. I swung the Luger down across the side of his face. He grunted and fell away from the blow as blood ran down his cheek. His breath became shallow as he grabbed at the wound.

“I don’t want any more talk like that,” I growled at him. “I want answers to the questions I ask you. And you’d better start talking fast.”

“All right,” he finally agreed. “May I smoke a cigarette?”

I hesitated. “Go ahead.” I watched closely as he took one out and lighted it. He opened the ashtray on the dash and put the match in it.

“Will you guarantee my safety if I cooperate with you?” he asked, his hand still at the ashtray.

“That’s right.”

“Then I’ll give you the name you want. It is...”

But Pfaff had no intention of telling me anything. His hand had released the catch on the ashtray and pulled it free of the dashboard. He flung the load of ashes into my face.

While my eyes were full of ashes, he hit my right arm and knocked it violently aside. He had a lot of strength for a small man. Then the car door was open, and Pfaff was out and running.

I swore aloud as I cleared my burning eyes. I still held the Luger. I stumbled out of the car. By now my eyes were clear enough to see Pfaff running headlong toward the main road.

“Stop!” I yelled, but he kept moving. I aimed a shot at his legs. The Luger roared, and the bullet kicked up at Pfaff’s feet. I had missed.

Pfaff turned and ducked into the trees to the left of the dirt road. I ran after him.

I had removed Pfaff’s shoulder gun when he had gotten into the Mercedes, so I figured I had an advantage, but I was wrong. As I moved into a small clearing, a shot rang out from Pfaff’s direction and whistled past my ear. He must have had a small gun hidden on him somewhere.

As I ducked behind a thick pine tree, I heard Pfaff moving just a few feet ahead. I started out more cautiously. I slipped the Luger into its holster, for we were very near the main road, and I did not want to add my gunfire to the noise. Besides, I wanted Pfaff alive.

After another twenty yards, just when I thought I might have lost him, Pfaff broke cover not far from me and started running off across a clearing. I decided to be less cautious. I sprinted after him, hoping he wouldn’t hear me until it was too late. As I got to within twenty feet of him, he turned and saw me. He had just raised the small automatic to aim when I hit him in a diving tackle around the waist.

The gun went off twice, missing me both times as we plummeted to the ground. We rolled around a couple of times. Then I got hold of his gun hand, and we both struggled to our feet. I rammed a fist into Pfaff’s face and twisted at the gun arm. The automatic fell from his grasp.

But Pfaff was not finished. He raised his knee savagely into my groin. While I was recovering from the blow, he broke loose, turned, and ran again.

I fought the pain in my gut and started after him. We slashed through underbrush and tree branches. I gained on him every second. Then I was hurtling myself at him again. We both went down, my hands grabbing at him and his fists pummeling my face and head. We crashed into a dead tree, which crumbled under our impact. I had a good hold on the man now, but he was still flailing with his hands. Then I smashed a fist into his face, and he fell back to the ground.

“Now, damn you, tell me the name,” I demanded breathlessly.

Pfaff reached into a pocket. I wondered what weapon he would come up with this time. I moved my forearm and let the stiletto drop into my palm as Pfaff’s hand came out of his pocket and went to his mouth.

It took me a split-second to realize what was happening. Pfaff, knowing he was a goner, had popped a cyanide capsule into his mouth. He was biting down on it.

I threw the stiletto to the ground and dropped to my knees beside him. I grabbed at his jaw and tried to pry it open, but my attempt was unsuccessful.

Then it was over. Pfaff’s eyes widened, and I felt his body go rigid in my grasp. I let go of his jaw, and it fell open. There was an unpleasant odor Then I saw the tiny rivulet of blood at the corner of his mouth and the broken glass on his tongue. Slowly, his face was turning a darker color.

Klaus Pfaff was dead.