Dine and Die on the Danube Express (6 page)

On the nearby desk, a machine began to buzz.

He ignored it. “I am very glad,” he said. “We will work well together, you and I.”

The machine ceased its buzz. A bell sounded, once then twice. Kramer rose promptly. “Twice means urgent,” he said.

He ripped out the sheet, reading it as he came back to the desk. He sat and read it through again. He turned it around and pushed it across the desk to me.

It was translated from an on-line news service sponsored by the Budapest
Times.
The banner headline was eye-grabbing.

MALESCU MURDERED!

I read it aloud. “Fraulein Malescu was found murdered in her compartment on the Danube Express.” I went on, “It tells of the twenty-fifth-anniversary journey, names many of the passengers—the best-known ones, at least—gives the itinerary, then the rest is an account of the life of Fraulein Malescu. Investigations are—it says—being conducted.” He nodded agreement.

“Nothing we don’t already know.”

“True,” he agreed. “You see to whom the piece is attributed?”

“No.”

“Mikhel Czerny.”

I looked blank.

“He is a well-known journalist, not perhaps known outside of Hungary, but he is a powerful force there. Everyone in the country reads his column. He often gets important news ahead of anyone else.”

“Does this mean that someone on the train is feeding him information?”

“I have been going through the folder of everyone on this train to see if I could determine if one of the passengers is doing just that. So far, I have had no luck.”

“How could they send the information to him?” I said.

“It would have to go by radio telephone.”

“Would such a message go through your communication system on the train?”

Kramer permitted himself a slight smile.

“Messages do not go through our system, no. Passengers can use their own personal phones, but we have a record of every message that is transmitted or received by this train.”

“Do you have a record of the message itself?”

“Unfortunately, no. We can identify the receiving party, though, but not the transmitter.”

Invasion of privacy is a point of contention throughout the Western world. Increasing security was on the other end of the scale. The Danube Express went further than a lot of countries—Americans would be horrified. It did not go nearly as far as many others, especially in the Middle East. They would laugh at our concerns.

“I am having Thomas check now to see if a message has been transmitted to the Budapest
Times
since we left Munich,” Kramer said. “I have also asked him to let me know what our security files can tell us about Mikhel Czerny.”

It was a pretty sophisticated service that Kramer ran. Still, many of the most important people in Europe traveled on the train and their safety must justify such measures.

The fax began to buzz even as he finished speaking. He went to the machine and was reading it as it chattered away.

“It is Thomas. He says one phone call went out at 11:13. It went to the newsroom at the news service.”

“It leaves little time for the dead body to be removed from her compartment though.”

He handed me the message. “You can read the German, can you not?”

I could. The rest of the report gave a rundown on Mikhel Czerny. Halfway through it, I stopped and read again.

“I can see where you have stopped,” Kramer said.

“Yes,” I said. “This is very relevant, isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

After giving brief details of Czerny’s career to date, the report told of some of his outstanding achievements. He had been the first to report the scandal that had forced the resignation of the finance minister, the first to expose an industrial espionage plot that had involved the biggest chemical company in Hungary, and—this is where I stopped …

Czerny had conducted what sounded like a vendetta against Magda Malescu. Instead of regarding her as one of Hungary’s most valuable assets, he had criticized and condemned her at every opportunity. He had sneered at her performances, laughed on paper at her acting, and jeered at her lifestyle. He had exposed her affairs and scoffed at any who called themselves her friends.

I finished reading. “Thomas in our communication center is very thorough,” said Kramer. “He will have more for us—I know him. Still, this is enough food for thought, is it not?”

“It certainly is. But if murder is concerned, it sounds like there’s more reason for Malescu to kill this Czerny than the other way round.”

“Yes, but was there a murder? We do not have a body.”

“You say this Czerny is a powerful journalist in Hungary. He doesn’t sound like the type to give out a false report.”

Kramer shook his head. “That is so. This missing body is very perplexing.”

“You are having the train searched, you said?”

“Our most trusted stewards are doing so. They are doing it in a manner that avoids alarming the passengers.”

“One thing concerns me—”

“Yes?” he said eagerly.

“That smell of bitter almonds …”

“Cyanide.”

“Well, yes—”

“What concerns you?” He was frowning. “You doubt the aroma now?”

“No, I am certain that I smelled it.”

“You think it was something else?”

“No. My sense of smell is very accurate, and my memory of smells is reliable.”

“So what concerns you?” he asked again.

“It’s so—well, conventional.”

The word bothered him. I tried to explain. “In nearly every mystery story that uses poison, cyanide is the choice.”

“Of course. It is deadly and very fast.”

“Yes, but in reality, it isn’t the first choice of poisoners. I have been involved in a few murder cases, and other poisons were always preferred.”

He was getting impatient. His pragmatic mind did not want to consider fiction as being of any help.

“What is it that you are trying to tell me?” In sentences like this, his delivery became more staccato, his accent, stronger.

“I’m not sure. I feel that something is wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

He stared at me. I hoped he wasn’t wondering if he’d picked the right man for an assistant. Feelings that cannot be substantiated were obviously not his choice as reliable clues.

“Don’t worry.” I needed to reassure him. “It will fall into place, I’m sure. One small clue will be all we need to explain it.”

“
Ach, so
.” He was reassured for the time being, but aromas were not good clues to him—you couldn’t put them on paper like words or numbers.

He tapped the pile of colored folders. “I must go through these once more, to see if I can find any useful facts.”

“Good.”

“However,” he went on, and I could tell that he was reaching a point he particularly wanted to make, “in your own case, that reason is not altogether clear.”

So that was it. If it had not been for the Scotland Yard backing, he might not have been so ready to ask for my assistance, but the matter of my reason for being aboard the train bothered him.

“I can explain that,” I told him. “The concept of the luxury train is one that has been gaining popularity. In his introductory speech, Herr Brenner referred to several of these—South Africa’s Blue Train, the Palace on Wheels in India, the Royal Scotsman …”

I had his full attention. He waited for me to continue.

“I have been retained to advise on another such train. I am not the only advisor, of course: Others will be preparing data on routes, locomotives, coaches, and so on. I am to recommend on food and wine.”

“This newcomer will be competitive with the Danube Express?” Kramer asked—as I had expected he would.

“Not in any way,” I said firmly.

“You do not wish to tell me what railroad company this is? What route it will follow?”

“I have been asked not to do so.” Then, before he could comment on that, I said, “However, if you should not be satisfied with that answer, I can contact them and—”

“It will not be necessary,” he said.

“Good,” I told him. “One point on which I am curious is this—what cargoes are being carried in the vault coach?”

He leaned back in his chair and smiled a thin-lipped smile. “That is supposed to be confidential”—he raised a hand to stop me—“no, no, I do not intend to keep it confidential from you. I tell you this because a number of people know about the cargoes already. They are no longer a secret at all.”

“I am particularly curious about the coffin,” I told him.

He stopped smiling and looked alarmed. “Coffin?”

“I walked onto the platform last night and saw some of the cargo being loaded. I was puzzled to see a coffin.”

“Coffin?” he repeated, then relaxed. “
Ach
, of course! The coffin! It looks like one, yes, but it is not. It contains vines from Germany, to be delivered to Romania.”

“So it’s those vines!”

“Yes. You know about them in your business, naturally.”

I knew a lot about those particular vines, but I had no idea that they were to be on this train. It was a fascinating story …

Like all agricultural crops, the vine is subject to pests and diseases. They come in the form of birds, insects, fungi, viruses, and weeds. One of the early fungi to be detected in the USA was the dreaded
Phylloxera vastratrix.
During the 1860s, this louselike aphid was imported into Europe. It splits and rots the grapes and, by the end of the century, most European vineyards had to be uprooted because of it.

The American grape varieties, however, were found to be resistant to
Phylloxera,
and, as it caused its worst damage to the roots, grafting was decided upon as the answer. Detached shoots containing buds were grafted onto the resistant American root stocks and European wine was saved.

The technique was employed on other occasions after that with equal success. A similar catastrophe, though on a smaller scale, had now threatened a portion of the Romanian wine crop. The German vineyards had sprung to the rescue, and a special hybrid strain had been grown.

Those vital vines were the contents of what I thought to be a coffin. Kramer explained to me why I had made that assumption. “The vines are in the central chamber in a controlled environment. On one side is a humidifier unit and on the other a temperature controller. No chances are being taken with such a precious shipment.”

“I’m glad to hear it’s not a coffin,” I said.

“You are superstitious about such things?” Kramer asked, slightly amused.

“Oh, no,” I said promptly.

“Then the vault contains another valuable cargo. You have heard of the missing Mozart?”

“Even our newspapers have been full of it,” I said.

“Yes, it is a remarkable story, is it not? The manuscript, missing all these years, now finally come to light. It will be a great attraction at the Music Festival in Bucharest.”

“You are carrying the usual cargo of parcels and freight that are too heavy for air freight?”

“Yes, a full load.”

“So, two valuable cargoes,” I said. “Both on the Danube Express.”

He caught my meaning immediately. “We have an outstanding record. The vault coach is specially designed to be resistant to almost anything.”

“In the meantime,” I said, “we have a murder that we are not sure is a murder and also a disappearance.”

“Yes, let us go to work …”

W
E WERE APPROACHING AUSTRIA
now. The border between Germany and Austria is no longer anything more than a line on the map, and the rails crossed it with a haughty disdain of the many centuries of historical division. Three-quarters of Austria’s area is mountainous, but the border area where we crossed is covered with rolling hills. The train passed sunny slopes covered with the vines that are used to make the light, crisp, dry Austrian wines.

The city of Salzburg was the first major city we passed. It was once a Roman settlement, and its name comes from the salt mines in the region, a longtime source of revenue. It is known as “the city of Mozart,” for he was born there, and it is there, too, that the land begins to rise to the south and become the Alps.

Then we were rolling majestically through the town, full of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century houses with frequent magnificent buildings, marble fountains, and large squares. On the main platform, a small crowd had gathered to take photographs and wave and cheer as we steamed slowly through—at least, we gave a great impersonation of steaming, billowing out puffy white clouds. A moment or two later, we came out into the Sudtiroler Platz and headed out of town to keep our rendezvous with the Danube. More vineyards stretched away, millions of beautiful grapes.

My thoughts went back to the problem at hand—what had happened to Magda Malescu? Was she dead or alive? Was it a kidnapping, a murder, or was it a voluntary disappearance?

Kramer and I had shared the thought that such a renowned personage must inevitably have made enemies along her road to stardom. Which one of them hated her enough to kill her? And if she had been killed, who had moved her body? Where and how and why?

So many questions, so few answers.

I had raised the obvious point concerning pushing a body out of a train. After all, the train did have windows and doors, I said. Kramer had given me a look that had a large streak of pity for the ignorant in it.

I had seen too many old train movies, he said. The only windows on the Danube Express that could be opened manually were mounted above the regular windows and were far too small to accommodate a human body. The sophisticated technology on the train included an electronic panel that illuminated a light indicating an opened door or window when the train was in motion.

That meant that at least one answer was unavoidable—La Malescu must be on the train, dead or alive. The first search that Kramer had instigated did not reveal her presence in either condition. His barked command sent the stewards hurrying off to make the search again.

I was sitting by one of the windows in the lounge. Talia Svarovina sat across the aisle watching the scenery move slowly past. She seemed nervous, glancing up when anyone walked by, then relaxing whenever she saw their faces. She had the features of many East Europeans, as did Magda Malescu, with similar high cheekbones and wide eyes. Her red hair gleamed sleekly and her smart light blue suit had an Italian designer look. I smiled at her, but she gave me the briefest of nods and resumed her alternate looks out of the window and glances at passersby.