Dine and Die on the Danube Express (21 page)

Conti looked at Kramer as if he found him unfamiliar.

“I—no.”

I knew what was making Kramer antagonistic. He didn’t like the idea of an undercover investigator secretly at work on the train of which he was the security chief. I had been lucky and slipped under Kramer’s radar screen before the boom was lowered. The Scotland Yard connection had stood me in good stead, and, once again, I hoped it would hold.

Kramer wasn’t going to tell Conti that he had searched his compartment and found his badge. He was giving him the opportunity of admitting his mission. Maybe when Conti recovered further, he would do that; but so far, it looked as if he intended to hold out.

“If someone drugged you, we need to know who it was and why?” Kramer continued remorselessly.

Conti smoothed out the bedclothes with his outstretched palms. It had the appearance of a placating gesture but Kramer was not being placatable.

“You might have died,” Kramer said. “You came very close to it. Who drugged you?”

Conti dropped his eyes. He looked as if he were thinking, trying to remember. Then he looked up, and said, “I don’t know. I hadn’t drunk anything for some time before I went into the bar, just wine at dinner. I spoke to a few people there. Had a drink then I—yes, I had another. I didn’t feel well. I stayed a while longer. I was tired and decided to go back to my compartment. That’s all I remember.”

“Who was in the bar at that time?”

“Let me see—Lydecker was there, Reingold, the Swiss fellow, was talking about the Swiss railway system, oh and Friedlander came in but didn’t stay long. The Romanian girl, Koslova, was there talking to Larouge.”

“Who else?” demanded Kramer.

Conti’s brow wrinkled as he made an effort at recall. “Elisha Tabor was getting friendly with the oil man—”

“Vollmer?”

“Yes. I think there were one or two others I didn’t know.”

“Which bartenders were on duty?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Tell me, Signor Conti, do you take medication?”

“When I need it.”

“Have you taken any on this journey?”

“Not up to now.”

“Do you have trouble sleeping?”

Conti frowned. “Sleeping? No.”

“Have you taken any sedatives?”

“No.”

Kramer wasn’t finished with him yet though. “What have your researches on the
Donau Schnellzug
brought so far?” he demanded.

“My researches?”

“You are researching for an article on wine, aren’t you?”

Conti looked uncertain. “Well, yes,” he said, “it’s going to be an article on the Express with emphasis on wine and the wine regions that the train passes through.”

“You will be mentioning the vines for Romania?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not? Are they not important?”

“Yes, but they would make a separate story.”

“You are writing such a story?” Kramer continued to press.

“No, I have it in mind and it will come later.”

“You don’t write very much, do you, Signor Conti?”

Conti sat up straighter in the bed. I made a mental note that a person in bed is at a definite disadvantage in an interview. Still, I realized that it is rare that the investigator can contrive such a juxtaposition with his victim.

“I usually publish four or five articles a year,” Conti said.

“Two last year and three the year before.” Kramer’s tone was impersonal but his investigational precision stung Conti.

“That’s my business,” he said angrily. “I can write as much or as little as I want.”

“The
European Wine Journal
is satisfied with your output?”

“You can ask them yourself,” was the retort.

Kramer nodded. It conveyed the message,
You can bet I will
, and Conti didn’t miss it. “Are there any more questions you want to ask me, Herr Kramer?” he asked testily. “If not, I am feeling tired and would like to get a little sleep.”

“Just a few more questions,” Kramer said, ignoring the hint.

Conti sighed, and his eyelids drooped, but it looked like a touch of acting to me, and Kramer went ahead with a disregard of whether it was histrionics or physical distress.

“Is there anyone on the
Donau Schnellzug
who would have a motive for trying to poison you?”

“When you write material and have it published, there could always be someone who objects to what you say.”

“That is true in your case?”

“In the past, I have had complaints.”

“What kind of complaints?”

“One vineyard owner felt that my comments influenced public opinion concerning his product and that might adversely affect his business.”

“Could he not have sued you?” asked Kramer.

Conti sighed. “He threatened to do so but changed his mind.”

“Has there been anyone who might have felt strongly enough about your written comments that he might want to kill you?”

“I can’t think of anyone.”

Kramer regarded him for a moment. He might have been digesting that answer or merely preparing the next question.

“Do you know anyone on the train?”

“Er, no. There is no one on the train I have met before.”

“Herr Brenner—you did not know him?”

“No.”

“So you maintain that you are not aware of any person on this train who might want to kill you?”

“No. I am not aware of any such person.”

Kramer asked him more questions, but they were inconsequential and probably more for the sake of irritating Conti than for any other reason. Kramer finally concluded his interrogation. “Very well, Signor Conti. I suggest that you get some sleep now.” He gave the Italian a condescending nod, got a glare in return, and we both left.

Outside in the corridor, the steward gave a salute and resumed his duty. We moved a little farther away and Kramer said, “So it seems that someone is using the herb Farfalia as a poison.”

“It does,” I agreed. “A little more, and Conti would be dead. He has a leisurely lifestyle, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I must have Thomas check on him in greater detail. It looks though as Conti’s cover of being a magazine writer is just a convenient way of hiding his activities as an agent for
Amici della Uva
.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It would be a good mask, and it certainly explains why his history has so many gaps in it. I suppose it might be possible to list all the known wine frauds, scandals, and crimes of the last few years and try to match them against those gaps in Conti’s past.”

“That is a good idea,” Kramer said. “I will have Thomas work on it.”

“I wonder if Conti will recover sufficiently to join us this evening in Budapest?” I said, and Kramer shrugged.

“Are the arrangements similar to those in Vienna?” I asked. “Limousines take us all directly from the station to the banquet room in Budapest?”

“Yes. Special arrangements have been made for the train to go into the
Keleti Palyaudvar
, the Eastern Railway Station. The banquet is only a short distance only from there.”

“That’s the old station, isn’t it? Built during the imperial days?’

“Yes. A magnificent structure. Herr Brenner thought it very compatible with the concept of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the
Donau Schnellzug
.”

We separated, and I walked into the lounge coach. The panoramic windows were popular viewing spots, and most of the seats were taken. We were presumably leaving the section of track that had views of the Slovak Republic to the north, our left, and we were now entering the track with Hungary on both sides. Green, wooded islands studded the Danube and the river itself pursued a serpentine route. The bends were so close together that the river appeared to be more like a string of small lakes, closed at each end.

The banks of the Danube were sometimes stony, sometimes sandy, and many areas were the subject of hopeful scrutiny by flocks of gulls and rooks. The water of the river must be plentifully stocked with fish, too, and where the water was shallow near the banks, the birds dived into the water, usually emerging drenched but triumphant with a wriggling silver fish.

On the right, the land began to rise from the Carpathians. Ruined castles, one after another, perched precariously on craggy hilltops within a short distance of the train. I had not noticed Professor Sundvall before, but then I saw him, surrounded by a small entourage. He was describing the passing countryside and was pointing to a towering ruin, more than three hundred feet above the river.

“The Castle of
Paszony,
or Pressburg as it is known in the West,” he said. It was a squat quadrangular mass, and at its foot, near the river, was, said the professor, the ancient town of the same name. “… and once,” the professor continued, “the capital city. At the four corners of the castle itself, you can see large square towers—those were its principal means of defense. It looks old and not particularly attractive from this viewpoint, but if you should come through this area by river, you should certainly stop here. The narrow, tortuous streets, the sudden appearance of flights of steep steps, and the quaint old houses are a delight, and perhaps you will be fortunate and visit it on market day, when the lively crowds will fill the town.”

The castle was visible for quite a while. The rail track zigzagged and the Danube twisted and turned almost as much—the convolutions of the two seldom coinciding.

“Twice,” said Professor Sundvall, “this town, Pressburg, has been responsible for establishing the Hapsburg Dynasty on the Austrian throne, and its cathedral, which you can just see—has been the coronation site of most of the kings of Hungary. Pressburg, in fact, became such an important town that it was thought more prudent to move the capital farther from the frontier. That was how the honor was moved away from Pressburg, and Budapest became the capital.”

The Danube Express rolled smoothly on, making easy going of the weaving railbed and ironing out the kinks in the Danube River.

“And so we continue our journey to Budapest, one of the most romantic and exciting cities in Europe,” said Professor Sundvall, and everyone craned closer to the window, eager to catch the first glimpse …

T
HE DONAU SCHNELLZUG UNLOADED
us at the
Keleti Polyaudvar
, the Eastern Railway Station, a Gothic structure with a distinctly imperial look and a soaring roof. It is neither the oldest nor the largest station in Budapest, but it has been restored to a level of efficiency that make it suitable for international train traffic. Its neo-Renaissance façade is flanked by statues of two pioneers of the railroad—James Watt and George Stephenson.

As in Vienna, we boarded a fleet of limousines and I found myself with the Australians, Herman Friedlander, Elisha Tabor, a couple of jolly Tyroleans, a Japanese couple with perplexed expressions arising from their incomplete knowledge of any European language, and Franz Reingold, the Swiss ski lift heir.

The limos took us on a mildly zigzag route to enable us to see a few of Budapest’s more famous sights. It was a pity that the first of these was the Square of the Republic as it is surrounded by the grimmest, drabbest buildings I have ever seen. The solid concrete block edifices formerly housed the Communist Party headquarters. They are too ugly to conceal and too massive to blow up.

Our small cavalcade rolled on to the
Kapel Szent Roch,
the St. Roch Chapel, a delightful yellow church built in the eighteenth century. Its charm is increased by the traditionally garbed peasant women selling lace and embroidery all around the church.

The streets were busy and the sidewalks crowded with people. The Hungarians had supplied a guide in each limousine, and we listened to comments and explanations as we passed the various sights. Our guide was an elfin young lady with a serious demeanor and an unmistakable aura of academia. She was, she told us, a professor of history at the university, but she led guided tours for the city whenever a special occasion such as this brought important visitors.

Oh, everything was much better now that Hungary had abandoned Communism for the capitalist way of life, she assured us, but the country still lagged economically behind the standards of Western Europe.

We passed the
Operahaz,
the Opera House, guarded by two large marble sphinxes. It was built in the 1880’s but badly damaged during the siege of 1944–45. It was now fully restored, explained Renata, our guide, and she said it was regrettable that we would not have time to see its impressive interior, with its grand staircases, wood-paneled corridors, and its green-and-gilt salons. Four tiers of boxes are supported by figures of helmeted sphinxes under a magnificently frescoed ceiling.

We saw the Liszt Memorial Museum and the Liszt Academy of Music, for Franz Liszt was one of the city’s most famous citizens, and we drove through Heroes’ Square with several impressive buildings including the Museum of Fine Arts and the Palace of Exhibitions. The former contained Raphael’s masterpiece,
Portrait of Youth
, retrieved after one of the most spectacular heists in art history. That, however, was another story, Renata said primly, and left us all wanting to hear more.

By then, though, we were crossing the Lanc-hid, the first of the five permanent bridges that now span the Danube, although, Renata reminded us, the Romans built a bridge connecting the military outposts in Pest on one side and the civil town of Aquincum on the other. Aquincum, she said, had been extensively excavated recently, and the amphitheater that had been restored was one of the finest in Europe.

One of the Australians wanted to know why the bridge had a kink in the middle. Was it a mistake, construction from both sides not meeting in the middle? Certainly not, said Renata indignantly, the Danube currents are so strong that each half of the bridge has to be exactly vertical to the current on that side. We all admired the bridge, with its massive stone supports and the huge crouching lion statues at the entrances.

Sculptures, statues, and carvings abound throughout the city as well as old churches, chapels, and gateways. The famous Fisherman’s Bastion has seven beautifully carved turrets representing the seven Magyar tribes.