Dine and Die on the Danube Express (18 page)

The main course required a lengthier decision. The Escallopes of Veal cooked in Dubrovnik Style sounded enticing. It is not a dominant cuisine, but the waiter explained that onions and mushrooms are sautéed in butter and seasoned with thyme and bay leaves. Rice and chicken broth are added, then cooked in the oven until the rice is tender. It is then pureed, and egg yolks, unsweetened whipped cream, and grated Parmesan cheese are added. The escallopes are sautéed in butter, sherry is added, and the liquid reduced. The sauce is added, the rice mixture is spread on top, and Parmesan cheese on top of that. The dish is heated quickly under the broiler till golden brown.

If the chefs were going to spend that much time cooking this dish, I thought it was only fair to order it. I did so after considering first a Slovak specialty—pork chops with apricots—and second a German dish—baby chickens with sauerkraut. The birds used are very small, the size of the French “
poussins
,” and I knew that Cornish game hens are used in this dish in the USA.

The Stanton Walburgs had come in meanwhile and were interrogating the waiter about the menu. I noticed that Karl Kramer was not present, then realized that I had never seen him in the dining coach.

Then came the grand entrance. Magda Malescu, with Dr. Stolz once again in attendance, paused dramatically in the doorway, lit up the coach with a smile, and swept down the corridor. She smiled delightfully at me in passing, and the doctor bade me a good evening. She wore a gown that she must have kept after performing in
Madame Dubarry.

My pate pâté was excellent, with just the right addition of Cognac. It was served on small crackers of indefinable origin but unobtrusive, as they should be. The
Rollmopse
were as mouth-puckering as expected. I drank San Pellegrino with those two courses as a wine would be ruined, completely overwhelmed by the vinegar, the onions, and the dill pickles. I chose the Italian sparkling water as it is high in minerals and less gassy than many of its competitors.

With the veal, I had ordered—at the waiter’s recommendation—a bottle of Szamorodni, a Hungarian white wine. A light red wine would go well with the veal, too, he said, but this was a white more assertive than most and was equal to the task. Both dry and sweet wines are offered with the Szamorodni label, and this one was pale golden in color and very much like a good Riesling.

The Veal Dubrovnik was a rich, satisfying dish. The escallopes were small, maybe two inches in diameter and tender enough to cut with a fork. The use of pureed rice is unusual, a clever way of avoiding the cream so loved by Middle European chefs, while the liberal application of Parmesan cheese gave it substance. A few tiny roasted potatoes came with it and just a spoonful of slim green beans, cooked then sautéed quickly in seasoned oil.

I wasn’t really watching the table where Irena Koslova and Paolo Conti were sitting facing each other, but I could hardly help noticing that they were having some long conversations. They were eating and drinking, too, though I couldn’t see what had been their choices.

My waiter came, highly recommending the desserts. “The pastry chef is from Vienna,” he told me. “He spent many years at Sacher’s.”

I knew the restaurant. It played a prominent role in one of the most publicized incidents in the history of cuisine. In the heyday of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the famous
Sachertorte
had been a dessert that no visitor to Vienna could leave without tasting. Sacher’s Restaurant, where it was served, became world-renowned.

Then the Café Demel began serving it, too. Sacher’s claimed that Demel’s could not do that—it was their specialty. Franz Sacher had concocted the confection for Prince von Metternich, they said. Demel’s kept on serving it, claiming they had the original recipe.

A huge court case began, and most of Europe hung on every line uttered by the learned counsels. Fortunes were spent by the protagonists—and presumably fortunes were made by the legal profession. Demel’s went bankrupt and was sold to a conglomerate, while Sacher’s general manager committed suicide. Dessert can be a tough business.

Sacher’s is still there today though. It’s on Philharmonikastrasse, and much of the secret of making
Sachertorte
has been leaked. It is a chocolate sponge cake and, after baking, it is sliced in two and filled with apricot jam.

“I don’t suppose he bakes—” I began, and the waiter smiled.

“No,
Meinherr
, he doesn’t bake
Sachertorte
but he does make an excellent
Salzburger Nockerl
.”

That is another outstanding Austrian dessert, and I opted for it without hesitation. It is a soufflé that offers the diner the chance to feel righteous as it contains only eggs, flour, lemon, milk, and a little sugar. Raspberry syrup is offered on the side, but may be declined if one wishes to avoid shattering that righteous image.

It was indeed superb, and I told the waiter that he could convey my compliments to the pastry chef. I stole a few more glances in the direction of that other table. Conti was giving Irena his Italian smile. She was listening intently to what he was saying. I reflected on the excellent meal I had just enjoyed and pushed out all other thoughts—except the one about Magda Malescu and her visit to the kitchens and the food storage coach. That should tell me a lot, and I kept turning it over and over in my mind to find the kernel of knowledge in that nut …

T
INY LIGHTS PULSED BY
, fleeting fireflies in the coal black night. I watched for a while from the seclusion of my compartment. A spatter of rain came, miniscule drops flung at the glass so suddenly that I jerked back. It was during one of those moments when I felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days of train travel—the thump of the wheels over the rail joints, the shriek of the wind past ill-fitting windows, and the rolling of the coach. All gone now, eclipsed by technology, which gave us instead, quiet, calm, and balance.

I thought I remembered the rhythmic thump, the steely rattle and the hypnotic sway of the coach as being conducive to sleep, but maybe nostalgia was overplaying its role. I pulled the curtain and must have been asleep within minutes.

The seductive aroma of coffee filled the air of the dining coach the next morning. Many passengers preferred to have breakfast in their compartments, and there were empty tables as I entered.

I was enjoying a glass of Italian orange juice while I contemplated the breakfast choice. It is different from the orange juice of Spain or Israel, the two leaders in the field, as it is bloodred. First-time visitors to Italy who order orange juice send it back when they see it, complaining that they have been brought tomato juice instead. It is, in fact, squeezed from the blood oranges that the Italians prefer.

I selected a bowl of Swiss muesli with pineapple and pumpernickel bread with butter made earlier on the train. The waiter looked disappointed, but I was being prudent after the excellent meal of the previous night. He offered me a choice of newspapers—Paris
Matin,
Frankfurter
Zeitung,
Zurcher
Tagblatt,
and the London
Times.
He had others, he said, but to carry all exceeded his lifting capacity. He mentioned the papers of Vienna, Budapest, Berlin, Rome, and was prepared to go on, but I stopped him there. I took the Zurich and the London papers and saw that they were both that morning’s edition. I had expected no less from the ever-efficient Danube Express, but I asked the waiter how they received them so promptly, and he told me that they were downloaded into the train’s computer and printed out almost simultaneously.

I was partway into a juicy scandal in Switzerland and finishing the muesli when I became aware that Irena Koslova was standing there. “May I join you?” she asked.

She was wearing a casual light-wool dress in mauve and russet colors, and her hair looked as if she had come directly from the beauty shop.

“Certainly,” I said.

She sat opposite me and ordered a half grapefruit and black coffee from the waiter, who appeared as if by magic.

“That’s all?” I asked.

“That’s all I ever have for breakfast. So—did you enjoy your dinner last night?”

“It was very good indeed. All German-Austrian dishes.”

“Mine was very good, too. I had fish.”

“You looked as if you were enjoying yourself,” I said.

“I was doing what you told me to do.”

“Me? What did I tell you to do?”

“You said I would make a good detective.”

I took a final mouthful of muesli. There was just enough milk. “I didn’t say that,” I protested, “you said that.”

“No, I asked you if I would make a good detective, and you said I would if I weren’t so attractive.”

“Did I say that?” I reached for the pumpernickel and the butter.

She waved her grapefruit spoon. “Well, something like that—anyway, that’s what I was doing last night. I was being a detective. I decided you need an assistant.”

She gave me a triumphant look.

“Good,” I said, perhaps a little faintly. “What did you learn?”

She attacked the grapefruit with vigor. It didn’t stand a chance. “Paolo Conti is something of a mystery man. He told me about his writing for the
European Wine Journal
but when I asked him what other magazines or newspapers he writes for, he was vague. I asked him about wine festivals and wine fairs, and he says he attends some of them but on an irregular basis.”

She put the spoon down, having achieved the complete demolition of the grapefruit. “I asked him about VinItalia—you know, the Italian Wine Fair they have in Verona every year—”

“Yes, I know it, I have attended a few.”

“I said he must know the president, Luigi Barcarolli.”

“And did he?”

“He hesitated, then he said he didn’t exactly know him but he had met him.”

“Maybe he had,” I suggested.

“I’ve only attended the fair once,” she said, “and that was six years ago. Don’t they change presidents more often than that?” She produced the statement with all the flair of a conjuror bringing a white rabbit from a top hat.

“I would think so. Or he could have been re-elected.”

She smiled. “Still, did I do well?”

“Very well. Anything else?”

“Conti does seem to travel a lot. I tried to find out why because he doesn’t seem to do enough writing to justify it. He wasn’t helpful though.”

“Did he say where he travels?” I asked.

“France, Italy, Spain, and he mentioned Germany, Hungary, and the old Yugoslav republics.”

“All wine-producing areas,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “So that supports his story, doesn’t it?”

“Did he say where he lives?”

“A village near Venice.”

That fitted with Karl Kramer’s information. What now, I wondered? Irena was looking at me hopefully, awaiting a gem of investigative wisdom from the pride of Scotland Yard. I couldn’t disappoint her.

“For the moment, we have to shift our attention to other suspects,” I said resolutely. “We will come back to Conti when we get further information on him.”

“Do we have other suspects?” she asked. It was “we,” already. Scotland Yard had just gained another recruit.

“Everybody is a suspect,” I said portentously, hoping that her inexperience as an investigator meant that she hadn’t heard that old chestnut a hundred times.

“So whom do you want me to interrogate next?” she asked eagerly.

I reached for another slice of pumpernickel and applied butter deliberately

“We can’t rule out the possibility that the murderer is a woman.”

She looked disappointed. “I think I would be better at interrogating men.”

“Mata Hari used to travel on this train. Did you know that?”

“Yes. I’ll bet she preferred interrogating men, too, although, as you probably know, she had her own techniques.”

“So I’ve heard, but I’m not suggesting that you have to seduce every man on this train,” I told her.

“I might not have to go that far,” she said, and took a slice of my pumpernickel from the basket. “Not every man, anyway.”

“It could be dangerous,” I said.

“Is that the only reason you don’t want me to do it?” A pout accompanied the question. It was a tough one because I wasn’t sure of the answer myself.

“It’s enough of a reason,” I temporized. “If you were the next victim because of something you found out, I’d lose a valuable assistant.”

She was smiling faintly as if she had just learned an interesting fact. “I wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“Helmut Lydecker may be the next one on the list,” I said.

“He knows Magda Malescu,” Irena said thoughtfully, “so he may have had some connection with her mysterious disappearance. But did he know Talia, her understudy?”

“Yes, he did. He may have had an affair with her.”

“As a way of getting back at Malescu?”

“That’s a shrewd observation. It could be a reason.”

“H’m, all right, I’ll put Herr Lydecker on the list. What about Larouge? He’s not much of a mystery man, but if he’s trying to avoid suspicion, he wouldn’t want to appear mysterious, would he?”

“Good point. I’m a little bothered about him myself—though I admit it’s mainly because there’s nothing to be suspicious about.”

“So he’s the next on the list,” she said briskly. “Who else?”

The waiter came with an offer of fresh coffee, and we both accepted. “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to spoil your trip—you didn’t come on this train to be sleuthing, you should be—”

“Oh, I love this,” she assured me.

“There’s a woman we don’t know enough about—Elisha Tabor.”

“That’s more in your line, isn’t it?”

“Are you suggesting that I seduce every woman on the train?”

“It sounds as if we’re both going to be very busy, doesn’t it?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

“I wasn’t serious,” I told her, even as I realized I was being a little pompous. I quickly thought of another candidate for investigation.

“Have you talked to Herr Vollmer?” I asked.

“No. He’s in some sort of business, isn’t he?”

“He is with
Nord Deutscher Energie.
He says he is going to discuss offshore oil drilling in the Black Sea.”