“Just so that we understand each other, Monsieur, let me tell you what you’ve been up to. Ah, yes, I think it is all very clear.”
He pounded his fat fist on the desk. “Six weeks ago, Monsieur, you succeeded in planting Mademoiselle Torres in Marcel Blaye’s Geneva office.”
“That’s a lie,” Maria said. “I never saw him in my life before yesterday.”
It was the first time she’d spoken to Schmidt, but all he said was, “Please watch your language.
“I’m sure Mademoiselle Torres must have learned a great deal in that office,” the doctor continued. “You see, Blaye was a fool as well as a traitor. I told him Mademoiselle Torres’s father had been a Spanish Communist.”
“He wasn’t any more a Communist than you are,” Maria said. She was sitting on the edge of her chair.
Schmidt didn’t answer. He didn’t even bother to look at her.
“I do not know whether you followed Blaye and Mademoiselle Torres to Vienna,” Schmidt continued. “At any rate, you were there when they arrived. I must admit I thought I was rather clever in disposing of the late Monsieur Blaye. I do not hide the fact that I killed him. He was a traitor and he deserved to die. But I think now that I should have taken his passport before you found him.”
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” I said. I thought how fitting it was for Schmidt to invent such a story in front of the portrait of the Fuehrer, the biggest liar of all time. “I tell you I never saw Marcel Blaye, dead or alive. I bought that passport from Herr Figl.”
The doctor pretended he hadn’t heard me. “Along with the passport, you took Blaye’s reservation for the Orient Express and you stole his traveler’s checks. Mademoiselle Torres already possessed the Manila envelope. It was very clever of you to leave Vienna immediately for Budapest. You almost succeeded in covering your tracks by jumping off the train. You might have escaped me, you might have returned to Vienna, if Otto hadn’t found you.”
Otto clicked his heels.
“Monsieur, I don’t know who you are. You say you’re American. You speak German like a Berliner and French like a Frenchman. I don’t know who you’re working for but I shall find out.”
The doctor’s voice had begun to rise. He came around the desk and stood a foot or two in front of me. His little pig eyes glittered behind the thick lenses.
“You are going to tell me what you did with that envelope.”
“I told you,” I said. “I hid it on the train.”
“Who did you give it to?”
“Nobody,” I said. “I’ve told you the truth.”
“Monsieur.” By this time Schmidt’s voice was out of control. “You are going to tell me what you did with that envelope, or shall I turn you over to Otto?”
There wasn’t anything for me to say.
“There are several ways I can make you tell,” the doctor said. “How would you like me to hand you over to the Russian secret police? I think they’d like to see you at 60 Stalin ut.”
“That wouldn’t be very smart on your part,” I said. “From what I gather, the Russians are very much interested in Blaye’s envelope, too. You might have a time explaining your own presence in Hungary. Otto and Hermann are deserters from the Red Army. They’ve stolen an army car. And what do you suppose the Russian commander would think to find you sitting under a portrait of Adolf Hitler?”
Schmidt picked up the revolver from the desk. “We can always arrange to turn you over to the Russians dead.”
“That wouldn’t get you your envelope,” I said.
Schmidt was silent a moment. Then he said, in what he must have thought an offhand manner, “Where did you leave that envelope in the train?”
I shook my head. “There’s a lot more to talk about before I tell you. Anyway, you don’t believe I left it there.”
The doctor turned to Otto. “How long will it take to make him talk?”
“Bitte, Excellenz, a few minutes, perhaps.” Otto stared at me, a wide grin on his ugly face. “An hour at the most, Excellency.” He pointed to the tools on the workbenches.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Maria said. “He’s telling the truth. He did leave the envelope on the train.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I haven’t anything to hide. Besides, it would take Otto a lot longer than an hour to break me down.” I said to Schmidt, “How do you know you’ve got an hour, anyway? Suppose you put this goon to work on me. How do you know you’ve even a few minutes to spare?”
“What do you mean?” Schmidt said.
“You know the police have already found Strakhov’s body. They must have found it when the porters went through the train. They’d pick up the newspapers, they’d see the blood on the cushions. How long do you suppose it would be before they decided to search the whole train?”
Schmidt pulled on his ear.
“Even if the police don’t look for the envelope,” I said, “those international trains are always cleaned before they’re sent back to Vienna. Somebody is bound to find the envelope if you don’t hurry.”
“How do I know you’re not lying?” the doctor said.
I looked at Maria and I thought I saw encouragement in her lovely eyes. “You don’t know I’m not lying,” I said to Schmidt, “but you want that envelope and you haven’t much time to waste. You’re in a hurry. You’ve got to take a chance. You’ve got to get the envelope before the Russians get it.”
“I still think you handed it to someone on the train,” the doctor said. “What do you think, Otto?”
It was plain enough what Otto thought and what he wanted. “Please, Excellency, let me get the truth.” He hadn’t liked being called a goon. He took a couple of steps toward me.
“Listen,” I said. “It would be easy enough for me to say I gave it to someone on the train. I could invent a name. But you’d find out it wasn’t true. And the Russians would beat you to it.”
“Why are you suddenly so anxious to help?” Schmidt said. “Could it be that you don’t fancy being entertained by Otto?”
“I wouldn’t like it much,” I said. “Not under these circumstances. But I think I could handle him if you’d throw your guns away.”
“Excellency, please,” Otto said. The grin had disappeared.
I looked at my watch. “That train has been in the Keleti station more than half an hour. If the Russians haven’t found the envelope, the cleaning women will.”
Schmidt went behind the desk and stood looking at the Fuehrer’s portrait.
“Look,” I said. “I’ve told you a dozen times I’m not interested in your game. Neither is Mademoiselle Torres. You know why I’ve come to Hungary and you know why she’s here. I want to start looking for my brother. Mademoiselle Torres is anxious to get back to Geneva. We don’t want to get mixed up with the Russians any more than you do. The quicker you get your envelope, the quicker we’ll all get straightened out.”
“Suppose I send you to the railway yards with Otto?” Schmidt said. He was thinking out loud. “How do I know it isn’t a trap?”
“What kind of trap could it be?” I said. “You know the Russians and the Hungarians are looking for me and Mademoiselle Torres. I’m taking the biggest risk.”
“Hermann should return any minute,” the doctor said. “I could send Hermann and Otto to search the train.”
“You could,” I said, “but they wouldn’t know where to look. How long do you think it would take them to search a twelve-car train?”
“If I sent them both with you, you couldn’t get away,” Schmidt said. “You could be back in an hour.”
“Not here,” I said. “That isn’t part of the plan. The moment you get that envelope, Mademoiselle Torres and I
