Ник Картер - Butcher of Belgrade

I thought about that a moment. “They would keep an article for a couple of days, though, expecting its owner to return. But let’s say Richter did not want to depend on that possibility. Maybe he checked the radio at the museum and then called them later in the day to say that he had neglected to pick it up when he left. He would have promised to get the radio within twenty-four or forty-eight hours. He would be assured then that they would take special care to hold it for him.”

“That is a good theory, Nick. It is worth checking out.”

“We’ll be at the museum first thing in the morning,” I said. “If Richter finds out about Lubyanka tonight, he will probably decide to leave Belgrade immediately, but not without that radio. If he did stash it at the museum, we would want to beat him there. It may be our last chance for contact with him.”

“In the meantime,” she said, “you need some rest. And I have an especially comfortable room at the Majestic.”

“That’s a nice offer,” I said.

We were at the National Museum when it opened the following morning. It was a sunny spring day in Belgrade. There were bright green buds on the tall trees in Kalamegdan Park. The hydrofoil tour boats plied the placid waters of the Danube, and the bustling traffic seemed somehow less hectic. But the museum itself sat monolithic and gray in the bright morning; it was a vivid reminder that Ursula and I were not there for diversion.

The interior was all high ceilings and sterile glass cases, a striking contrast with the sunny morning on the other side of its thick walls. It didn’t take us long to find the checkroom. The Yugoslav on duty there was still waking up.

“Good morning,” I greeted him. “A friend of ours left a portable radio here and forgot to take it away with him. He has sent us to pick it up.” I was speaking in my best German accent.

He scratched his head. “Radio? What is this?”

I decided to try speaking to him in Serbo-Croatian. “A radio. One that is carried on a strap.”

“Ah,” he said. He moved to a corner of the small room while I held my breath and reached toward a shelf. He pulled down Richter’s radio. “I have one left here by a fellow named Blücher, a Swiss.”

“Yes,” I said, glancing at Ursula. “That’s it. Horst Blücher is the full name.”

He looked on a slip. “Yes. Do you have some identification, Mr. Blücher? I don’t seem to remember your face.”

I controlled my impatience. I had already decided to take the radio by force if it was necessary. “I am not Horst Blücher,” I said deliberately. “We are his friends who have come to claim the radio for him.”

“Ah. Well, Mr. Blücher should have come himself, you see. That is the rule.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “But Mr. Blücher has fallen ill and is unable to come for the radio. We hope you’ll understand. You will be doing him a great favor if you give us the radio to take to him.”

He looked at me suspiciously and then at Ursula. “Did he give you the claim slip?”

Now Ursula put on an act. “Oh, dear! He mentioned that we should take the slip just before we left. But he forgot to give it to us. He is quite ill.” Then she turned on the charm. “I hope you will not be technical about the slip. Mr. Blücher so wanted to hear some beautiful Yugoslav music while he is here.”

“Ah,” the man said, looking into her cool blue eyes. “Well, I can understand that. Here, you may take the radio. I have no facilities for storing it here anyway.”

“Thank you very much,” I told him.

He ignored me and handed the radio to Ursula. “Tell your friend to get well soon so that he may enjoy his stay in Belgrade.”

“Thank you,” Ursula said.

She took the radio, and we left the checkroom. But on our way out of the building, I found that my victory was short-lived. Two men stepped out of an alcove in a corridor, and no one else was around. They both held guns. They were the two Topcon men we had seen earlier with Richter, the men Ursula had followed.

“Stop there, please,” the taller one ordered.

I groaned inaudibly. Another few minutes and the monitor device would have been mine. Damn these men! This was the second time I had been in possession of it, only to have it snatched away from me. Ursula was not quite as upset as I was. She had lost all contact with Richter, despite the recovery of the radio, and now these men had reestablished that contact I found myself wondering if she would live to benefit from this turn of events.

The shorter man, a square fellow with a broken nose, waved his automatic at the radio. “Put the radio on the floor between us along with your purse...” he glanced at me — “and your gun.”

“Then step away from them,” the taller man ordered.

Ursula looked at me, and I nodded assent. With two guns aimed at us, there was little room for argument She stepped forward and set the radio and her purse with the Webley in it on the floor. I slowly pulled the Luger from my jacket, watching for any kind of opportunity to use against them, but both guns were now centered on my chest. I placed the Luger on the floor beside the radio and purse. I still had Hugo up my sleeve, but it looked as if there would be little opportunity to use it.

“Very good,” the tall Topcon agent said. He had dark hair and a very thin face. He motioned to the other man, who stepped forward, opened Ursula’s purse, and removed the Webley. He stuck that and Wilhelmina in his jacket pocket. Then he picked up the radio.

“Now come with us,” the tall man said.

Ursula looked at me again. “We’d better do what the man says,” I told her.

They got us out of the building without anyone noticing and took us to a gray Fiat sedan outside. Ursula and I were told to get into the rear of the car. The tall man got behind the wheel, and the one with the broken nose got in beside him, but he faced us with the automatic aimed at my chest.

“We will go for a little pleasure ride now,” the one with the gun told me with a great deal of satisfaction.

The car entered the stream of morning traffic. I saw that both rear doors were locked with special locks. It seemed there was no way to beat the man with the gun. Richter had apparently decided that it was best to get rid of us so that he could continue his negotiations without interference. I was beginning to understand how he had eluded all kinds of police and government agents for so many years: he was intelligent, efficient, and completely free of conscience.

We were driving out of Belgrade. We went along the Brankova Prizrenska Boulevard until we got to the river, then followed the Kara Dordeva out of town to the south. In a short while, we were in open, rolling country.

“Where are you taking us?” I finally asked.

“You will know very soon,” the broken-nosed one said, giving me a harsh grin. His accent was German, while the tall man’s was French. It was quite a cosmopolitan outfit, this Topcon.

His prediction was correct. In another fifteen minutes, after winding around a couple of country roads, we came to an isolated country house. The driver pulled to a stop before it and ordered us out.

Ursula and I climbed out of the Fiat. I had no idea where we were; I only knew that we were south of the city. It made sense that Richter would leave Belgrade, since the police were combing the city for him. By now it was impossible for him to travel by public transportation. I wondered whether he knew about Lubyanka yet.

“Into the house,” the tall man ordered, waving his revolver at us. Both guns were pointed at us again. I followed orders.

Inside, the house looked even smaller than it had appeared from the exterior. But it was all Richter needed. In a moment, after the tall gunman had called for him, Richter came into the room from the kitchen.