“Yes,” said Teensy. “Uh, yes.”
“Folks, my name is Hiram Carr—Hiram G. Carr, to be exact. I’d like you to shake hands with Mrs. Carr.” Teensy had a grip like a stevedore. “Married twenty years next February, folks. More in love than ever. Hope you young folks’ll be as happy as we are. Isn’t that right, Teensy?”
“Uh-huh,” Teensy said.
Hiram Carr reminded me of a well-groomed sparrow. He looked to be somewhere in his early fifties. His high-pitched voice came from an incredibly small body. A good foot shorter than I, Carr had a round, pink baby face. Twinkling blue eyes shone through pince-nez, the first I’d seen in years that carried a thin gold chain hooked over one ear. His sparse gray hair, parted in the middle, looked as if it might have been barbered by Teensy, an extraordinary exhibit herself. Nearly six feet tall and big all over, she must have been a good ten years younger than her husband. Her abundant yellow hair, obviously dyed, was swept on top of her square head and held more or less in place with big black hairpins. Her expressionless face might have been made of granite with a bright dab of orange rouge on each cheek.
“What’s your name if I may inquire?” Hiram Carr said.
“Blaye,” I said, “Marcel Blaye.” Maria bit her lip.
“Morris Blaine?” Hiram said. “Why that’s an American name, Blaine. We had a fellow run for president once named Blaine. Didn’t make the grade, though. Isn’t that so, Teensy?”
“Uh-huh,” Teensy said. She seemed a good deal more interested in the scenery.
“I’m Swiss,” I said. Maria dropped her fork. I looked at the Carrs and thought
The waiter brought the soup, but Hiram G. Carr went right on talking.
“What’s your line if I may ask, Mr. Blaine?”
I looked at Maria. “Watches and clocks,” I said. “What’s yours, Mr. Carr?”
“That’s a good business,” Hiram said. “I almost forgot all you Swiss are in clocks or cheese.” He enjoyed a small chuckle. “Well now, Mr. Blaine, I’m a diplomat you might say. Oh, I’m not one of those fellows goes to tea parties in striped pants. Fact is, Mr. Blaine, I’m the agricultural man at the American legation in Budapest. Been a practical farmer all my life and my father and grandfather before me. Isn’t that right, Teensy?”
“Uh-huh,” said Teensy, her mouth half full of bread.
“Where you folks putting up in Budapest?” Hiram asked.
“The Bristol,” I said. I knew it was the only hotel on the Corso that hadn’t been destroyed in the siege.
The meat course succeeded the soup, then fruit and cheese and coffee, but Hiram Carr twittered through it all. He talked about the Hungarian wheat crop, told us how apricots are made into barack, discussed the manufacture of paprika, tokay wines, and potato brandy, and the correct way to cook a fogash. At least it kept my mind off the catastrophe impending in Budapest until I looked at my watch and saw we were within half an hour of the city. I called the waiter and had him bring me a newspaper.
“You won’t mind if I attend to a little business?” I said to Hiram. “We’re combining business with pleasure on this trip.”
Although I could see the back of Strakhov’s thin neck from where I sat, I wanted the newspaper handy in case he should come to our table. I figured I could hide the contents of Marcel Blaye’s Manila envelope by quickly folding over the paper.
I held the newspaper in front of me with my left hand, broke the seals, and slit open the envelope with the table knife. I lifted out a thick wad of typewritten sheets and placed them on the unfolded newspaper. At that moment, Strakhov left the dining car.
My hands were trembling, and I couldn’t have lifted a glass of water to my lips without spilling it; but Maria was telling the Carrs about life in Geneva, and nobody seemed to notice my nervousness. I knew there had to be some vital information in that envelope, some clue to the mess we were in, something that would give me a defensive weapon in dealing with Countess Orlovska. I don’t know just what I expected to find. But I wasn’t prepared for what was on the typewritten sheets in front of me. Names and addresses in alphabetical order:
And so on through the alphabet. There were more than one hundred names with addresses scattered throughout Hungary. And heading each page was the German word for watchmaker.
I don’t know how long I sat there with my chin in my hands, staring at those lists, trying to make something out of them. I returned to reality when Maria nudged me.
“The waiter says they’re closing the dining car. I think we’d better get back.”
I replaced the lists and wrapped the envelope in the newspaper and followed Maria, Teensy, and Hiram G. Carr down the aisle and through the third-class coaches. There was no sign of Herr Doktor Schmidt.
Hiram Carr turned to me just before we reached our compartment. I was glad he wasn’t going to see the sticker,
“Now don’t you young folks go and forget us. It’s been a real pleasure. The name is Hiram Carr—Hiram G. Carr to be exact—and you’ll always find me at the American legation. You say you’re stopping at the Bristol? Well, you’ll get a ring from us real soon. We’d like to have you two lovebirds take pot luck with us. Isn’t that right, Teensy?”
“Uh-huh,” said Teensy.
When Maria and I reached our compartment the door was closed. I took her by the arm and walked up the corridor.
“It’s no use,” I said. “There’s nothing in that damned envelope except the addresses of a lot of watchmakers, pharmacists, and garagekeepers. There couldn’t be another envelope? Are you sure you got the right one?”
Maria said, “That’s the right envelope. It’s the only one Monsieur Blaye gave me.”
I bent down and kissed her. “I’ve really gotten you into something this time. When we arrive, just let me handle everything. Don’t say a word. I don’t think they’ll have anything against you.” I thought maybe I ought to tell my troubles to Hiram Carr. He might have helped at the American legation. But, after my story in the dining car, there wasn’t any way for me to prove I was American. And there wasn’t any time. We were already running through the outer suburbs of Budapest.
I slid open the door of our compartment and stood aside to let Maria enter. I thought it curious that the light was off and the shades pulled down but I supposed Strakhov was taking a nap. It was time to wake him.
I put out my hand and switched on the overhead light. Strakhov was in the corner, his hands folded on his lap and his eyes closed. The compartment looked as if a cyclone had hit it. Our baggage had been pulled off the racks and our belongings were scattered all over the seats and the floor. If the major wanted to examine our baggage, he might have done a neater job.
I put my hand on Strakhov’s shoulder to wake him.
Maria would have screamed if I hadn’t clapped my hand over her mouth. Strakhov’s body was still warm, but there wasn’t any doubt he’d never be any deader. There was a knife with a handle a foot long in his back.
I moved faster than I’d ever moved in my life.
“Stuff those things into the bags,” I told Maria. I had to make her act before she became hysterical. “It doesn’t make any difference how. Just clean up the place and hurry.”
I picked Strakhov up under the shoulders and dumped him on the floor, under the window. I tried to pull out the knife, why I’ll never know, but it wouldn’t come. I tried the seat cushions and they lifted and there was space enough to cram the Russian’s body.
By the time I’d replaced the cushions, Maria had finished the baggage. I threw the bags back up on the racks. There was a bright red stain on the cushion where Strakhov had been, but I covered it with pages of the Budapest newspaper. There wasn’t any hope of hiding things indefinitely. I only thought we might gain enough time to leave the train and the station before the train crew caught on.
We heard the conductor in the corridor shouting “Kelenfold, Kelenfold,” and the engineer started braking for
