Dine and Die on the Danube Express (14 page)

“Light and dry, a touch of fruit, fragrant but assertive—is that what your column will say?”

“Something like that. You know wines?”

“No, but I’m supposing that they are similar to the wine from the countries around them—Austria, Bulgaria, Romania. The soil and the climate are similar, so it’s likely the wines are of the same general types.”

“That’s right, and with more aggressive marketing, the wines from all of those countries could be more widely appreciated.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “it may take a little while to develop fully the capitalistic spirit to that extent. Half a century of Communism needs a lot of overcoming.”

“I suppose so.” He leaned against the window where a view of the Danube was sweeping past. The water was still muddy brown, but a long barge with a line of washing prominent along its deck brought a new element to the scene.

“Now how about you?” he asked. “Why are you on board the Danube Express?”

It was a direct approach, and I tried to sound equally direct with my answer, which necessarily had to be evasive.

“A European consortium is interested in the luxury railroad concept,” I said, trying to sound as if I had nothing to hide. “I’m contributing some viewpoints.”

“Railroad espionage, eh?”

“Far from it. Before opening a new restaurant, any sensible chef-owner eats at other similar restaurants. This is the same approach—what do the existing railroads offer and what else might be offered?”

I like to keep as close to the truth as possible even if my work does sometimes require some—well, let’s call it—ambiguity. I wasn’t sure whether the answer satisfied him or not. His face didn’t show outright doubt, though he asked, “Does the Danube Express fall short in its offerings?”

“They do a wonderful job,” I said, thankful to be shown a sidetrack to develop. “It’s hard to fault the way they run this operation.”

He glanced out of the window at the Danube curling slowly away from its parallel course to the line. “One way they are failing is surely in their security,” he commented, and turned back to look at me.

“That criticism is leveled more often at the airlines,” I said.

“This Malescu business is bizarre, though, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know much about her before this trip, but it seems that she has a flamboyant existence. She’s often in the news, usually in the headlines. Maybe she maintains her eminence in the theatre partly by keeping her name in the public eye.”

He didn’t look convinced. “I heard that another woman was found dead in Malescu’s compartment. Who was she, do you know?”

“I think the railroad security people are working on that.”

He made a contemptuous sound that expressed a negative opinion of Herr Kramer and his operation. “Maybe they’re more worried about somebody stealing that Mozart manuscript.”

“Ah, you arrived in time to hear that, did you? You must have heard the question about a Japanese investor offering ten million dollars for it.”

“Sounds crazy to me, and, anyway, I didn’t know that the Japanese were such music lovers.”

“Maybe one of them wants to buy it as an investment,” I said.

“Maybe,” he conceded. He looked at his watch. “I might go for an early lunch.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I might—”

I was interrupted by the opening of the door at the end of the lounge coach. Two figures came through, and conversation in the coach died away. Eyes were all on the couple who came in. It was the glamorous star of the stage and Hungary’s one and only, Magda Malescu, and she was on the arm of Dr. Stolz.

T
HE “QUEEN OF THE
Hungarian Theatre” was how the press often referred to her. She looked like a queen now. She wore a rust red suit with a leopard print blouse, calfskin boots, and chunky gold jewelry. Her hair and makeup were impeccable. She walked as if everyone was looking at her and, of course, they were.

Dr. Stolz should have looked as proud as Punch but he had only his habitual gaunt and tired look. His eyes were still lively, though, and he took in the passengers in the lounge car with a sweeping glance. The two of them came walking through the coach like a queen and her consort.

Malescu had that half-smile that many celebrities have perfected. When bestowed on an individual, it gives the impression that the bestower is personally greeting the bestowee but then the look moves on, and the next person becomes the delighted beneficiary.

To my astonishment, they stopped before me. I didn’t think I was expected to kiss the hem of her gown, so I didn’t do so. Stolz said, “This is the young man from Scotland Yard,” and she gave me a charming smile as she held out her hand. This was better than the hem of a gown so I obliged. That introduction, though … If Kramer heard about it, I could make the rest of the journey in the locked coach with the Mozart folio and some vine roots.

I shot a look at Stolz, unclear whether he knew better or not. His face told me nothing. I had to mend the fence somehow, and I started to say, “I’m not actually with—”

But the star of stage, screen, and television said, “You were not here on duty, I suspect, but the DS Bahn’s resourceful security service asked you to help.”

“Yes, that’s—” was all I could get out before La Malescu asked, “Would you join us for lunch? We would so love to have you, wouldn’t we, Richard?”

“Certainly,” the doctor purred, given little choice.

As we took a table in the dining coach, I received a few stares, jealousy probably. A waiter appeared magically, like a genie out of a bottle, and placed a single red rose in a tall, cut-glass vase in the middle of the table. Malescu gave him that smile, and perfect service was assured for the rest of the meal.

“Would you care for an aperitif?” the waiter asked.

“Panna for me,” said Malescu. It is a popular bottled water from Italy and believed to be extra pure because of the layers of rock, gravel, and geological sand that the melted snow and the rainwater have to pass through. These are supposed to filter out all the chemical and microbial impurities and add a few parts per million of minerals. The producers of Panna allege that the water spends several years being cleansed and improved that way so it must be the best.

I asked for a glass of Kloster Und as we were still passing through Austria. Kloster Und is another of the light white wines from the southern wine area of Austria. It is little seen outside the country as such wines are best drunk young and thus seldom exported. Estate-bottled wines are still not common here and I relied on the waiter to bring me one of the better examples of Kloster Und.

Dr. Stolz ordered a scotch and soda. As a medical man, I presumed he was prescribing for himself a stimulant. Before the waiter left to fill the order, he handed us menus, elaborate affairs on heavy shiny white cardboard with the words in computer-simulated handwriting in gold.

Malescu ignored hers. She turned the full candlepower of her gaze on me. “I know you are doing all you can to find out who killed poor Talia, but please tell me what you have learned so far.”

It was a tough question to answer, but I tried to satisfy her that we were making progress. “Numerous inquiries have been sent to people who knew her, in and out of the theatre,” I said. “Some of these are expected to yield clues that will advance us further. You could perhaps help us as far as her presence on the train is concerned.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “What can I tell you?”

I had the distinct impression that Dr. Stolz was listening to our conversation a little nervously. Was he worried about what she might say, I wondered? Did she know something he didn’t want divulged or at least, did he think that?

“Did your understudy always travel with you?” I asked.

“Sometimes, not always. We were close, you understand. She has been my understudy for many years, so I knew her well.”

“Then perhaps you knew who might want to kill her?”

She shuddered delightfully. “Certainly not. She was a likable girl, I can’t believe that anyone would want to do that.”

“Someone did.”

She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it.”

“The theory that the IMG wanted to kill you, but they killed her instead, believing she was you—what do you think of that?”

I was treading close to the edge, I knew that. She might pull a temper tantrum and yell at me for blaming her. She didn’t though. It looked as if tears might well from her eyes but, if they did, she controlled them. She was either genuinely sorry for Talia Svarovina, or she was the world’s greatest actress.

“I—I suppose it’s possible,” she admitted.

The waiter came with the drinks and asked if we were ready to order. We obediently looked at the menus and after some questions and answers, the latter being authoritatively provided, we all placed our orders.

Malescu said she would have the Fillets of Sole with Mussels. I ordered the Carp, Danube Style, and the doctor decided upon the Spinach Roll with a Chicken Filling. The waiter looked pleased that we had all ordered Austrian dishes.

As we sipped our drinks, I asked Malescu about Talia Svarovina’s private life.

“She didn’t have a lot of it,” said Malescu. “We have to travel a lot. Plays in Hungary, Austria, and Germany do not have long runs like plays in New York or London. That means going to medium-and even smaller-sized cities and runs of one or two months only.” Her voice was musical and a pleasure to listen to, and certainly she was good to look at—I was glad, after all, that I was from Scotland Yard.

Dr. Stolz was relaxing, it seemed. He no longer had that anxious look, and I wondered what topic he had been worried that we might develop. “Then, too,” he said, “much of the time, even when Magda is on the road, the troupe is rehearsing a new play. That leaves little time for social contacts.”

Malescu agreed with this promptly. “Our audiences do not have the same acceptance of re-runs that American and British audiences have. They like new and different plays.”

“Good for playwrights,” I said.

“Unfortunately, no,” said Dr. Stolz. “They receive little recompense for their labors. Theatre seats are much cheaper, too—that brings in good audiences but most of the auditoriums and theatres are not large.”

“Under Communism,” said Malescu, “they received some state support, but now they can no longer rely on that.”

“So Talia had little opportunity for making friends,” I said, trying to get back to the investigating.

“I suppose she made her friends mostly from the troupe as you traveled around,” suggested Stolz to Malescu.

“Yes, she was a friendly girl and had no problem getting along.”

“And you and she had no friction?”

Malescu pouted. “I am a woman,” she said, and I didn’t doubt it for a second. “I am temperamental sometimes,” she added, and although I hadn’t seen any real evidence of it, I didn’t doubt that either. “If we had any disagreements, they were purely professional.”

That sounded good, but I didn’t buy it. I would bet that they had had a few blowups but I wouldn’t expect her to admit it about a person who had just been murdered.

“Did she have any particular friends in the troupe?” I asked.

I thought Malescu hesitated over that, but she may have just been savoring the tiny bubbles in the Panna. “She had a brief affair with a young man who was with us during the run of
A Woman of the Night
.”

“Did you star in that?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said, sounding surprised. Perhaps she thought it an obvious connection from the title, or maybe she thought the “star” designation made it obvious that it referred to her. “I starred in it, and Talia was my understudy.”

“Did she get to play your role?”

“No. I played every performance, including matinees.”

“Magda has not missed a performance in—how long is it now, Magda?” asked Dr. Stolz, as if proud of a protégé.

She shrugged. “A long time, I do not know.”

I thought she probably did know and didn’t want to make it clear that Talia Svarovina rarely got a chance to take the starring role. Still, what did that tell me? Only that Talia had a theoretical reason to want Malescu out of the way.

The faces of the two women, one dead, the other very much alive, merged before my eyes. Their similarity was—or could be when either chose—remarkable. That might be meaningful, but I couldn’t take it to any firm conclusion.

“This young man you mentioned—is he still with the troupe?”

“Oh, no, he was with us only for a run of one play, it lasted about four months.”

“Did the two of them part on friendly terms?”

“Yes—well, as friendly as the breakup of an affair can be,” she said.

“Did they see each other afterward?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She shrugged.

The food arrived, the plates hot and sending up delicious aromas. I was familiar with the cooking method of Magda’s fillets of sole. They are first poached in white wine with butter and shallots, then the liquid is reduced. Bechamel sauce is added, meanwhile the mussels are cooked in water and mushrooms are sautéed separately in butter and lemon. Whipped cream is folded into the sauce, which is then glazed before serving. Cream is widely used in both Austrian and Hungarian dishes. They were served with a tiny mound of haricots verts.

Carp is a very popular fish in this area, too. The Danube style of preparing it spreads carrots, onions, and peppercorns on a little water in a baking pan, then the carp is laid over them. It is baked until the fish is flaky, with basting done continually. Hard-boiled eggs are chopped fine and mixed with butter, lemon juice, and salt and pepper, then simmered. This is poured over the fish, and it is served. It is a simple dish and derives from true country-style cooking, but the quality of a plump and fresh carp makes it excellent. Potato dumplings would be the normal Austrian choice with it, but the decidedly up-market Danube Express served a small quantity of Duchesse potatoes.

Dr. Stolz replied to my query about his Spinach Roll with a Chicken Filling with a grunted acquiescence that it was “all right.” The chicken filling was probably minced chicken mixed with cream, beaten eggs, dill, parsley, scallions, and salt and pepper, then blended and croutons added.