Dine and Die on the Danube Express (13 page)

“You may know this,
Meinherr
,” he said, bending forward a little so that his voice should not spread his heresy too far, “but Turkey really established that tradition for the Viennese.”

“You are not Viennese,” I guessed.

“I am not, I am from Estonia.”

“Your Viennese colleagues in the kitchen will disagree with you.”

He smiled. “They do. But history books say that when the Turks besieged Vienna in 1683, they were losing too many troops and ordered a retreat. They did so, leaving bags of coffee behind, which the Viennese seized and thus became coffee-drinkers.”

“Addicts, even?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed.”

“So if I ask you for Viennese coffee now, what will you bring me?”

“First, I will ask if you would like
verkehrt,
which is one part coffee to four parts milk—or
mocha
, that is ebony black in a demitasse—or
mit schlagobers
—you may know that—”

“That’s with whipped cream—there’s also
doppelschlag
, which is double cream.”

“You are correct. Of course, Turkish coffee is still popular in Vienna, too.”

“Much less so elsewhere,” I said.

“That is true. Mainly because the Turkish method of making coffee is to brew it at least three times.”

I settled for
verkehrt.

Friedlander, the conductor, entered, looking grouchy, and growled something that I took for a greeting. The dining coach did not fill up any further. Presumably many passengers were taking breakfast in their compartments, not a simple matter logistically but accomplished in a polished and unobtrusive manner on the Danube Express.

I was leaving the dining coach when a steward came alongside me. He didn’t speak out of the side of his mouth, but he was politely discreet as he said, “Herr Kramer would like you to join him in his office.”

The security chief was studying a document from among a pile on his desk, but he put it aside when I entered.

“Come in, my friend,” he invited. “I believe we have news for each other.”

How did he know I had something to tell him?

“One of the stewards tells me you have been chatting to various people,” he said. “That is good. I have the feeling that answers to many of our questions may exist among the passengers—if we can extract them.”

So he had the stewards reporting on my movements. Well, he was being thorough, I had to admit that.

“My talk with Herr Lydecker was illuminating,” I began. “His relationships with Magda Malescu have been both intimate and tempestuous. It is possible that one of them has led to this murder, but it is by no means certain.” I filled him in on the details, and he made notes, nodding as I talked. When I told Kramer that Lydecker had concluded—albeit from the wrong evidence—that I was helping the police, Kramer nodded.

“He is a shrewd man, that much I have gathered from brief talks with him. Still, it is of little consequence if a few people learn that you are helping the police under these circumstances.”

I told him, too, of Elisha Tabor’s belief that Mikhel Czerny was not pursuing any personal vendetta against Magda Malescu. “It may be a typical Hungarian viewpoint,” I suggested.

“Aggressive.” He nodded. “Controversial, argumentative, belligerent even.”

“You are a student of national behavior,” I told him.

“Hungarians are the New Yorkers of Europe,” Kramer said. “Very well. Now for my news—information coming in on the Italian wine fellow, Paolo Conti, indicates that he may not be what he purports to be. Some of the answers he gave me are not corroborated. The dossier we have on him is sparse to say the least. All of this makes him suspect, to my way of thinking. Have you talked to him?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Do so at the first opportunity. Let us see if he tells you different stories.”

“I will.”

“The excellent Thomas has been diligent—you say that, diligent?”

“It’s the right word,” I assured him.

“Good. Thomas learned that a radio-telephone message went out from a device on this train almost exactly fifteen minutes before the limousines left for the Hotel Imperial.”

“Do you know what it said?”

“No. Unfortunately, the law does not allow the recording of personal calls by passengers. But Thomas did succeed in determining who received that call.”

He sat back, spine rigid as always. His blond hair almost gleamed with triumph. His light blue eyes certainly did.

“I can’t wait,” I told him.

“That call went to the offices of the Budapest
Times
on-line news service.” He continued.

“One other point—as I told you, Herr Brenner has some powerful connections throughout Europe. At my request, he called a friend of his who is on the board of directors of the Budapest
Times.
He asked this friend what he knew of this Mikhel Czerny. Herr Brenner learned that although Czerny uses many people as sources of information, the paper only prints what Czerny personally tells the news editor.”

I thought about that for a moment. “That suggests that it was not a contact of Czerny who called in with this story—it says that Czerny himself phoned it in to the editor.”

“That is so.”

“That in turn means that Czerny is on this train.”

Kramer banged a fist on the table. “That is the conclusion we must reach. Herr Brenner’s friend at the Budapest
Times
was reluctant to say much about Czerny. Of course, with more evidence, we could get a court order and force him to tell us more. Meanwhile, though, Herr Brenner says that his friend tells him that Czerny is fond of adopting various roles in order to get his information. Informants do not always know who they are talking to—and he pays out generous bribes where necessary.”

“This is really reaching,” I said, “but have you considered the possibility that Czerny himself could have killed Malescu?”

“Surely Malescu had more reason to kill Czerny than the other way around—but what you say needs to be included in our thinking. Then, that consideration assumes that Czerny wanted to kill Malescu—but perhaps he didn’t? Perhaps he knew that Talia Svarovina was not Malescu—perhaps he knew whom he was killing?”

“Possible,” I conceded. “About Czerny—you say he adopts various roles. Does that mean disguises?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“So he could be any man on the train?”

“That must be so,” Kramer said. “Not I, of course.”

“Nor I,” I added quickly.

“Certainly not,” he agreed.

He did so promptly. I hoped it wasn’t too promptly.

I
N THE LOUNGE COACH
, Professor Sundvall was talking to an attentive group on the subject of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Someone had apparently asked him a question concerning the musical genius, prompted, no doubt by the presence on board of the “lost” folio.

“Mozart was born in Salzburg,” the professor was saying. “His father had wanted to be a lawyer but gave up the idea and joined an orchestra there. He started to teach his son to play the clavier when Wolfgang was only three, and the boy made such extraordinary progress that within a year he was composing music for it.”

Sighs of awe arose at that statement.

“From then on, Wolfgang was oblivious to everything else in life. Music completely absorbed him—so much that even when obliged to play children’s games with his older sister, he would only do so to the accompaniment of music.

“His father took Wolfgang and Wolfgang’s sister, Nannerl, to the Imperial Palace in Vienna to play as a trio at a concert. The seven-year-old Wolfgang climbed on to the Empress’s lap to kiss her then ran over to a royal guest from France who was present—Marie Antoinette—and proposed to her.”

Chuckles of amusement at such precocity greeted that comment. “Wolfgang’s prodigious talent continued to expand. Before he was eight, he could play any piece of music set in front of him—and play it equally well on the harpsichord, the organ, or the violin. Proud of his own ability—which amazingly enough, he recognized in himself—he would throw a cloak over the clavier keyboard and prove that he could play just as easily when he could not see the keys.”

“A true genius,” commented someone.

“Unquestionably. By the time he was ten years old, he had composed masses, arias, symphonies, sonatas, serenades, and even two operas. One of the operas was in typical Italian style and the other in the German style.

“When Wolfgang’s father took him to Rome, they went to a recital of Allegri’s famous
Miserere
in the Sistine Chapel. After they had sat through the performance, which was in eight parts, Wolfgang wanted his father to get him the music so that he could play it. His father told him that written music was forbidden by the Pope so Wolfgang went back to their rooms and wrote the piece out in its entirety from memory. To satisfy himself that it was accurate, he went back to the Sistine and listened to it again, comparing it note by note to his own version. There was not one significant variation.”

“Did he become a recluse as he grew older?” a voice asked.

“Not at all. One of his closest friends was the son of Johann Sebastian Bach and later, he became a good friend of Haydn. Wolfgang had a friendly nature and made friends easily—”

“You are omitting something, Professor,” a new voice broke in. Heads turned. It was Herman Friedlander, the conductor who had told me of his relationship to Antonio Salieri. The hush that followed promised a lively exchange.

The genial Swedish professor did not look at all perturbed. He had probably had experience of being heckled and contradicted before. “Please join us, Herr Friedlander,” he invited. “An alternative view of Wolfgang will give balance to our little discussion here.”

Friedlander came farther into the group. “Mozart was always ready to criticize others, frequently for their inability to demonstrate a talent equal to his. He made enemies far more easily than he made friends. He had a complete lack of tact, he was a braggart with no thought for the feelings of others.”

“Genius is often intolerant,” said Sundvall. “It must be difficult for it to descend to the level of us ordinary mortals.”

“Is it true that you are related to Salieri?” came a question to the conductor.

“Yes, it is,” was Friedlander’s vigorous response. “A man viciously mistreated by historians, unfairly condemned of a crime of which he was completely innocent—”

“What crime is that?” asked someone, obviously not afraid to voice their ignorance.

Friedlander turned a malignant stare in that direction. “He was said to have poisoned Mozart. It is a vile calumny, a wicked slander. On the contrary, he often praised Mozart, and it was Antonio Salieri who recommended him to the Elector Karl Theodor when that official was seeking a composer to write an opera. That was to become Mozart’s first great dramatic work—it was called
Idomeneo
, and many critics declare it to be his finest composition.”

The questioner declined to pursue the point, but another took up a different line. “This manuscript that’s on this train—is it really outstanding, as some say? Or is it just because Mozart composed it?”

“I doubt its quality,” said Friedlander.

“Although there are some who believe it may rank among his best work,” said Henryk Sundvall, determined not to be elbowed aside.

“How valuable is the manuscript?” asked a Philistine member of the group, and the query hung in the air for a moment.

“Possibly priceless,” said Sundvall.

“Is it true that a Japanese buyer has offered ten million dollars for it?”

“I doubt it very much,” said Friedlander dismissively.

“A Japanese man paid 31 million for a van Gogh painting, didn’t he?” The questioner was persistent.

“I believe so, but that sale has no influence on this so-called lost folio.”

“Mozart died very young, didn’t he?” someone else asked.

“He was thirty-five,” replied Sundvall.

“That’s very young, even for those times. What did he die from?”

“He had repeated attacks of vomiting.” Friedlander was quick to reply. “He had a very high fever, his body was swollen, and he was probably suffering from kidney failure. The accusations of poisoning are preposterous.”

“Do you agree with that, Professor?” was the question to Sundvall from someone anxious to provoke an argument between the two.

“There is no evidence of any poisoning,” Sundvall said equably. “That is true. Salieri’s jealousy of Mozart is not well substantiated although Salieri certainly had occasion to feel eclipsed by the younger man’s genius. But he praised him frequently—he spoke very highly of
Die Zauberflöte, The Magic Flute
.”

“Wasn’t Mozart autopsied?” asked a member of the group who presumably had a medical background gained from television drama.

“No. Techniques for determining the presence of poison in a dead body were not well developed at that time.” Sundvall’s answer terminated that line of inquiry.

Someone called out to thank the professor for his presentation, and Friedlander departed with a curt nod to no one in particular. I noted that Paolo Conti had joined the group late, and, as people drifted off, I stayed around so that I could talk to him. Before he could leave, too, I had moved toward him.

“Fascinating, wasn’t it?” I said. “Considering Mozart is such a genius, we don’t know enough about him. At least, I learned a lot I didn’t know previously.”

“I came in late,” he confessed. “Missed the early part. Sounded interesting though.”

“‘The Wine Preferences of the Great Composers.’” I said. “Now there’s a title for one of your columns.”

Conti smiled his world-weary smile. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“For the time being, I suppose you are busy preparing a column on the wines aboard the Danube Express?”

“Yes. We’re having a rare Slovakian wine tonight with dinner, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t. That will be an unusual occasion.”

“It will. Slovakia does not produce much wine—even Switzerland has twice their production. We’ll be going through Bratislava today and it’s located where Austria, Slovakia, and Hungary meet. On the slopes of the Carpathian Mountains and to the north of the city are some fine vineyards—a pity that their wines are not better known.”