Hard Case Crime: Passport To Peril

by Parker, Robert B.

  Neither Orlovska nor the chauffeur had any comment. There wasn’t a word spoken until we turned off the highway onto a gravel road and the car had stopped under a porte-cochere. Then, when Orlovska and I had gotten out, the countess told the driver to return to Budapest.

  “See that Colonel Lavrentiev gets to his apartment,” Orlovska said. “Tell his orderly to fill him with aspirin.”

  She opened the door with a key, then switched on the lights. We were in a long hallway, apparently running the depth of the house, with a stairway in the far right corner. There was a dining room through an archway to the left; to the right was a small sitting room with a larger living room beyond. After I’d hung up my hat and coat, Orlovska went into the sitting room. There was a long sofa facing a huge open fireplace with a freshly kindled blaze.

  Orlovska spoke directly to me for the first time. She spoke excellent English.

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll be down in a few minutes. You’ll find whisky and ice on the end table. I think there are some American cigarettes there, too.”

  She left the room then, and I heard her climb the stairs.

  I needed a whisky badly at that point but the first thing I did was to reach for my gun and knock off the safety catch before I replaced it in the shoulder holster.

  Then I tiptoed to the hallway. There wasn’t a sound from upstairs. I went to the front door and turned the knob. It wasn’t locked.

  I walked softly over to the clothes rack, put on my hat and coat. I went to the front door, opened it, and stepped out on the porch. There wasn’t a sound.

  I started to pull the door shut behind me.

  Where would I go once the door was closed? I was a good ten miles from the center of Budapest. I couldn’t risk thumbing a ride even assuming there was any traffic at that time of the morning. Even if some motorists hadn’t heard the broadcasts or seen the yellow posters, I couldn’t attempt to pass the roadblock. I’d have to walk but I couldn’t go cross-country because of the snow and the highway was out.

  And where would I go? Hiram Carr’s? But he had said, “Whether you like it or not, you’re going to see this thing through with us.” He’d said, “You’d better make up your mind right now that there’s nothing you can do to save Mademoiselle Torres without our help.” Hiram Carr had sent me to the Arizona to meet Anna Orlovska. I’d met her and I had a chance to get the information Carr wanted. Maybe I’d have to use threats. There was a loaded gun inside my jacket.

  Without the help of Hiram Carr, there wasn’t much I could do about finding Maria. And I knew that getting her out of the hands of Herr Doktor Wolfgang Schmidt had become more important to me than my original mission to Hungary to trace my brother Bob.

  I went back inside and closed the door. I had just hung up my hat and coat again when I heard a door slam upstairs. I was pouring a drink when Orlovska entered the sitting room. She’d changed the white satin evening gown for a black lace negligee and she was something to look at.

  I handed her my drink and mixed another.

  “I must apologize again, Madame, for having been so inexcusably clumsy on the dance floor.” The speech sounded like something out of a Victorian novel. I spoke English. There wasn’t any reason why a Swiss shouldn’t speak English.

  Orlovska curled up on one end of the sofa. I sat facing her at the other. I waited for her to start the conversation.

  She said, “I always thought I was too tough to faint.”

  “We must have caught you off balance,” I said. “Did you hit your head?”

  Orlovska laughed.

  “Off balance is right. And maybe I should have my head examined.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stop it,” she said. “The Russians tap my telephone and they open my mail but they haven’t wired this place, not yet. We can talk frankly.”

  I waited for her to go on. She lit a cigarette.

  “You must have known how closely they watch me,” Orlovska said, “or you wouldn’t have dreamed up that bumping act.” She stared at the fire. “So,” she said slowly, “you’re really back from the grave?”

  I’d thought perhaps I was crazy when I’d hopped in her car. Now I knew it.

  “The grave?”

  The flickering light from the fire made her face look hard. Now that I was close to her I could see she wasn’t as young as I’d thought. Or else she’d lived in a hurry.

  “I told you we can talk. There’s nobody listening.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I haven’t the slightest notion of what you’re talking about.” What did she mean “back from the grave”? Did she know about the session at Dr. Schmidt’s warehouse? Or the encounter in the Keleti station yards?

  “I know why you’ve come to Budapest,” she said, “although I can’t imagine how you got into the country.” Then she didn’t know about Marcel Blaye’s passport? “But I don’t blame you for coming. I’d do the same thing in your place.”

  I poured myself another drink.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Orlovska said.

  “No,” I said. “I assure you I haven’t the slightest intention of killing you.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  I wanted to know who had Marcel Blaye’s Manila envelope and where, but it wasn’t the moment. First I’d have to discover where and when I’d met Orlovska.

  “Listen,” she said when I didn’t answer, “I won’t try to kid you. The Russians don’t know anything about my past. Lavrentiev thinks I spent the war in Poland.”

  Then we’d met during the war. But where? Orlovska wasn’t the kind I’d have forgotten. I tried to picture her with black hair or red hair but it wasn’t any good.

  “I don’t want Lavrentiev to know what happened,” she said. She moved closer and put her hand on my arm. “Please,” she said. “I ditched Lavrentiev so I could follow you when you left the Arizona. When I told Lavrentiev to put you out, I hadn’t seen your face. Oh, he’s drunk enough so he won’t remember in the morning. But the gendarmes know I went after you because I asked them to shout to attract your attention. The cop who stopped you knows we’re together. So does my chauffeur. I’ve taken a great risk to bring you out here. I didn’t do it to play games.”

  “Why did you do it?” I said.

  “I want to know your price.”

  “My price?”

  “Don’t be a fool.” She stamped her foot. “The price of your silence.”

  What was I supposed to know about her that she was willing to pay to suppress? Why was she so afraid of what I might tell Lavrentiev?

  “How did you know I was in Budapest?” she said. She poured herself another whisky and drank it straight. Maybe if she drank enough whisky I’d get the truth.

  “Look,” she said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. But it was all part of the war, wasn’t it? Everybody was twisted, weren’t they? Weren’t they?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The whole world was pretty well upside down.”

  “Have you ever tried to understand the position of a woman like me? It wasn’t easy to leave Warsaw and the life I’d always had. Oh, I know I can’t expect you to believe anything good of me. But they promised me I could go back home, they said I could have my property back if I’d tell them where you were.”

  I handed her another drink.

  “You can understand that, can’t you? Can’t you?”

  “I don’t understand at all,” I said.

  “You’ve got to understand. They’d have killed me if I hadn’t told them where you were. You weren’t in Budapest. You don’t know. They went crazy when the steel works was bombed out.”

  “The what?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I said the Germans went mad when the Americans destroyed the Csepel Island factories. You couldn’t talk to them. They knew you’d been shot down. They knew you were heading for Yugoslavia. I tell you it was my life or yours.”

  I grabbed her by the wrist.

 
“Who do you think I am?” I said. “Tell me. Who do you think I am?”

  She screamed, “Stop it, you’re hurting me.”

  “Answer me,” I said. “What’s my name?”

  “Your name is Stodder,” she said. “Your name is Bob Stodder.”

  I let go her wrist. She buried her face in her hands.

  I turned my back on her and walked to the fireplace.

  The next thing I knew, a voice from the doorway said, “Stay where you are, both of you. Put your hands over your heads and don’t turn around.”

  I didn’t have to turn around to recognize the voice of Herr Doktor Schmidt.

  Chapter Twelve

  TALK—OR DIE

  Orlovska screamed again. She seemed to have limitless emotion.

  “Yell your head off, Gnaedige Fräulein,” Schmidt said sarcastically. “And don’t waste your time pushing that button. Your servants are in no position to answer.”

  I wondered how long he’d been in the house and how much he’d heard of our conversation.

  “Most interesting to find you two together,” the doctor said. “It should prove most profitable—to me.”

  His voice came nearer. He had moved to the back of the sofa.

  “Hermann will place two chairs against the far wall,” he said. There followed the business of Hermann moving the chairs.

  “You will kindly walk to the chairs. Don’t drop your hands or I shall shoot. Perhaps, since Countess Orlovska is the hostess, you, Herr Stodder, should sit on her right. Yes, I think that appeals to my sense of humor.”

  Schmidt perched on the end of the sofa, his stumpy legs scarcely reaching the floor. The light from the fireplace cast dancing shadows on his gold-rimmed spectacles. He didn’t bother to remove his gray Homburg.

  This time, Schmidt and Hermann had come loaded for bear. The doctor carried an automatic pistol. Hermann carried a submachine gun.

  “What have you done with Maria Torres?” I said. “Where is she?”

  Schmidt grinned. “Aren’t you being a little indelicate, Herr Stodder, bringing up the name of Mademoiselle Torres in front of the Countess Orlovska? I suppose, though, you Americans always manage to combine business with pleasure.”

  “Mademoiselle Torres?” Orlovska said. It hadn’t taken her long to regain her composure. She was an old campaigner. “You mean Marcel Blaye’s secretary?”

  “The doctor is holding her prisoner,” I said.

  “Frankly,” Orlovska said, “I don’t care what happens to Mademoiselle Torres.” She leaned forward in her chair. “But where is Marcel Blaye?”

  Hermann snorted. Schmidt said, “Never mind, Hermann. It pleases me to let them talk. We’ve got lots of time.” From the expression on the redheaded Hermann’s ugly face, he couldn’t wait to finish me off with his tommy gun.

  “Doctor Schmidt murdered Marcel Blaye in Vienna,” I said. “Ask him if you don’t believe me.”

  Orlovska showed no emotion. She was plenty tough.

  “That is something you might have difficulty in proving,” the doctor said. “But as long as we’re on the subject of Herr Blaye, you might explain to the countess how you came to enter Hungary on Blaye’s passport. You might tell her how you came to know Mademoiselle Torres so well.” He pushed his hat back on his bullet head. “And how you came into possession of the famous Manila envelope. That is a question that we shall have to discuss sooner or later.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Orlovska said. Astonishment was written all over her face. “What did you have to do with Marcel Blaye?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I never heard of the man until the day before yesterday.”

  Schmidt was enjoying the situation thoroughly. He could hardly contain his laughter.

  “He says he came to Hungary to trace his brother,” the doctor said to Orlovska. “He says his brother was shot down in an American bombing plane during the war.”

  “Oh, my God,” Orlovska said. “Then you aren’t Bob Stodder?”

  “My name is John Stodder,” I said, “and I did come to try to find Bob. Thanks to you I know what happened. You sent him to his death.”

  The countess let loose with a string of unprintable words. “You tricked me,” she said.

  “I didn’t trick you at all,” I said. “I assure you it was a family resemblance and your own dirty conscience that made you talk.”

  Schmidt laughed. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.”

  “So one of you killed Blaye?” Orlovska said. “How do you think you’ll get away with it?”

  “Doctor Schmidt also killed Major Strakhov,” I said.

  “But it’s you the Russians are looking for,” Schmidt said. “They seem to think you did it. I think you’d have some difficulty in proving otherwise. I assume you’ve seen the posters and heard the broadcasts?”

  “Colonel Lavrentiev will have you both shot,” Orlovska said. “He never asks for proof.”

  “I don’t think your Colonel Lavrentiev will have anything to do with our little drama,” Schmidt said. “I think we shall have solved our problems long before he sobers up.”

  “You don’t think you can get away from this house?” the countess said. “My servants are armed.”

  “Your servants were armed,” Schmidt said. “Hermann and I took the precaution of tying them securely before we joined your little party.”

  “My chauffeur is due back any minute.”

  Schmidt shook his head. “Ah, no, Gnaedige Fräulein. Your chauffeur has gone for the night. You see, he has been working for me for a long time. That’s how you came to get such a capable man.”

  The doctor removed his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. He dropped the gun into his pocket. “I think Hermann has sufficient artillery for any situation,” he said.

  “Isn’t that the telephone ringing?” Orlovska said.

  “If it is,” Dr. Schmidt said, “it’s a miracle because Hermann cut the wires.”

  He pulled at his ear.

  “I think we’ve had enough of this comedy,” Schmidt said thoughtfully. “I think the time has come to get down to business.

  “Herr Stodder, you were, shall we say, a guest of mine earlier this evening. I was foolish enough not to listen to Otto. I should have indulged his fancy. I think now he would have found a way to make you tell the truth. But I made one of the few mistakes of my life. I let you talk me into sending you into the railway yards with Hermann and Otto. I must admit I underestimated you. You led my men into an ambush, and it cost Otto his life.”

  “You told them to kill me when they got the envelope,” I said. “I didn’t find the envelope. It wasn’t there. And you never had any intention of waiting at the coffeehouse with Maria Torres. You didn’t wait five minutes after I left.”

  “I don’t think we’re interested in details,” Schmidt said. “I don’t know who your friends were but it isn’t of the slightest importance at the moment.”

  He turned to Orlovska.

  “This is the first time we’ve met,” the doctor said, “although one could hardly say we were strangers. We’ve known about each other for a long time, haven’t we?”

  Orlovska didn’t answer him. She didn’t appear worried. I’m sure she expected help to arrive any minute although I can’t imagine what she thought Hermann would do with that tommy gun if the Russians did come.

  “You have put me to a great deal of trouble,” Schmidt continued. “If it hadn’t been for you, Marcel Blaye would be alive tonight.”

  Orlovska laughed. She was a cool cucumber, I’ll say that for her. She said, “If you think you can pin a murder on me, you’re crazy. Lavrentiev knows I haven’t been out of Hungary in a year.”

  “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 Fräulein, 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.