“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.”