Behind him, Hardt closed the door, and Chavasse flung Schmidt into a chair. He lit a cigarette, sat back, and waited.

Schmidt looked terrible in the half-light of the nearby table lamp. After a while, he seemed to have got his breath back. Chavasse pulled a chair forward and sat in front of him. “Surprised to see me, Schmidt?”

Schmidt looked frightened to death. He moistened his lips. “The police are looking for you, Herr Chavasse.”

“Nice of you to let me know,” Chavasse said. He leaned across and slashed Schmidt backhanded across the mouth. “Now let’s cut out the polite talk and get down to business. The coffee you served me on the train just before we arrived at Osnabruck – it was drugged, wasn’t it?”

Schmidt made a feeble effort to protest. “I don’t know what you are talking about, mein Herr.”

Chavasse leaned forward. “I haven’t got much time, Schmidt, so I’ll make it brief. I’ll give you about ten seconds to start talking. If you don’t, I’m going to have to break your left wrist. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try the right one as well.”

Schmidt’s mouth went slack. “But I daren’t tell you, mein Herr. If I do, he’ll kill me.”

“Who will?” Hardt said, moving across the room quickly and standing at the back of the chair.

Schmidt looked up at him, his eyes round and staring. “Inspector Steiner,” he whispered.

“I thought so,” Chavasse said. “Now we’re beginning to get somewhere. The man who was killed in my compartment – was he the man who boarded the train at Osnabruck?”

Schmidt shook his head. “No, mein Herr.”

“Who was he then?” Hardt demanded.

Schmidt seemed to have difficulty in forming the words and when he spoke, it was in a whisper. “He was the one Steiner and Dr. Kruger brought on board at Rheine on the stretcher.”