Dine and Die on the Danube Express (23 page)

The next item drew close attention though. The animal most beloved by Hungarian epicures, said the waiter, is the goose. All summer long, young girls and old crones feed corn to the geese until they become fat and their meat tender and sweet. They can be roasted or braised, and the cracklings made from the skin and the layer of fat beneath it are widely used as a flavoring in many dishes.

However, it is the liver that is the most eagerly sought part of the goose. Large and unbelievably delicious, it can be eaten baked, smoked, or sautéed, but the culmination of the chef’s art comes when it is made into pâté, known as
Libermaj
in Hungarian. Paprika, pimientos, scallions, capers, hard-boiled eggs, and white wine are added, cooked, seasoned, and blended.

The waiter ended his spiel and looked around the table. We all nodded approval. For a moment, I thought Lydecker was going to demur and demand chicken liver instead, but he went along with the rest of us.

The pâté arrived on a shining silver platter and was placed in the middle of the table. Very thin sliced rye bread was recommended with it, the waiter said, and brought a tray of it plus some black pumpernickel. Specially shaped silver knives were provided.

We were served a light, dry white wine with this. It was from the district of Eger in the Northern Uplands of Hungary. It was labeled
Leanyka
, which means “Little Girl.” It was just tasty enough to be assertive but did not detract in any way from the magnificent goose pâté. Our table was silent as we all enjoyed this. Renata commented that, as a girl, she had often eaten goose liver pâté but never one as good.

The noise level in the huge banquet room had dropped—presumably all the other tables were concentrating on enjoying the Hungarian specialty as much as we were. The tables were well separated, too, which is a consideration often overlooked even in the best restaurants.

For the third course, we were offered a range of fish dishes. The waiter spoke highly of the
Fogas
, which comes only from Lake Balaton and is highly prized. In some countries, they are known as the ‘Zander’. Their meat is white and delicious, and they resemble a small trout, although many liken them to perch.
Fogas
was being prepared in three ways that night—
Kalocsa
style with
lecso
, which is a mixture of stewed onions, tomatoes, and paprika; or
à la Gundel
, a light spinach-and-cheese sauce; or simply grilled as fillets.

The women at our table decided on the plain grilled and the men on
Kalocsa
style. With it we drank a white wine from Badacsony, a volcanic area that rises from the northwest shores of Lake Balaton. The waiter suggested the unique wine known as Blue Stalk. Many of the wines from this region are of the Riesling type, but the Blue Stalk, “
Keknyelu
” in Hungarian, has a distinctive mineral taste from the volcanic soil yet retains its basic wine flavors. “This one is from the Szeremley vineyard,” said the waiter proudly, “one of the finest in Hungary.”

To continue, we were told that the Hungarian staple dishes of goulash and
porkolt
were available at all the local restaurants. For such a special occasion as this, though, the chefs were determined to uphold their reputations and offer the finest in their repertoire. Duck is a very popular in the country and
Hacsa
is prized as the best way to prepare it. At our table, it was universally agreed that to be the best choice.

When it arrived, it was superb. The duck is stuffed with quince and roasted until very crispy. The chefs had felt that they should be traditionally Hungarian in the serving of accompaniments, however, and
Toltott Kaposzta
, stuffed cabbage, was served with it, along with noodles with poppy seeds. The stuffed cabbage, the waiter explained, was an elaborate dish and elevated above the simpler version found in country taverns. Ground pork, rice, garlic, onions, and sour cream are in the stuffing that fills each carefully rolled cabbage leaf, which is then placed in the sauerkraut seasoned with paprika, chopped bacon, and caraway seeds.

The country version of the dish may contain a mixture of beef and pork and can be considered a main course. In our case, we were served a modest portion, and an excellent adjunct to the crispy duck.

A choice of wines came with that course. In addition to a white from the renowned Thummerer vineyard, the chefs wanted to be sure that we tasted some Hungarian reds. A
Kadarka
, a late-ripening red, was described as being the wine that Franz Schubert drank while composing his
Trout
Quintet. The waiter suggested that we try tasting several reds, and we did so, this one being from the Ferenc Takler vineyard. Almost as much praise was heaped upon a wine from the Vesztergombi vineyard and it was the wine variety known as
Bikaver.

Drinking different wines in succession is not considered a good idea by wine aficionados. That is why, at a wine tasting, the wine is not swallowed. The spitting out that is necessary would, of course, be frowned on during a meal, so it is only on rare occasions that different wines are consumed, and the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Danube Express fell into that category. Still, the morning-after effects can be unpleasant, and I wondered if all at the table—and indeed at the other tables also—were prepared for that. But I didn’t want to be a spoilsport and tried to rationalize that at least the Hungarian red wines we were drinking here were from approximately the same varietal, and so the effects might be minimal.

Everyone at the table was in a happy mood, and even Lydecker was mellow. We were being allowed plenty of time to sample as many wines as we wished, and the atmosphere was jovial. Renata was smiling, in contrast to her previously prim manner, and Eva Zilinsky was pushing her glass forward for another serving of Attila Gere’s unusually complex-flavored Cabernet Sauvignon when Elisha Tabor unexpectedly turned to Dr. Stolz.

“So, Doctor, tell us how the murders occurred.”

I
T WAS A CONVERSATION-STOPPING
remark, and our table was an oasis of silence in a vast room vibrating with chatter. Eva Zilinsky looked at Elisha Tabor with a half-amused, half-admiring expression that suggested she wished she had said it.

Herman Lydecker paused with a wineglass partway to his mouth. Renata looked interested in hearing the answer but was understandably less involved than the passengers. All eyes were on the doctor.

Dr. Stolz completed a sip of his wine, and I thought he savored it longer than usual. He dabbed his mouth gently with his napkin, and said, “Murders? I know of one death only, and it is that of Fraulein Talia Svarovina.” He gave Elisha Tabor a direct look. “Do you have reason to believe she was murdered?”

The cool rebuttal might have slowed some women, but Elisha Tabor replied, “Two deaths. Magda Malescu was described as being dead, wasn’t she?”

“Erroneously as it happened,” said the doctor.

“That was strange, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” the doctor agreed equably, but Elisha Tabor was persistent.

“I mean, to be declared dead and then to be found very much alive.”

“Which we were all very glad to find was the case,” the doctor said.

“So Malescu wasn’t dead, but her understudy was.”

“Are you suggesting that there was a connection between the two?” Eva Zilinsky had joined the conversation now. Elisha Tabor gave her a look as if she were about to tell her to mind her own business, but Zilinsky was not likely to be receptive to that kind of advice, and Tabor must have realized it.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Tabor. “It’s too much to believe that the two events are unrelated.”

“How do you think they are related?” asked Zilinsky.

“I don’t know.”

“What about you, Doctor? How do you think they are related?”

The doctor was busy attracting the attention of the waiter so that he could get another glass of wine. Then he turned to Zilinsky. “I am a doctor, not a detective. It would be better if you spoke with Head of Security, Herr Kramer.”

“But we have a detective right here with us,” Lydecker said slyly. “A detective from Scotland Yard. Why don’t we ask him?” All eyes switched toward me.

The waiter had left, so I was not able to use the doctor’s delaying tactic. I decided on the aloof, we-know-a-lot-that-we-can’t-reveal attitude. I drummed fingers on the pristine white tablecloth in lieu of twisting a wine glass stem.

“I am skeptical of coincidences, too,” I said. “It seems likely that there is a connection between the two events, and we are investigating that connection very closely.”

Zilinsky didn’t intend to let go. “Svarovina was, after all, Malescu’s understudy. Malescu was known to be jealous of her.”

“Is that so?” murmured Tabor, leading her on.

“Yes, it certainly is so.” Zilinsky was warming to her role now. “There was an incident in Belgrade last year when Malescu was late for a performance. Svarovina was dressed and ready to go on as her understudy when Malescu arrived. She insisted on holding the curtain until she was ready despite a very restless audience. She was furious at Svarovina. The Budapest
Times
had a great time with that story, had it going for days.”

“In the column of Mikhel Czerny?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Zilinsky.

“But is that motive for murder?”

“It could be,” Zilinsky said. “There was a case in Prague last year of a man who killed his wife because she smoked in bed. There is no limit to the acts that are trivial to one person but desperately important to another.” She regarded Dr. Stolz. “Tell me, Doctor, Svarovina was poisoned, was she not?”

“She had ingested a poisonous substance.”

“What about Malescu?” Elisha Tabor wanted to know. “Did she take the same medications?”

“If she did, they did not affect her in any lasting way.”

“Or did Malescu take something else?” asked Lydecker.

I recalled the strong smell of cyanide when I had first entered Malescu’s compartment. It had been bothering me ever since, and I was still perplexed. Malescu could not have taken—or been given cyanide—or she would be dead. I waited for the doctor’s answer.

“I have asked her that,” the doctor said. “She does not recall taking anything potentially dangerous.”

“Oh, well,” said Elisha Tabor, the woman who had started it all. She fluttered one hand in a very feminine gesture. “I just thought I’d ask.”

Eva Zilinsky looked disappointed. Dr. Stolz was probably relieved but didn’t show it. Lydecker appeared indifferent, and Renata had had her interest piqued and looked eager to hear more. I tried to keep up my there’s-a-lot-I’d-like-to-tell-you-but-I-can’t front.

The waiter came, timing impeccable. “Hungary is famous for its desserts. I urge you to try one even if you are not usually a dessert-eater.”

We probably had two or three of those, but everybody decided to be a sport and have a dessert.
Palacsintas
, flambéed pancakes, thin enough to be called crepes, were high on the list and the
Muveszinas
restaurant in downtown Pest had prepared them. “They are a specialty there,” the waiter explained. “They are famous for them.”

Tabor decided on
Palacsintas
with chocolate and walnuts. I had them with apricots.
Retes
are strudels and come filled with a variety of fruit. Dr. Stolz chose them filled with
szilvas
—plums. Zilinsky, ever adventurous, selected tender fried Camembert cheese covered with blueberry jam. Lydecker chose
Dobostorta
that he said he had eaten previously in Hungary. It was a layered cake with a crispy caramelized top. Renata ordered a thinner cake with chestnut cream.

The violinists played on, unobtrusive and melodious. We all ordered coffee, three asking for the Cafe Diablo after the waiter had described it—served flaming from a liberal amount of Grand Marnier.

Conversations were occupying the others at the table when Zilinsky leaned toward me. “I think you know more than you are telling us,” she murmured.

“More?” I said. “You mean about the murders?”

Her eyes widened. “Ah, so you agree there were two?”

“There certainly appeared to be one when the Budapest
Times
reported it.”

“Yes.” Zilinsky’s tone was musing. She was an attractive girl, though her polished veneer suggested a lot of living. “So what else do you know?”

“I am sure it will all become clear in a day or two,” I told her.

“I’d like to know now,” she said softly, leaning closer. “We must talk about it when we get back to the train tonight.”

I barely had time to nod an agreement, for a few of the guests were moving to other tables to talk to friends and acquaintances. Franz Reingold came over to ours.

“Wasn’t that a wonderful meal?” he asked, eyes shining.

There was universal agreement. “Still,” Reingold went on, “I’ll be glad to get back to the
Donau Schnellzug.
I just love trains!”

“I thought you liked the toy trains,” said Lydecker.

“I do, but I love the big ones, too. Have all my life. When I was a boy, my greatest thrill was to ride on a train.”

“You have many of them in Switzerland,” remarked Renata. Perhaps she had done her homework on the passengers, or perhaps she picked up on his accent.

“Yes, we do,” said Reingold. “When I grew up into a teenager, I rode them all over the country. My friend Albert and I knew every station in the country. I could tell you many stories about what we learned. One thing, was how two can travel for the price of one.”

Lydecker voiced the thought of others of us at the table, though he did so more harshly. “I thought you came from a rich family. You didn’t need to do that.”

Reingold giggled. At times, the boy that was still in him emerged. “Of course we didn’t, but we liked to—just for the fun of it.”

“So tell us, Franz,” said Dr. Stolz, who had evidently come to know him a little better than the rest of us, “how did the two of you travel for the price of one?”

“When the conductor came through the train collecting tickets,” Reingold said, still giggling, “Albert and I would go into the toilet. “Naturally, conductors knew the trick of hiding in the toilet if you didn’t have a ticket. But, you see, I had a ticket—and when the conductor came and rapped on the door, I would open it a little and hand out my ticket. He never suspected there were two of us!”