Dine and Die on the Danube Express (15 page)

Eating quelled the conversation and slowed my investigation. It gave the opportunity to view the scenery, too, although Magda and the doctor had evidently seen it so many times that it no longer held great attraction for them.

I took the opportunity to ask, “Don’t the Spitz vineyards spread over the banks of the Danube somewhere near here?”

The doctor paused in his devouring his spinach roll long enough to tell me, “So closely do they cover every available square meter of ground here that there is a local saying that the town is the only one in Austria where grapes grow in the market place.”

Soon, the vineyards came into sight, narrow terraces coming right down to the water’s edge in serried ranks. I could see orchards, too, with fruit trees, and I asked what they were. “Peaches,” said Stolz.

The Spitz castle stands in ruins on top of a grim black rock, and Magda saw me looking at it. “It is very picturesque, is it not?” she asked. “There used to be a castle like that on almost every peak, and the ruins of many of them still remain but are covered with vegetation so they are no longer visible.”

“Every robber baron built one,” said Stolz. “Many of them strung rope barriers across the Danube and charged a toll from every vessel wanting to pass. It was a lucrative business in those days.”

The sky was clouded in shades of gray, but a golden sun persisted in thrusting shafts through them, illuminating an occasional village as if with a giant spotlight.

We finished the meal, and the three of us decided on coffee for the finale. Once more came the choice of all the various blends, but we all ordered black. I returned to my questions of Magda Malescu.

“I presume that you are no longer worried about the threats from the IMG,” I said. “Has something happened to cause you to make the decision to be visible to the public once more? Don’t you fear danger still?”

Dr. Stolz answered for her before she could speak.

“The receipt of the threatening letter just before we left Munich was a shock to Magda, of course. Her reaction was naturally one of fear. She has now had time to reach a more balanced point of view. She is still afraid, but she is a strong—”

The actress broke in. “Fear is something which is always a shock at first. It is true, as Richard says, that I am still afraid, and my immediate response to the letter was to hide, to disappear from public view. But I cannot do this forever—I am a public figure, people expect to see me, and I will not let them down.”

It was a good story, and she told it well. How much was behind it that she wasn’t telling me though? I pondered that question as we sipped coffee while the Danube Express swept majestically between the cliff tops, along rocky ledges, and made periodic sorties down almost to the waters of the mighty river.

M
AGDA AND THE DOCTOR
left me immediately after the meal. They gave me no hint of their destination, though on a moving train there are not many places to go. As I left the dining coach, I met Karl Kramer.

“You have had lunch?” he asked.

“Yes, with Magda Malescu and Dr. Stolz.”

“There is a smile behind those words,” he said. “That of a cat that has just had a tasty canary.”

Several innuendos were embedded in his statement, but I chose not to acknowledge them. I merely said, “Let me tell you about it.”

“Very well. I am just going to talk to Thomas. I know you would like to see where he operates. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’d like to do that,” I told him, and we walked through the train, stopping before the door marked
COMMUNICATION CENTER
and announcing “no admittance” in three languages.

A small bell push was mounted in the doorframe, and Kramer squeezed it several times in a way that clearly made a coded sequence. It was not audible here on the outside, though, making it impossible for anyone to reproduce it.

An unseen speaker demanded identification, and Kramer gave his name and a string of numbers. A tiny lens was set in the middle of the door so that Kramer could be scanned, and, after a pause, a lock clicked, then another. The door swung open, and we entered.

The room was in semidarkness and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Kramer introduced me before this had fully occurred, but I was able to make out a small figure. He had white hair and wore a black suit with a neckline like a clergyman’s collar. As we went farther into the room, my eyes made a full adjustment to the gloom. I could see that Thomas was younger than I expected. He was almost an albino, and I wondered whether living in semidarkness had made him this way or if he had already possessed the attributes and they had made it easier for him to adapt.

The room was illuminated by a dim green glow, which I realized came from the screens. There were dozens of them—on walls in rows, some mounted on stands, others on tables and desks. Many were multicolored with graphs and bar charts, while others were flickering with lines of rapidly appearing type.

“Perhaps you will explain briefly the purpose of some of your equipment,” said Kramer, and Thomas’s pale eyes showed the enthusiasm of a scientist more than ready to impress the visitor.

“On this wall here, we have all the data referring to the Danube Express,” he said in a high voice. “The speed, temperature, voltage, amperage, and other characteristics of the engines as well as the condition of the bearings, the brake linings, the track, the gyroscopic controls for maintaining stability, and many other such factors. Here, we have the atmospheric conditions inside the train, such as temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, and equipment analyzing for noxious or poisonous compounds. Should any of these be detected, an automatic air replacement system comes into operation.

“Over here”—he motioned to another portion of the same wall—“we have the conditions all along the line ahead of us. If there were a snowfall, we would know of it; if there was ice formation, we would know of that, too.”

“What are those moving red squares telling you on that screen?” I asked.

“They show the location of every train within a hundred-kilometer range, so that a collision is virtually impossible. However, should two trains approach within ten kilometers of each other, propulsion power would immediately be disconnected.”

“Does that mean,” I asked, “that other trains are using this track at the same time as the Danube Express?”

“No, they are not. That is strictly forbidden, but it is theoretically possible for a train to take a wrong track, and that could potentially cause a collision.”

He led the way to the adjacent wall. “This is our communication panel. We are in touch with Munich, where our journey originated, and all the stations through which we pass. Vienna, Budapest, and Bucharest are the main stations, but we are also in constant touch with the smaller ones along the way.”

He moved to the third wall. “This is the outside world. We receive news from all over the globe. We can communicate by satellite with anyplace on the globe.”

“Very impressive,” I said. “I’m quite overcome by all this technology.”

Thomas beamed. His pale eyes took on a glint of satisfaction. “We are very proud of the Danube Express. Even the Concorde does not have more instrumentation.”

“Tell me, Thomas,” said Kramer, “have you received any word from the theatres?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “It just came in.” He kept looking at Kramer. He was well trained to be discreet.

“You can speak freely in the presence of our friend here from Scotland Yard,” Kramer said. To me, he went on, “Thomas has been in touch with the theatres where Malescu has appeared.”

“Ah, yes, you told me you were going to check on these and see what opinions said about Malescu, about Svarovina, and the situation between them.”

“Unfortunately,” said Thomas, “it is not especially helpful. The relationship between Fraulein Malescu and her understudy shows no motive for murder. Certainly, the understudy was a little envious of her mistress but that seems to be not unusual in the theatre. None of the persons interviewed mentioned any violent disagreement between them.”

Kramer nodded. “Anything else?”

“Svarovina had an affair with a German. Werner Klimt is his name. It was while they were touring—”

“Was there any reference to a rivalry between Malescu and Svarovina? Over this Klimt?”

“No, none.”

“So where has Klimt been recently?”

“After one tour with the Malescu company, he joined a theatre in Dresden and has been making a minor name for himself.”

“He is still there?”

“Yes, he lives there now.”

“So …” Kramer let out his breath. “That does not appear to be a promising lead.”

I took advantage of a pause in the conversation to ask, “I presume you have reports on the passengers who joined us in Vienna?”

Kramer looked at Thomas. “Yes,” Thomas said. “The Swiss, Franz Reingold, appears to be without blemish. He has a great deal of family money and spends it on his hobbies and on traveling. No associations with disreputable people are evident, and he is not known by the Swiss police as an offender.”

“The other passengers?” asked Kramer.

“Two Austrians and a Lebanese,” Thomas said. “No records on any of them other than routine.”

Kramer nodded and turned to me. “What did you learn from your lunch with Malescu?”

“You had lunch with Malescu?” Thomas’s eyes reflected green but perhaps it was the glow from the screens.

“Yes, I did. She was anxious to know how the investigation was going, so I used that to ask her about her relationship with Svarovina.”

“She was forthcoming?”

“Oh, yes. She mentioned this German actor though she did not do so by name.”

“A pity Dr. Stolz was there,” Kramer said. “You could have asked her about the doctor’s relationship with Svarovina.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him. “As for her disappearance, she sounded convincing about the threats from the IMG—what does that stand for, by the way?”

“It means Organization for Magyar Independence,” said Thomas promptly. “The word ‘Magyar’ is used to mean ethnic Hungarians.”

“Thomas is a fund of information on all topics,” said Kramer. “In addition to all the outputs from his electronic devices.”

“He sounds like an extremely valuable man,” I agreed, and though Thomas didn’t preen at the compliment, the faintest smile appeared on the smooth pale face.

“I’m still not satisfied though,” I said. “I know I said Malescu sounded convincing about receiving the threats, but there’s something there I don’t understand. I’m sure there’s more than she’s saying.”

Kramer turned to Thomas. “What do we know of the IMG?”

“We have a file on them,” Thomas said, “as we do on all revolutionary and terrorist organizations. Their activities have been more prevalent in Hungary than in surrounding countries. Several assassinations of public personages have been attributed to them. Outbursts in the Hungarian Parliament have been initiated by them, and sometimes they get a newspaper to print one of their—shall I say—complaints?”

“Is the Budapest
Times
one of them?” I asked.

“Yes, it is,” Thomas said.

“The sweep,” said Kramer. “Is it providing anything useful?”

“Herr Kramer asked me to run another check on everyone on the passenger list,” Thomas explained. “I have printouts here for you on those that have come in so far. Only one is interesting …”

He picked up several sheets from the tray of a printer that was still silently churning out page after page. He sifted through the stack and pulled out one of them.

Kramer turned to catch some light from a nearby screen. He read it through, grunted, and handed it to me. “This is an inquiry agency we use from time to time,” he said.

The report was brief, and the name of the person investigated was Paolo Conti. Essentially, it said that information on him was sketchy—to a degree that was suspicious. Large blocks of time were unaccounted for, and no address could be located for those periods. A village near Venice in Italy was given as his residence but locals knew nothing of him. Postal services and Internet providers had no listings of his name.

“Very peculiar,” I said. “Erich Brenner introduced him to me. I wonder if he has any knowledge of Conti?”

“He does not,” Kramer said. “I already talked to him.”

I read through the final paragraph again. “He contributes to the
European Wine Journal
sure enough according to this. He told me that—and it is what he had told Herr Brenner.”

Thomas was listening to all this. He raised a tentative finger. “Yes, Thomas?” Kramer prompted.

“I took the liberty of asking the
European Wine Journal
for an account of his association with them.”

“Very good, Thomas. Have you had a reply?”

“Yes. He is strictly freelance. His contributions come in to the magazine on an irregular basis.”

“Did they say where they get them from?”

“Always by e-mail—so they could come from anywhere.”

Kramer and I exchanged glances.

“He is
ein Irrlicht
,” I suggested.

Thomas nodded, a gentle smile on his lips. Kramer gave me a sharp look. “Ah, you know our German word?” he said. “In English, it is ‘will-o’-the-wisp,’ I believe.”

“Correct,” I told him.

“That he may be,” said Kramer grimly, “but we shall ‘nail him down.’ That is correct, too, is it not?”

“It is.”

“We will do this separately, I think. I will interrogate him further on an official basis; you should do so on a more personal level. You are both authorities on wine, you have some common ground there.”

“You evidently have a further file on me, too,” I said.

“The wine, you mean? Yes, I do have another file on you. But then, you would think me inefficient if I did not, is that not so?”

“I can’t believe you are ever inefficient, Herr Kramer,” I told him, and he gave me a curt nod of acknowledgment. “It won’t be difficult to develop another discussion with Conti on wine. He and I have already had one discussion on the subject, he was telling me about Czech wines. Incidentally, he was very direct in asking me why I was on the Danube Express. I gave him my cover story—well, it’s the truth really.”