Hard Case Crime: Passport To Peril (7 page)

“Bitte, Verzeihung, Excellenz,” the old woman said. “Please forgive me. One does not know these days. There have been police raids in the neighborhood. I thought, Excellency, I—”

“Shut up,” Schmidt said. “You are not here to think.” He called to Otto. “Get those two in here immediately.”

I managed to beat Otto out of the car to help Maria down. Her hand brushed my face as I swung her into the snow, and I thought she held my arm longer than necessary, but it might have been to steady herself. There was just enough light for me to see her dark face. The wide-set black eyes were calm, the firm line of her jaw was clearer than ever.

The old woman stood inside the door as Maria and I entered. I took her for well over eighty. She was thin as a skeleton, her eyes sunken and dull, her pinched face streaked with dirt. Her bony arm trembled with the weight of the oil lamp which threw long dancing shadows into the barren hallway.

Schmidt ordered the woman to lead the way, and we followed her in single file up three flights of narrow, rickety stairs at her wheezing pace, a step at a time and with only the lamp in her shaking hand for illumination. The building must have been abandoned for years. The rooms and the hallways were piled high with junk, most of the windows were broken, the walls were running damp.

When we reached the top floor, the old woman led the strange parade to the front of the house, into a room crammed with boxes and barrels and old newspapers. The slanting roof cut the height of the room so that I had to lower my head to enter. There were two dormer windows, and through the broken, grimy panes we could see the lights of the Danube Corso and the long beams of the Russian antiaircraft searchlights in the Varosliget, the city park a few blocks away.

There was a broken-down armoire, covered with dust, against the wall, on the side of the building away from the alley. The door, its glass front shattered, hung drunkenly from one rusted hinge. When the old woman had recovered her breath from the climb, she kicked the door open and stuck her head inside. When she stepped back, we could see that the back panel of the armoire had slid aside; there was an entrance to the warehouse next door.

Schmidt elbowed the old woman aside and squeezed his squat body through the armoire. A few moments later the narrow opening was flooded with light, then Schmidt reappeared.

“Hermann.”

“Ja wohl, Excellenz.” The pants presser clicked his heels.

“I shall need Otto here with me to help entertain our friends. But I want that car moved from here immediately. It is much too dangerous. You will drive it to Felix in Matyasfold, Verstehen Sie?”

“Ja wohl, Excellenz.”

“You will give your uniform to Felix. He will return your civilian clothes and the necessary documents. He will also give you clothes and documents for Otto. You will return here promptly in one hour. If you are stopped by police, you will tell them you are Frau Hoffmeyer’s nephew.”

“God forbid,” said the old woman.

“Shut up,” said Schmidt. “You will say you are to visit Frau Hoffmeyer. Your papers will bear you out. Do you understand, Hermann?”

“Ja wohl, Excellenz.”

“As soon as we are inside, you will help Frau Hoffmeyer replace the dust on this armoire and you will pile some junk in front of the door. Verstehen Sie, Hermann?”

“Ja wohl, Excellenz.”

“Gut,” said Schmidt. “Gehen Sie schnell.” He raised his hand with the palm outstretched. “Heil Hitler.” Hermann clicked his heels for the tenth time. “Heil Hitler.”

The old woman cackled. “In my day we said, ‘Hoch der Kaiser.’ ”

“Shut up, old fool,” Schmidt said. “Who cares about your day? Your day is gone forever.”

Otto herded Maria and me into the warehouse room, and the armoire panel closed behind us.

The room into which we moved I took to be the repair shop for the warehouse. There were wooden benches against the three outer walls of yellow brick and without windows. The benches were cluttered with tools of every description from screwdrivers to power lathes. The fourth wall, opposite the entrance, was of rough, unpainted wood and also windowless. At one time there must have been a stairway from the floor of the warehouse, some forty feet below, but there existed no sign of it. The only ventilation came from a big skylight under which was stretched a blackout curtain on wires. The room was lighted by electricity, and in one corner there was a tank with water taps.

There was a desk against the wooden wall, opposite the entrance, and half a dozen chairs in front of it, but the main exhibit was a life-size oil painting on the wall behind the desk. The picture was lighted the way people light pictures of their more prosperous ancestors. The subject was Adolf Hitler.

“Sit down, please,” Dr. Schmidt said. He placed his hat and coat and cane on the workbench, then seated himself at the desk. He might have been preparing to instruct a class in manual training except for the revolver he placed within reach. Otto stood behind Maria and me.

The doctor cleared his throat.

“I am quite sure there is no need for me to introduce myself.” His tiny pig eyes gleamed behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. “Fraulein Torres I have had the pleasure of meeting in Geneva. You, mein Herr, I do not know—yet. But I shall know you very well. Is it not so, Otto?”

“Ja wohl, Excellenz.”

I found myself saying to Maria, “I thought you told me you didn’t understand German?”

“I don’t,” Maria said. Her composure made my own nerves twice as jumpy.

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,” Schmidt said. “I had forgotten. We shall speak French. Or rather, should I say, I shall speak French.” He had the habit of cocking his head and pulling on his ear as if to emphasize his point. “I promise you shall have your chance to talk later.”

Otto giggled.

Schmidt picked up the revolver and sighted it over our heads at an imaginary target. He put down the revolver, removed his spectacles, and wiped them with a handkerchief.

“First of all, you will please put Monsieur Blaye’s Manila envelope on the desk.”

When neither Maria nor I moved, the doctor said, “Come, come,” and pulled at his ear. When nothing happened then, he said, “I’m afraid I shall have to ask Otto to find which of you is carrying it.”

With Schmidt pointing the gun at me, I had to let Otto search me. I didn’t like his running his hands over Maria and I must have shown it in my face because the doctor said, “Please remain calm, Monsieur.”

Otto put Blaye’s passport and the traveler’s checks and Maria’s passport on the desk. He stepped back, and we sat down.

“You examined the suitcases they took off the train, Otto?”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“And what did you find?”

“A toothbrush, three odd stockings, a suit of lady’s underwear, one shoe—”

“That will do, Otto. You did not find a large Manila envelope, the one you took from Mademoiselle Torres in the snow last night, the one you gave Strakhov like the fool you are?”

“There was no envelope at all, Excellency.”

Schmidt picked up the revolver and ran his hand along the barrel. Through the skylight came the sound of a locomotive whistling for the grade crossing in front of the warehouse.

By this time my nerves were ragged. The whole performance had turned into a never-ending nightmare. I had come to Hungary on what I thought was a forged passport, on a personal mission, an attempt to trace my brother. I had good reason to fear the Russians and the Hungarians, the masters in this country. There was no reason whatever to get mixed up with Herr Doktor Wolfgang Schmidt, a German who sat under a portrait of Adolf Hitler in a Budapest warehouse. Whatever his racket, he was just as much afoul of the authorities as I was. A good deal more, because he’d murdered a Russian officer. The killer could only have been Schmidt looking for that damned envelope.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know what this is all about and I’m not interested. If you’re worried about that list of watchmakers, I hid it on the train.”

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.

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.