Dine and Die on the Danube Express (25 page)

“How does she explain it?”

“She doesn’t.”

Irena looked thoughtfully out of the window. “There’s a Bulgarian herb called
Sayiya Vanesta.
Do you know it?”

“No,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

“It could be translated as ‘Acid Essence of Almonds.’ It’s cake flavoring. Bulgarians love cakes—they make them with all kinds of nuts. Almonds are one of the most popular, and they use
Sayiya Vanesta
to increase the almond flavor. There’s so much sugar in the cake that you need the acid to balance it.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“When I was a girl, I worked in my aunt’s bakery in Craiova. It’s in the south, near the Romanian border with Bulgaria, and my aunt used lots of herbs as flavors.”

“Irena—you continue to amaze me!”

She looked pleased. “I do?”

“You may have provided the clue that solves part of this case.”

“Really? Which part?”

“I’m not sure of that myself yet, but I think it moves us along. Tell me more about Conti—did he say much at the banquet?”

“Not much at all. He was very subdued. I suppose it was the after-effects of the poisoning?”

“Evidently.”

“I can talk to him again,” Irena said. “He must be feeling better today.” She was examining me intently. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“You’re wondering whether or not to tell me something. If we’re working together, I think you should tell me.”

She was getting altogether too intuitive. “I am going to tell you,” I said. “I’m trying to think of the right way.”

She waited, her hands folded in front of her and her eyes shining—how could I keep anything from her? I tried to assume a Scotland Yard image. Did they tell their helpers everything? Probably not, but if it might help elicit further information …

“Conti is an agent,” I said. “An agent of a secret organization called
Amici della Uva.
They work for the European Union in the area of crimes relating to the wine industry”

“So why is he on the
Donau Schnellzug
?”

“You must know about the shipment of vines going to Romania?”

“Of course; it’s been in all the news programs.”

“Well, he may be protecting them, but he hasn’t told us about it. We found out in—er, well, in another way.”

“He doesn’t know you know?”

“Right. Now I don’t see how that is connected with the death of Svarovina, but it may be. Anyway, see what you can find out from Conti.”

“I will. Anything else?”

“You were talking to Larouge at the banquet. Did you learn anything from him?”

“Nothing that seemed interesting. He said he found me very attractive.”

“I can understand that. Anything else?”

“Well, I did talk to the oil man—”

“Gerhardt Vollmer?”

“Yes. He found me attractive too—”

“I don’t doubt it. What else did he say?”

“He seemed to know a lot about Malescu.”

“What does that tell us?” I asked.

“H’m, well … if he knows her as well as he says, he must have been another one of her lovers.”

“Do I detect a note of censure there?”

“What does ‘censure’ mean?”

“It means criticism—or disapproval.”

She shrugged, a dismissive shrug that suggested she thought she had every right to be critical.

“All I’m saying is, if he was one of her lovers, he might have some motive to kill her.”

“But she wasn’t—”

“She wasn’t killed, I know, but you said someone may have tried to kill her.” She flashed me one of her derisive glances.

“What’s Vollmer’s attitude toward her? Angry, bitter, does he sound resentful, discarded …?”

“Not exactly bitter, no. Not vengeful either but very definitely not friendly toward her.”

“So why did he admit being one of her lovers?”

“He didn’t—but he knew so much about her—and anyway, a woman can tell.”

That was the final word as far as Irena was concerned.
A woman can tell.
The aggravating thing was that in her case, I believed it.

P
ROFESSOR SUNDVALL HAD RESUMED
his duties by the time Irena and I had finished talking. “This used to be known as Petervarad,” he was saying. “It has always been described as the Gibraltar of the Danube.”

A massive fortress stood high on a rock, one of those ancient piles of stone that looks as if it has been there a thousand years—and, of course, this one had. Its perch, about two hundred feet above the river, overshadowed a small town at the foot of the cliffs.

“In the Empress Maria Theresa’s day,” the professor said, “every member of the male population had to spend three weeks out of every month on active military service. That service consisted of defending the land against attack by the Turks. This fortress was the keystone of their defense line.”

Someone wanted to know why it was called Petervarad. “Isn’t that a little like Petrograd?”

“Exactly,” said the professor with a satisfied beam, “but Petrograd was named after Peter the Great of Russia. Petervarad was named after a much earlier Peter.” He looked expectantly around his audience, giving anyone who wished the chance to shine. No one did.

The professor beamed again anyway. “Peter the Hermit,” he explained. “Many centuries earlier.”

“The monk who traveled all over Europe preaching the First Crusade,” said the questioner.

“Yes. Peter had visited the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and was strongly moved by the plight of the Christians there. Pope Urban II was massing the European nations, their armies, and their money, for a Crusade to recover the Holy Land for Christianity. In Peter the Hermit, he recognized a vigorous and dedicated prophet. He summoned him to Rome, applauded his intentions, and promised him all the support he needed.”

“And he came here?”

“He traveled throughout France and Italy, where the greatest support could be expected, then he expanded his efforts into the surrounding Christian countries. This was one of the places where he visited and preached.”

“Is this myth or history?” The questioner sounded dubious.

“Oh, it’s historical fact,” said the professor. “The story of Peter’s visit here is carved in stone inside the fortress you are now viewing.”

“And this was in what year?” asked another voice.

“The year 1096.”

I looked at the wooded islands dotting the Danube and the woodlands and hills sloping away to the south. We slid past them and over another bridge giving fine views of the Danube. A cruise ship, gleaming white, passed underneath us. Then I left and walked through the train to Kramer’s compartment.

A steward was outside. He was not obviously on guard, but I knew that was his mission. He identified me and knocked, telling Kramer that I was there. Kramer unlocked and opened the door.

“Come in. Perfect timing,” he said.

I sat opposite him across the desk. His blond hair looked even more impossibly blond than usual, and again I marveled at how ultratypically German he looked.

“I have a number of reports here but nothing helpful.”

“That means we still have the problem of who poisoned Talia Svarovina,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes.”

“We are in agreement on that, aren’t we? It wasn’t accidental or an overdose.”

“I think we can proceed on that basis. As soon as all the passengers were in the limousines and on the way to the banquet, the vehicle arrived and took her body to the city morgue. They have promised me that they will give top priority to her examination.”

“No problem with letting the train continue on to Bucharest?”

“Only a little. Svarovina is a Hungarian citizen, so her body should be left in Budapest. Of course, Herr Brenner did his usual masterly job of diplomatically smoothing the waters.”

He sat back and studied me. “Any news from among the passengers?”

“It appears that Gerhardt Vollmer was probably one of Malescu’s lovers.”

“Another of them?”

“Yes,” I said.

“H’m,” he murmured. “I am still puzzled by that event. Who tried to poison Malescu and why? Also why did they fail?”

“That’s still puzzling me, too,” I admitted. I considered telling him about Irena’s information about the Bulgarian herb but decided to wait until I had something more definite.

“La Malescu seems to have had so many lovers that if we consider them all suspects, we may have to bring in another fifty men,” I said, and he smiled one of his mirthless smiles.

“I understand that Conti attended the banquet,” Kramer said.

“Yes. He said he didn’t feel his usual self, but he attended anyway. His table companions said he was quiet, didn’t say much.”

“He still doesn’t want to tell us of his position as an agent for
Amici della Uva,
does he?” said Kramer.

“No. Still, it is an organization that likes to keep an extremely low profile. Any stories that might come out about the activities of its agents could cause a lot of awkward questions in the governments of Europe. Just one leak could be highly embarrassing—it’s something the organization has to work hard to avoid.”

Kramer nodded. “We are on the last leg of our journey now. It is also the longest. We must resolve the mystery of the death of Fraulein Svarovina before we reach Bucharest.”

“The original intention was to stop in Belgrade, wasn’t it?”

“Yes but that was changed before the journey was finally planned. There will be no more stops now.” He raised a finger. “I spoke with the stewards before we left Budapest. I asked them all to be especially vigilant.”

“Good,” I said, “and I’ll increase my circulation and talk to as many passengers as I can. Some clue must emerge.”

“I believe so,” Kramer said emphatically. “There is much that we do not yet know, and it cannot all be with one individual. Knowing what communication takes place between the passengers may yield that clue.”

I left to make my first round of what had to be the last stage of the investigation.

I had time for a conversation with Henri Larouge before lunch, but it was not particularly rewarding. He was critical of the banquet in Budapest.

“It was very good—of its type,” he conceded, “but it was not typical of Hungarian food. Not the food that the average Hungarian eats, anyway.”

“No goulash, no paprikash, you mean?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“But it was a banquet,” I said. “Some of the best restaurants in Budapest prepared the food, and I thought they did it very well. At a banquet, you don’t expect to eat the food the peasants eat—if I can say that without being accused of classism.”

“It doesn’t have to be peasant food,” Larouge argued. “It could be typical dishes featuring paprika, sour cream, caraway—the food that most people in Hungary eat.”

“With top restaurants doing the catering, they are going to do all they can to bring their best efforts to the table,” I countered. “Limiting dishes the way you suggest would not let them demonstrate their capabilities sufficiently. As it was, they served that superb goose liver pâté and duck, which are typically Hungarian.”

“The average Hungarian can’t afford to eat either of those,” said Larouge.

“The average Frenchman can’t afford to eat the meals served in Paris restaurants though, can he? Except perhaps on special occasions. The banquet was one of those occasions.”

Larouge grumbled a while longer, and I assumed he was not in a good mood. I hoped it wasn’t something he had eaten. I switched the subject. “Let’s hope we have no more excitement on the train for the rest of the journey—Malescu murdered—then returning from the dead, Svarovina dead and not recovering, Conti poisoned and recovering—it’s all too much for me.”

“Have the police learned anything about Svarovina’s death?” he asked. “You seem to be working with them.”

I sidestepped the question implicit in the latter statement and concentrated on the former question.

“Her body was taken off the train in Budapest, I understand. The authorities there will be examining it carefully.”

“So it was not a murder,” he said.

“It is not being handled as proven to be murder,” I said cautiously.

“The same as Malescu,” he said. “But then, it must be concluded that she was not murdered only because she reappeared—alive.”

Everybody wanted to be a detective, it seemed. Well, if I gathered enough theories, I might spot a clue.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘the same as Malescu,’” I said. “I believe that most of the circumstances are different.”

“Svarovina was Malescu’s understudy,” he said stubbornly. “That cannot be a coincidence surely?”

I gave him an inquiring look and waited for him to go on. This might prove useful.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Perhaps someone tried to kill Malescu and failed. They tried again, but this time killed Mademoiselle Svarovina.”

“By mistake, you mean?”

“Yes, it’s possible.”

“That would indicate that someone was really determined to kill Malescu.”

“And why not?” he asked, with a sudden flash of Gallic spirit.

“She has had dozens of lovers—there must be an army of husbands and wives out there with sufficient motive. Not to mention the people who don’t want her to play Rakoczi’s daughter.”

“The IMG, you mean? But surely they wouldn’t commit murder just to prevent a play being performed?”

“They are a powerful organization,” Larouge said in a serious tone.

“Do they have a record of killing?”

“They do not make claims like some revolutionary organizations. As a result, it is difficult to know which crimes can be attributed to them.” He looked at me quizzically. “I suppose you are wondering how I know so much about them? It is not really a lot, but perhaps I know more than the average European. Outside of Hungary, the IMG does not get a lot of publicity.”

He was right, I was wondering that. I waited for him to continue.

“I was in Szeged, in the south of Hungary one time. It is, as you may know, a major production center for paprika. From there, they export it all over the world. I was there to discuss a large shipment of paprika to Paris. I was in the Central Post Office when a bomb exploded. I escaped with only cuts and bruises, others died. It was attributed to the IMG. From then on, I read about their exploits whenever they appeared in the press. I suppose that every time I did so, I thanked God for sparing me.”