Dine and Die on the Danube Express (16 page)

“Does he suspect that you are helping me?”

“He gave no indication of it.”

I thanked Thomas for the “tour” of his facility just as a beeper sounded from somewhere in the equipment-crowded room. “That is Budapest calling,” he said, adding, “Each area has a different tone. Excuse me.”

He hurried across the room, and Kramer pointed to a flickering screen. “This shows our progress. We are about to pass through Heldenberg. I would like to have this crime solved before we reach Budapest.” He gave me a hard look. “We may have to adopt unusual measures.”

“I’ll do anything I can do to help,” I said.

“We will talk again very soon,” he promised. Outside, he checked the door carefully to make sure it was locked and strode off down the corridor. I headed for the lounge car, and the Stanton Walburgs were my first encounter. “All these castles!” said Mrs. Walburg. “Never saw so many in my whole life.”

“Almost one on every peak,” I said. “Did you see Aggstein Castle?”

“We certainly did,” said her husband, “that white-colored one. It’s very unusual. Did you hear about Hadmar the Hound?”

“No, who is he?”

Mrs. Walburg shuddered. “A terrible man. He was the Lord of Aggstein. He and his brother plundered this entire territory and all vessels that tried to pass on the river. The two of them were known as ‘the Hounds.’ Finally, some merchants banded together and hired several dozen knights, who hid in a boat. The merchants made sure that word of this boat reached the castle—and the word was that it was filled with treasure. When Hadmar stopped the boat to rob it, the knights sprang out and overcame the brothers and their men.”

“Making that stretch of the Danube safe for passage once again,” her husband said, “at least, until the next tyrant came along.”

We chatted a few minutes longer before they left and I watched the Danube slide by, still brown but moving sluggishly. A steep-roofed church nestled amid a stand of poplars, and a tiny village had figures moving around in what looked like traditional costumes. Entering the village was a plodding ox pulling a cart with a heavy load.

Then the track climbed up the riverbank, giving fine views of the extraordinary rock formations on the other side. Rock edges had been worn away over the centuries giving the appearance of a rough wall consisting of irregular slabs of stone. It made it look impregnable, and I could only hope that our problem would be less formidable.

A
RENA KOSLOVA WAS STARING
wistfully out of a window in the corridor. She looked lovely in profile, and I stopped beside her.

“I hope the journey is continuing to be all you hoped for,” I said.

She shrugged enigmatically, then said, “Yes,” but it was not entirely convincing. I turned to the view she was watching.

The train was climbing effortlessly up a steep slope, the track clinging to a hillside. Oak trees grew in profusion, many of them gnarled and twisted as they struggled to survive on the inclines, some of them precipitous. Their branches reached out like grasping arms, seeking for something to hold on to for stability

“The lounge coach is next,” I said. “Shall we sit?”

She nodded, and we walked on into the lounge coach, which was almost empty. We sat opposite each other across a small folding table. She produced a wan smile, then took a deep breath.

“I was having ‘some gray moments,’” she said. “Do you say that in English?”

“No, but I know what you mean,” I told her.

“We have a number of sayings like that in Romanian. I suppose you would call us a melancholy people?”

“The English are considered a stiff, unfeeling people,” I said. “Unemotional, ungiving, and a lot of other ‘uns’—so I suppose all nationalities look different to others.”

“You didn’t look unemotional when you were having lunch with Magda Malescu,” she said, looking out the window.

I laughed. “You saw that, did you? Well, I don’t think any man could be unemotional sitting opposite her.”

“Yes, I saw you enjoying yourself.” She was relaxing now and spoke more easily. “You described her to me when we last talked as a woman not easy to understand. Do you understand her better now?”

“It would need a lot more than a lunch to do that. But then I’m not sure I find any woman easy to understand.”

“You surely don’t include me?” she asked, turning away from the outside view. “I think I am very transparent.”

“A woman who travels alone on the Danube Express because it is something she has always wanted to do? No, I wouldn’t describe that as transparent. Unusual—certainly. Mysterious—very possibly.”

“Ah.” She nodded and was silent for a few seconds.

Then she said, “Perhaps I should explain that to you. You see, I was engaged to be married, and we had planned to spend our honeymoon on the Danube Express. We went for a short boat trip on the Black Sea. The steamer rammed a pier and we hit another boat. My husband-to-be was drowned. I was rescued.”

“What a terrible tragedy. I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“That was more than a year ago. When I heard about this twenty-fifth anniversary trip, I decided to take it. My decision was late, but there was a cancellation. Maybe it was not such a good idea—I have had a few of these ‘gray moments.’ Still, I’m trying to enjoy the journey, and it really is a rare occasion.”

“I hope you will enjoy it,” I told her, “and anytime you feel a ‘gray moment’ coming on, and you want someone to talk to—well, I’m here, I’m on the train.”

She smiled charmingly, and her mood seemed to have passed. “So what progress are you making in the investigation?”

“Not enough. I’m still puzzled about Malescu’s disappearance although it doesn’t seem likely that she is responsible in any way for the murder of her understudy.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“You’ve heard that that’s who was murdered?” I asked.

“Of course. It’s all over the train.”

“Have you heard any suspicions?”

She hesitated. “It’s all right,” I said, “you can tell me. I’m only collecting opinions.”

“Well, it’s probably only gossip, but one or two fingers are pointing at Herr Lydecker. Did you know he was a magician?”

“That’s what I heard. Is there anything between him and Malescu?”

So much for collecting opinions. I was collecting gossip now. The investigation was indeed in a bad way.

“They worked together on the stage—” She stopped and looked at me accusingly. “But you must know that.”

“I heard that she was an assistant in his magic act and that it was her first stage appearance,” I hastened to say, “but I haven’t heard any word to suggest that they have had any contact recently. That first stage appearance was a long time ago.”

She smiled. “La Malescu wouldn’t want to hear you say that—a long time ago indeed!”

I returned the smile. “Promise not to tell her,” I said.

“Not much likelihood of that,” she said, “but in any case, even if it was recent, it would have to mean that Lydecker had mistaken her understudy for Malescu, and that doesn’t sound reasonable. Surely he knew Malescu too well?”

“The two look very much alike,” I pointed out.

“Actually, they don’t,” Irena said, “but they can do so. There is a basic similarity, and both women look like they are makeup experts and, of course, both are actresses.”

“If they want to look alike, they could, yes, that’s true. Now, when we talked before, you suggested that one of her many lovers killed Malescu—that was when she had disappeared and everybody thought she had been murdered. Who else beside Lydecker might fit into that category?”

“That doctor—Dr. Stolz—isn’t he a possibility? The way she clings to his arm when they parade through the train—”

Was there a touch of envy there, I wondered? From a woman who had lost her man not that long ago? If so, it was understandable. “It’s hard to see what motive he might have,” I said.

“M’m, I haven’t heard any motives being suggested,” she admitted, and she looked especially pretty when she was pensive. She brightened. “Then there’s the Italian, Paolo Conti—”

“Have you heard anything about him?” I asked casually. Perhaps I could learn something about the mystery man with gigantic holes in his dossier, I thought, but she shook her head.

“Not really, but he’s very—what do you say in English?”

“Dishy?” I suggested.

She repeated the word doubtfully. “What association does he have with a dish?”

“I don’t know. Some English slang words have strange origins.”

“Well, I’ll use it,” she decided, with a brief nod of her head. “He’s dishy.”

“And—?”

“Well, he’s a man, isn’t he? And Malescu’s an eater of men.”

“She is? Oh, you mean a man-eater. Yes, I suppose so.”

“There are only so many men on this train,” Irena said. “One of them must be guilty of Svarovina’s murder.”

“Couldn’t the murderer be a woman?”

“No. Certainly not.” She was unhesitating in her answer, and I held back a comment about female intuition.

“There’s another puzzle on this train,” I told her.

“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “I don’t like people being murdered when I’m on holiday, but this is exciting, isn’t it! What’s the other puzzle?”

“This is beginning to sound like a Mystery Train Tour,” I began. “They are popular in many countries now. Actors and actresses put on a murder play, and the audience has to guess who did it.”

“This is a little too much like that,” she said with a delightful shudder, “but go on—what’s the other puzzle?”

“When Malescu disappeared, someone on the train gave out the story that she had been murdered. The story seems to have come from a journalist called Mikhel Czerny.”

She nodded. “He is very well known. He gets a lot of sensational stories.”

“He also seems to have a vendetta against Magda Malescu.”

Irena smiled. “He certainly does!”

“So,” I persisted, “nobody seems to be sure what he looks like, but if the story came from somebody on the train, who is he?”

She was quiet. Then she murmured, “Another puzzle, yes, I see.” She turned her gaze to the window where the Danube was almost on a level with the track. It looked very wide, and we passed a white cruise boat. It had several decks, and passengers by the rails waved. White smoke came from a large funnel, and I wondered if it was as synthetic as our smoke on the Danube Express. We surged past it and soon left it behind.

“Conti is a journalist, too, they say.” Irena’s comment was in a thoughtful tone of voice.

“Yes. He writes for the
European Wine Journal
among other magazines. Do you know anything about him?”

“No, but couldn’t he be Czerny?”

I considered that. “Possible, I suppose.” I decided not to say anything about Kramer’s information concerning Czerny’s shadowlike existence, but here was a thought that hadn’t occurred to me. If he didn’t have much of a profile as a wine journalist, was it because he spent his time reporting for the Budapest
Times
?

I looked at Irena in a new light. “It’s an idea,” I told her, and she smiled with satisfaction.

“Would I make a good detective?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “you’re too attractive.”

“Wouldn’t that make me a better detective?” she purred.

“Do you know anything else about Czerny?” I asked.

“No, and no one seems to know anything.” She moved in her seat. “I must go. I have a lot of work to do on myself to get ready for dinner.”

“You look great to me,” I said gallantly.

“Ha! Wait till you see me tonight!” She rose and was gone before I could ask her what her plans were.

It would not take me as long to get ready for dinner as Irena said she needed. I meant it when I said she looked great and, by my estimate, fifteen minutes would be ample to get her looking terrific, but my experience of women was that they always thought they required six times as long to get ready as they really did. Maybe that is because they have to try out the image in the mirror with six different pairs of shoes or six different combinations of a blouse and a skirt.

Regardless of such speculation, fascinating as it might be, I didn’t need to start getting ready yet, so I had plenty of time to carry out a task I had been thinking about for some time. It was a task of which I had reminded myself by talking about Malescu’s double mystery—being allegedly murdered and being definitely missing.

I went in the direction of the restaurant coach, which was being prepared for dinner. Glasses were being carefully examined before being placed on the snowy white tablecloths, knives, forks, and spoons were being given an extra shine, and vases of flowers were being strategically located.

I went on through and into the first kitchen coach. This was something I would have wanted to do anyway. I always like to look at kitchens, and I was curious as to how one that was expected to provide outstanding meals could do so in the limited space of two coaches, even coaches on the renowned Danube Express.

The head chef was an Austrian, Heinz Hofstatter. He was big, bearded, and jovial—almost an archetypal chef, but then I knew that such a responsible position required a person with good PR skills in addition to his talents in the kitchen.

I mentioned Erich Brenner’s name after telling Hofstatter who I was, and cooperation was immediately assured. “Herr Brenner told me that you would wish to see our railroad kitchens.” Hofstatter beamed. “Let me show them to you—it will be a pleasure.” He hesitated momentarily. “I hope you will not be disappointed that we do not have any Scottish dishes in preparation.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I am English, I’m not—”

“But you are from Scotland Yard—”

“Ah, I see—but Scotland Yard is not actually in Scotland.”

“No?” He was surprised.

“No. I am not here on official business in any case. It’s just professional interest.”

He beamed again and led the way. Stainless steel glittered everywhere in the halogen-lamp-illuminated coach—ovens, workbench surfaces, storage cabinets, exhaust hoods, all were made of it, and the reflection doubled the lighting intensity. Pans simmered softly, and enticing aromas were already beginning to fill the air. A young woman came in with a box heaped with fat, pink shrimp.