“You don't need to; you can have it done here. Excuse me, if I seem officious. I was immediately behind you at Calais and couldn't help noticing that your passports are the same as mine—diplomatic. The advantage of a diplomatic passport in crossing frontiers is that the officials have to come to you.”
“I didn't know. If that's the case—”
He resumed his seat with a sickening sensation. The Captain's presence was stifling him. He longed to escape, if it were only for five minutes. He felt choked with lies. It seemed impossible that the Captain should not be aware of the atmosphere of falsehood.
Passengers were already filing down the corridor and being herded by soldiers on the platform. As carriages were emptied, doors were locked and sealed. Evidently nothing was to be left to chance; while the passengers were held prisoners in the waiting-rooms, the train was to be searched from end to end. To a guilty conscience there was something exceedingly intimidating about this military display of thoroughness.
The wagon-lits conductor looked into the compartment. Seeing the three of them seated there, he burst into a frantic protest. Captain Lajos annihilated him with the ferocity of his explanation. When the conductor had retreated, the Captain turned to Hindwood.
“Like most of your compatriots, I see you're not strong on languages. If I can be of use to you, I'll act as your interpreter.”
“My wife is—” Then he remembered that he knew nothing of Santa's linguistic attainments. “You're very thoughtful of our comfort,” he substituted.
Guttural voices sounded. Two crop-headed ex-drill-sergeants presented themselves. Without waste of words they rasped out a peremptory order.
“They want to see your passports,” the Captain interpreted.
While the passports were being examined, there was silence. Again questions were asked and again the Captain interpreted.