“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?”
Chapter Thirteen
HORRIBLE TORTURE
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 equipment into the snowbound yards.
I had counted three Austrian carriages in the yards. But there had been plenty of time to substitute another car in the train for the run back to Vienna. That accounted for the fact that the sticker Reserved for the Embassy of the USSR hadn’t been in any of the cars I’d searched with Hermann and Otto. The sticker hadn’t been removed but the carriage had.
Marcel Blaye’s envelope with Dr. Schmidt’s secrets was still behind the cushion in a first-class Austrian railway car, in a compartment decorated with the scenic delights of Salzburg and Innsbruck. Because the MVD had no reason to look for the envelope in another compartment. The killer, still known officially as Marcel Blaye, the identification reinforced by the tags on my bags and the labels in my clothing, would have vanished with the envelope at Kelenfold. It was his property. What reason would he have to leave it behind? Why murder, why flight, except to welsh on his deal?
Hiram Carr knew about the envelope because he’d seen me duck into the end compartment. Schmidt knew I’d left it in the car because I’d told him. But we’d searched the wrong carriages in the Keleti yards. The right one was a mile away, sealed and guarded on a freight-station sidetrack by the Russians, who didn’t know what they had.
I was sure Orlovska hadn’t realized the significance of what she’d told me. Even if she’d possessed the background information to make two and two equal four, her nervous and mental state at the moment was hardly conducive to thought. The sight of the German doctor’s stainless-steel instruments and the thought of what he intended to do with them threatened to reduce her to a gibbering idiot.
Schmidt and Hermann recrossed the room to us.
“So,” the doctor said, “you have made up your minds to tell me everything.” It wasn’t a question. There just hadn’t been any room in his mind for doubt.
I didn’t answer. Apparently Orlovska was too frightened for speech. But Schmidt had time.
“You know,” he said with a broad grin, “this is a most amusing situation. I am a German. Countess Orlovska works for the Russians, and Herr Stodder is an American. You represent Germany’s conquerors in the recent, shall we say, battle. Yet you are both my prisoners, answerable to my commands. Shall we call it prophetic symbolism?”
The uneasy suspicion had been growing in my mind, ever since the doctor took Maria and me to his warehouse hideout, that he was more than just a die-hard German nationalist. I had begun to believe he was a madman.
Schmidt wiped his spectacles again. His tiny pig eyes gleamed.
“Now,” he said. “You will please tell me what you have done with Marcel Blaye’s envelope.”
“I know where it is,” I said.
“Where?”
“It’s in the railway car where I left it,” I said.
Schmidt hit me across the face with the back of his hand.
“You told me that a few hours ago,” the doctor said. “How stupid do you think I am? You led one of my men to his death because I took a chance on that story. Oh, no, Herr Stodder, you will have to do better than that. Where is the envelope?”
“I just told you,” I said.
I still don’t think it was a bad idea. He’d been burned once. He wouldn’t believe it again unless—unless Orlovska explained it to him. He’d use those instruments on us but he’d be very careful to keep us alive as long as he thought we were holding back on him. Looking back, I think it was smart to tell him right away. He wouldn’t credit any confession I would make under torture. And I didn’t know what to do at that moment if it wasn’t to stall for time.
Schmidt turned to Orlovska. She was wide-eyed with fear.
“Speak up, Gnaedige Fräulein,” the doctor said. “Where is the Manila envelope?”
“I don’t know,” Orlovska said. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
The doctor stepped back and looked at us both.
“So,” he said. “Very well. We shall proceed with our little entertainment. I think it only fair to tell you that I am an expert. You see, as a graduate veterinarian I served some years at Dachau.”
The doctor and Hermann picked me up in my chair and carried me into the center of the room. I was to get the first workout. Schmidt must have figured that if I didn’t know where the envelope was, the sight of my suffering would cause Orlovska to break down before her turn arrived.
The first time I’d been the doctor’s prisoner I’d told him truthfully that I wasn’t the least interested in Marcel Blaye’s envelope. I’d blurted out the real story of my visit to Hungary. I’d told him everything and I’d offered to get the envelope and turn it over to him. All I’d asked in return was the release of Maria Torres and myself so that Maria could return safely to Geneva while I started my search for my brother.
Now I knew what had happened to Bob. The female Judas who had sold him for German promises was only a few feet away from me, bound like me and about to be tortured by a madman. I didn’t care what happened to her but I did care about what Schmidt should learn. There was loyalty to Hiram Carr and to my country. Carr had saved my life. And there was loyalty to Maria Torres and a good deal more than loyalty, too. Schmidt had double-crossed us both. He never had any intention of freeing us in return for the cursed envelope. He’d told Hermann and Otto to shoot me to death in the railway yards as soon as I handed over the envelope. He’d kidnapped Maria, maybe even given her the treatment he was about to administer to me.
Schmidt selected a gleaming instrument from the row on the floor. He held it in front of the light so that Orlovska
and I might have a good look. It was a long, thin steel needle.
“This is something I worked out myself,” the doctor said. “I think you’ll appreciate my ingenuity.”
Time from then on was only a blur. Each time I fainted, Hermann threw cold water in my face to revive me. There was nothing brave about me. I repeated the truth and Schmidt didn’t believe it. He used half a dozen instruments. There came a time when I prayed that he’d recognize the truth and let me remain unconscious. But I couldn’t tell him about the Austrian coach that had been hauled to Jozsefvaros. The words came readily to my lips. It was only that each time I gathered strength to utter them I saw the face of Maria Torres, the trusting wide-set black eyes, the slightly hollowed cheeks, and the firm line of her jaw, the way she’d believed me when I’d told my story, the way she’d drawn my face down to hers to kiss me.
I was scarcely aware of being moved back to the wall; I suppose I guessed vaguely that I was being given a breathing-spell when Orlovska’s screams told me she was next. I was drugged with pain. It was some minutes before I managed to raise my head.
I don’t know whether I’ve explained that the sitting room, like the hallway, ran the full depth of the house. I think that was true of all the rooms on the ground floor. There were the usual windows in the front of the house. There were French doors in the back, opening onto a porch which ran the width of the building.
When Schmidt and Hermann had carried me back from the center of the room, they had placed my chair in front of one of the French windows.
It was almost worse to hear Orlovska’s agony than it had been to be on the receiving end of the doctor’s entertainment. I kept telling myself she was only getting for the first time what she had helped hand out a dozen times. She had sent my brother to his death. She was a woman completely without principle, a mercenary who used her body and her wits in the service of the highest bidder. Still she was a woman.
“You lousy bastard,” I called to Schmidt. It wasn’t the first name I’d used for him. “She doesn’t know anything. There isn’t a thing she can tell you. I’ve told you the truth. For God’s sake, let her alone.”
Schmidt didn’t bother to answer. But Hermann jammed the butt of his tommy gun into my stomach, and I passed out again. When I came to, he said, “That’s for Otto.”
The doctor let up on Orlovska every minute or so.
“Where is the envelope? What did you do with the envelope? Where is it?”
Orlovska shook her head.
“Did you find it in the railway car?” When she didn’t answer, he slapped her face.
“Did Colonel Lavrentiev find it in the railway car?”
She shook her head.
“Is it here? Did Stodder bring it here?”
“Oh, my God,” Orlovska said. I could hardly hear her voice.
“Was it on Strakhov’s body? Have the Russians got it?”
Schmidt slapped her again. Orlovska said, “No.”
“What did Stodder tell you about the envelope? What did he say? What did he tell you about it?”
But Orlovska was unconscious.
It was at that moment that I became aware of sound behind me, on the other side of the French window. Someone or something was walking on the wooden porch.
Chapter Fourteen
DRUGGED WITH PAIN
I thought my imagination was playing tricks on me. I’d taken terrific punishment.
I heard the sound again. It could have been a shutter creaking in the wind.
Hermann brought Orlovska around with the water treatment.
“Where is the envelope?” Schmidt said again. Why didn’t the bastard put it to music? “What did you do with the envelope?”
I was sure I heard the sound once more on the porch behind me. It was probably a dog seeking shelter from the snow.
“Did you visit the railroad car?”
I thought, Here it comes.
Orlovska said yes.
“Did you go with Colonel Lavrentiev?” I held my breath.
Orlovska nodded her head.
I felt that someone was looking through the window in back of me. I thought my fevered imagination was running wild.
“When did you go with Lavrentiev?” Schmidt asked Orlovska.
“This evening,” she said in a barely audible voice. “Early in the evening.”
The doctor’s next question had to be “Where?” I listened but there was no sound from the porch behind me save the rustling of the wind.
“While the train was in the station?” the doctor said. “Answer me. While the train was in the Keleti station?” I figured he was trying to establish the time of her visit.
“No,” Orlovska said.
“Then you boarded the train in the yards?” He wanted to know whether she and the chief of the MVD had visited the train before or after I had gone with his two goons.
The countess shook her head.
“I see we shall have to employ more drastic treatment,” Schmidt said, “until you decide which it is. You tell me you boarded the train with Lavrentiev. You refuse to tell where or when.”
He picked up another instrument from the rug. It looked like an enormous pair of pliers, a machine to break bones. He held it in front of Orlovska and slapped her ashen face until she raised her head and opened her eyes.
“Jozsefvaros,” she said.
Schmidt slapped her again. “Fool. Passenger trains don’t stop at Jozsefvaros.”
Hermann, who’d been standing in the doorway at the other end of the room from me, interrupted.
“Excellenz, one moment.”
“What is it, Hermann?”
“Excellenz, I hear noise. There is someone outside, Excellenz.”
Hermann was right. There was someone outside. He picked that moment to send a bullet through one of the front windows, shattering the glass. The bullet buried itself in the ceiling.
The sound of voices speaking Russian came through the broken window.
Schmidt switched out the lights.
There was a second shot through the window. Hermann fired a burst from his tommy gun.
The voices grew louder, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I didn’t make much effort. Rescue by the Russians could only mean more trouble for me. It was fine for Orlovska who was sobbing hysterically. But, as far as I was concerned, there wasn’t much difference between Lavrentiev and Schmidt. At least I had felt sure that Schmidt would keep me alive until he found the Manila envelope. There would be no reason for the MVD to spare my life; Orlovska could tell them quickly where to find Blaye’s papers. If I lived even that long. I told you the doctor and Hermann had placed me in front of the window, which was in a direct line with the shattered front window. Sooner or later the Russians would probably send a bullet straight through that window.
Instead of burying itself in the ceiling, it would bury itself in me. Schmidt and Hermann, in any event, couldn’t hope to hold out for any length of time. The best they could do would be to take a few Russians with them. The latter couldn’t lose even if it meant destroying the building.
Schmidt shouted, “Hermann.”
“Hier, Excellenz.”
“They will try to come through this window. Move into the hallway. Shoot when they come through the window.”
“Ja wohl, Excellenz.”
Schmidt moved into the opposite corner. I saw his shadow cross the second window. I could still hear the Russian voices. I figured they were deciding a plan of attack.
The next bullet came through the window nearest the doctor. He didn’t fire in return. He’d apparently decided to wait until they stormed the place. He must have guessed the house was surrounded. I don’t think he had heard the sounds that I had heard from the back porch but he knew from the sounds of the voices outside that the Russians were there in strength.
The voices in front of the building became louder.
“Now,” Schmidt shouted to Hermann. “They will come now.”
; There was another bullet through the window nearest Hermann. The redheaded German said, “That one was close, Excellenz.”
Either his trigger finger slipped or he thought he saw the Russians approaching the window because he fired another burst from the tommy gun.
The next thing I knew, someone clapped a huge hand over my mouth. I tried to yell, but the sound was drowned by the explosions from Hermann’s gun. My ropes were so tight I couldn’t struggle.
I felt myself lifted into the air, chair and all. My head whirled. I went through the French window which had opened behind me. I heard Orlovska scream.
I couldn’t see who was carrying me, someone of enormous strength.
I was carried the length of the porch and into the deep snow at the end.
There was a stand of pines a short way from the end of the house. We had almost reached the shelter of the trees when the shots came from the house.
I felt myself plunging into space. I landed with a sickening thud in the snow. I’d either been dropped so whoever was carrying me could fire back at the house or else he’d been hit.
There were answering shots but they came from somewhere off to the right.
The next thing I knew, my ropes had been cut and I rolled free of the heavy chair. Then someone picked me up with the fireman’s hold, and we moved again toward the shelter of the pines but slower and less steadily than before.
When we were well inside the woods, the man who had been carrying me set me on my feet. My legs gave way under me but he managed to prop me against a tree. It was darker than the inside of my pocket.
I expected to be left there. I thought he might be going back to the house for Orlovska or to get first aid for his wound; I was sure he’d been hit when he let me drop in the snow. But he stuck a cigarette in my mouth. I heard him mutter something and I figured he couldn’t find a match.
“I’ve got a match,” I said in Russian. It’s one of the first phrases in the book. “In my left pocket.” I couldn’t have held even a matchbox. Schmidt had ripped my hands.
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