Passport To Peril

TALK—OR DIE

Orlovska screamed again. She seemed to have limitless emotion.

“Yell your head off, Gnaedige Fräulein,” Schmidt said sarcastically. “And don’t waste your time pushing that button. Your servants are in no position to answer.”

I wondered how long he’d been in the house and how much he’d heard of our conversation.

“Most interesting to find you two together,” the doctor said. “It should prove most profitable—to me.”

His voice came nearer. He had moved to the back of the sofa.

“Hermann will place two chairs against the far wall,” he said. There followed the business of Hermann moving the chairs.

“You will kindly walk to the chairs. Don’t drop your hands or I shall shoot. Perhaps, since Countess Orlovska is the hostess, you, Herr Stodder, should sit on her right. Yes, I think that appeals to my sense of humor.”

Schmidt perched on the end of the sofa, his stumpy legs scarcely reaching the floor. The light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows on his gold-rimmed spectacles. He didn’t bother to remove his gray Homburg.

This time, Schmidt and Hermann had come loaded for bear. The doctor carried an automatic pistol. Hermann carried a submachine gun.

“What have you done with Maria Torres?” I said. “Where is she?”

Schmidt grinned. “Aren’t you being a little indelicate, Herr Stodder, bringing up the name of Mademoiselle Torres in front of the Countess Orlovska? I suppose, though, you Americans always manage to combine business with pleasure.”

“Mademoiselle Torres?” Orlovska said. It hadn’t taken her long to regain her composure. She was an old campaigner. “You mean Marcel Blaye’s secretary?”

“The doctor is holding her prisoner,” I said.

“Frankly,” Orlovska said, “I don’t care what happens to Mademoiselle Torres.” She leaned forward in her chair. “But where is Marcel Blaye?”

Hermann snorted. Schmidt said, “Never mind, Hermann. It pleases me to let them talk. We’ve got lots of time.” From the expression on the redheaded Hermann’s ugly face, he couldn’t wait to finish me off with his tommy gun.

“Doctor Schmidt murdered Marcel Blaye in Vienna,” I said. “Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

Orlovska showed no emotion. She was plenty tough.

“That is something you might have difficulty in proving,” the doctor said. “But as long as we’re on the subject of Herr Blaye, you might explain to the countess how you came to enter Hungary on Blaye’s passport. You might tell her how you came to know Mademoiselle Torres so well.” He pushed his hat back on his bullet head. “And how you came into possession of the famous Manila envelope. That is a question that we shall have to discuss sooner or later.”

“But I don’t understand,” Orlovska said. Astonishment was written all over her face. “What did you have to do with Marcel Blaye?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I never heard of the man until the day before yesterday.”

Schmidt was enjoying the situation thoroughly. He could hardly contain his laughter.

“He says he came to Hungary to trace his brother,” the doctor said to Orlovska. “He says his brother was shot down in an American bombing plane during the war.”

“Oh, my God,” Orlovska said. “Then you aren’t Bob Stodder?”

“My name is John Stodder,” I said, “and I did come to try to find Bob. Thanks to you I know what happened. You sent him to his death.”

The countess let loose with a string of unprintable words. “You tricked me,” she said.

“I didn’t trick you at all,” I said. “I assure you it was a family resemblance and your own dirty conscience that made you talk.”

Schmidt laughed. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.”

“So one of you killed Blaye?” Orlovska said. “How do you think you’ll get away with it?”

“Doctor Schmidt also killed Major Strakhov,” I said.

“But it’s you the Russians are looking for,” Schmidt said. “They seem to think you did it. I think you’d have some difficulty in proving otherwise. I assume you’ve seen the posters and heard the broadcasts?”

“Colonel Lavrentiev will have you both shot,” Orlovska said. “He never asks for proof.”

“I don’t think your Colonel Lavrentiev will have anything to do with our little drama,” Schmidt said. “I think we shall have solved our problems long before he sobers up.”

“You don’t think you can get away from this house?” the countess said. “My servants are armed.”

“Your servants were armed,” Schmidt said. “Hermann and I took the precaution of tying them securely before we joined your little party.”

“My chauffeur is due back any minute.”

Schmidt shook his head. “Ah, no, Gnaedige Fräulein. Your chauffeur has gone for the night. You see, he has been working for me for a long time. That’s how you came to get such a capable man.”

The doctor removed his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. He dropped the gun into his pocket. “I think Hermann has sufficient artillery for any situation,” he said.

“Isn’t that the telephone ringing?” Orlovska said.

“If it is,” Dr. Schmidt said, “it’s a miracle because Hermann cut the wires.”

He pulled at his ear.

“I think we’ve had enough of this comedy,” Schmidt said thoughtfully. “I think the time has come to get down to business.

“Herr Stodder, you were, shall we say, a guest of mine earlier this evening. I was foolish enough not to listen to Otto. I should have indulged his fancy. I think now he would have found a way to make you tell the truth. But I made one of the few mistakes of my life. I let you talk me into sending you into the railway yards with Hermann and Otto. I must admit I underestimated you. You led my men into an ambush, and it cost Otto his life.”

“You told them to kill me when they got the envelope,” I said. “I didn’t find the envelope. It wasn’t there. And you never had any intention of waiting at the coffeehouse with Maria Torres. You didn’t wait five minutes after I left.”

“I don’t think we’re interested in details,” Schmidt said. “I don’t know who your friends were but it isn’t of the slightest importance at the moment.”

He turned to Orlovska.

“This is the first time we’ve met,” the doctor said, “although one could hardly say we were strangers. We’ve known about each other for a long time, haven’t we?”

Orlovska didn’t answer him. She didn’t appear worried. I’m sure she expected help to arrive any minute although I can’t imagine what she thought Hermann would do with that tommy gun if the Russians did come.

“You have put me to a great deal of trouble,” Schmidt continued. “If it hadn’t been for you, Marcel Blaye would be alive tonight.”

Orlovska laughed. She was a cool cucumber, I’ll say that for her. She said, “If you think you can pin a murder on me, you’re crazy. Lavrentiev knows I haven’t been out of Hungary in a year.”

“You mustn’t take me literally,” Schmidt said patiently. “I killed Marcel Blaye. I killed him because he was a traitor and he deserved to die. But he sold out to the Russians because of you. You are a beautiful woman, Gnaedige Fräulein, and you know how to use your wits.”

“Thank you,” Orlovska said.

“Not at all,” the doctor said. “But you’ve also got the morals of a pig.”

The countess started to say something, but Schmidt stopped her with a wave of his hand.

“I know all about you so you can save your breath. You worked for the German Army during the war, here in Hungary. Then you went over to the Russians when the Red Army took over this country. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you had made a deal with Herr Stodder to work for the Americans.

“But all that is beside the point. You made a traitor out of Marcel Blaye. You arranged for him to sell out to the Russians.”

Schmidt resumed his perch on the end of the sofa.

“When Marcel Blaye left Geneva, he carried a Manila envelope. He was planning to deliver it to Colonel Lavrentiev through the Countess Orlovska.

“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?”