“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.