“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 Fraulein, 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?”
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
