Passport to Peril (Hard Case Crime (Mass Market Paperback))

by Robert B. Parker

  Schmidt leaned across the desk. The ugly dueling scar stood out on his cheek.

  “So.” He picked up the revolver by the barrel and smashed the butt on the desk. “You take me for a fool. You want me to believe you left that envelope on the train? Ah, no, Monsieur, you will have to tell a better story than that.”

  “It’s true,” I said.

  Schmidt said, “You will find we have ways of getting the facts.”

  Otto giggled.

  “All in due time, Otto, all in due time,” the doctor said.

  He stared at me a minute or so. “I must confess, Monsieur, that up to now I had a certain admiration for you. I put you down as a clever man. Frankly, I did not suspect your existence until I saw you with Mademoiselle Torres on the Orient Express.”

  “There wasn’t any reason for you to know about me,” I said. “I’d never heard of you, either.”

  Dr. Schmidt laughed. “I suggest you dispense with the comedy.”

  I told you my nerves were ragged. I blurted out the story of my brother, the story I’d told Maria the night before in the snow, out under the stars. I told why the Russians refused me a Hungarian visa for my American passport and how I’d purchased what I thought was a forgery from Herr Figl in Vienna.

  “How amusing,” Schmidt said. “You do have a talent for storytelling. But you cannot suppose I am fool enough to believe such a fabrication.”

  He removed his glasses once more and wiped them.

  “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.

  Chapter Six

  HAND IN THE DARK

  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 part company with you then and there.”

  The doctor pounded the desk again with the butt of his revolver.

  “I’m the one who gives orders here.”

  “Okay,” I said. I’d gone too far not to gamble the rest of the way. “Just as you say.” I held my watch in front of my eyes. “But you’re losing valuable time.”

  The doctor pulled at his ear. He said, “All right, but if either of you tries to trick me, I’ll kill you both.”

  We went out just as we had entered except that Otto wore the civilian clothes Hermann had brought him. Schmidt and the two goons saluted the Fuehrer’s portrait and muttered, “Heil Hitler,” as they passed through the sliding panel in the armoire. I managed to get behind Maria going down the stairs but I didn’t dare speak for fear Schmidt might change his mind. Our only slim chance lay in leaving his hideout. But I had no illusions about his ultimate plan for us. Whether or not we found Marcel Blaye’s envelope for him, Maria and I were scheduled to die. We knew far too much.

  The old woman led us down the rickety stairs in single file with the smoking oil lamp in her shaking hand. She didn’t utter a sound, but amazement was written deep in her wizened face; it could have been the first time any of the doctor’s guests had left the place alive.

  Hermann had exchanged the Russian staff car for a small black sedan. Schmidt told him to drive us to the Keleti station, but Hermann shook his head. “They’ve blocked off the station, Excellency. There must be a hundred men with tommy guns.” Hermann grinned at me. It was the first time I’d noticed his bright red hair.

  When we came out of the Mexikoi ut onto the main avenue, we could see the lights of the police cars where a roadblock had been set up in the direction of the station. Hermann plunged into the side streets to make a wide detour and approach the railway yards from the south. It had begun to snow again and it was hard going through the narrow curving alleys that skirted the Kerepesitemetö, the municipal cemetery two short blocks from the station.

  Schmidt commanded Hermann to stop the car in front of a small coffeehouse, opposite the gates of the cemetery.

  “Mademoiselle Torres and I will wait inside,” the doctor said. “See that you return quickly.”

  He wasn’t going to risk prowling through the railway yards with Otto, Hermann, and me. Maria was to be the hostage. Schmidt knew I’d come back to the coffeehouse for her if I came out of the yards alive.

  I started off without a word, but Maria grabbed my arm.

  “I’m going with you,” she said. “I can’t let you go alone.”

  I didn’t trust my reactions at that point so I found myself saying, “What good could you do?” There was pain in her deep black eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You stay here with Schmidt. We won’t be more than half an hour. Then we’ll be free.”

  Before I could stop her, she put her arms around my neck and kissed me. It didn’t look as if we’d just met twenty-four hours earlier. I knew it would reinforce the doctor’s belief in his own version of our association.

  We were turning the corner when Schmidt opened the door of the coffeehouse and we heard the sobbing of the gypsy violins.

  There’s a Romany tale that up in the moon,

  Each midnight a gypsy is playing a tune.

  The melodies sweet from his fiddle that flow,

  Are heard only by lovers as silent they go.

  Then, my love, let us try while the moonlight is clear,

  Amid the dark forest that fiddle to hear.

  There wasn’t much light except for the flickering gas lamps on the street corners, and because of the drifted snow it was difficult to tell where the sidewalk ended and the street began. When we reached the main avenue which parallels the yards we found we were well below the roadblock. There was no one in sight.

  We crossed the avenue, wading through snow above our knees. There was an iron fence beyond the far sidewalk. On the other side of the fence were the dark and silent trains under a mantle of white.

  Otto stood aside and motioned to me to climb the waist-high fence.

  “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “There may be a sentry.” There was a space between the fence and the first line of coaches and it looked recently swept. “We’ll wait five minutes.” Otto, who didn’t like me at all, started to say something, but he and Hermann were so accustomed to authority that they followed me to a billboard which screened us from the tracks.

  It was five minutes before the sentry plodded past us on the other side of the fence, then another three minutes before he returned. I timed him carefully because a knowledge of his position would be handy when the time came to leave the yards.

  As soon as the sentry was again out of sight, we went behind the billboard. Otto indicated that I was to go first. Thereafter I led the way. I would draw first fire if we were surprised. And, should I attempt a getaway, they had a clear line of fire without the risk of hitting each other. I didn’t like the way Otto kept his hand on his gun in his pocket although I felt sure they wouldn’t shoot until we had found Marcel Blaye’s envelope.

  I hadn’t much idea how I’d identify the right train when I saw it but I remembered the photographs of Innsbruck and Salzburg in our compartment so I looked for the O.B.B. marking of the Austrian State Railways—the Oesterreichische Bundesbahnen. The only cars on the first siding were third-class Hungarian coaches.

  Snow had drifted under the cars, and it would have been much easier to have climbed into a car vestibule and to have gone out the other side, but the doors were locked, and we crawled on our hands and knees under the couplings.

  I think we were at the fifth or sixth track from the street, making escape from the yards almost impossible if we were surprised in force, when Hermann spotted an Austrian car. We moved to the head of the train and there was a blue Wagons-Lits diner, still carrying the plaque: Wien-Gyor-Budapest. We were far enough out in the yards so that there was some light from the arcs.

  Hermann boosted me onto the coupling at the head end of the diner, and I pulled myself into the open vestibule. I tried the door into the car, and it was unlocked. We had no flashlight. I used my lighter until the wick burned out. Then we took turns lighting matches.

  Visit the Riviera, said the ads in the dining car. Sunshine All Year ’Round. King David Hotel, Jerusalem—American Bar. Hungary Welcomes You to Her Ancient Festivals.

  It was colder in that train than outside. Our footsteps echoed down the empty corridors. Doors opened and shut with a crash that shook the windows.

  We went through half a dozen third-class coaches before we reached the car in which Strakhov, Maria, and I had traveled. The coaches hadn’t been cleaned, another reason for us to hurry. The train was scheduled for early-morning departure
for Vienna; the cleaning crews were due any minute.

  I looked for the sticker on the door of our compartment—Reserved for the Embassy of the USSR—but there was none. I thought I’d made a mistake and went to the next car back; there was no sticker there either.

  I imagined the police had detached the coach the moment Strakhov’s corpse had been found. Maybe the car was on another siding, for the photographers and the fingerprint experts of the MVD.

  I went through the two first-class cars again, looking for a compartment with framed photographs of Salz burg and Innsbruck, but that didn’t help. All compartments had pictures of Salzburg and Innsbruck.

  Otto and Hermann followed me up and down those cars without a word. When I closed the door in the last compartment, I became aware that Otto had taken his revolver from his pocket. Hermann stood behind Otto, peering at me over his shoulder.

  “What’s the game?” Otto said. “What are you trying to put over?”

  “I’m not trying to put anything over,” I said. “I can’t find the right compartment. Keep your shirt on.”

  I led them to the head compartment in the first car but there was no envelope stuffed behind the seat cushions. I saw that Hermann, too, had his revolver in his hand.

  “It’s in the other car,” I said. “It’s in the head compartment in the other car.” But the envelope wasn’t there, either.

  “I’ll give you two minutes,” Otto said.

  “There’s something very wrong,” I said. I had to stall those two killers. “I know,” I said. “They must have backed the train into the station. They’ve changed the position of the diner for the run back to Vienna. I’ve been looking in the wrong compartments.”

  I didn’t believe it though; I walked as slowly as I could. It came to me that Schmidt never had any intention of letting me leave the train alive. Otto’s instructions were to murder me in that train, whether or not we found the envelope.

  I thought I heard a door bang. Maybe it was the cleaning crew.

  “What’s that?” I said.