by Blake Pierce
Since neither Emil nor any of the passengers had showed up for the tour yet, London picked up Reggie and stepped outside the reception room doors onto the gangway. She saw that the ship was pulled up very close to shore. Beyond the short gangway lay a wide, concrete promenade. Morning pedestrians were walking about casually, hardly impressed by as commonplace an event as the arrival of a tour boat.
Otherwise, she couldn’t see much of the city from here—just rows of trees and hotels beyond a highway that ran parallel to the promenade. A chartered bus was parked in a nearby parking lot, ready and waiting for her tour group.
When she returned to the reception area, a short, stocky man was standing there, scratching his head. He was wearing sneakers and a plaid shirt and mirrored sunglasses. The man appeared to be in his sixties, and his wheeled suitcase looked brand new. She had never seen him before.
By now she knew the face of every passenger on board, including the hermit next door to her stateroom. And she wasn’t expecting any new passengers to come aboard.
What was this addled-looking guy doing in the reception room this morning?
She stepped toward him and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
He turned toward her and shrugged.
“Maybe you can, miss. Maybe you can. What’s your name?”
“I’m London Rose, the ship’s social director.”
“London Rose. A pretty name. That’s a cute little doggie. What’s its name?”
“Sir Reggie,” London replied, realizing she was still holding him. “But I do have to ask you …”
I’m Bob Turner. I’m looking for either room 113 or 114. I’m not sure which.”
London squinted at him curiously.
“Are you here … to visit somebody?”
“Naw, I’m here on business,” he said in a rumbling monotone. “The captain expected me. He greeted me just now and told me which room I’d be staying in. He said it’s right down that passageway, and I went down there, but then I realized I didn’t catch whether he’d said 113 or 114, and he had to take off in a hurry before I could ask him for sure.”
London remembered how rushed the captain had seemed.
Bob Turner pointed down the passageway. “He said I’d find the room unlocked, and I should just go on in and make myself at home. I thought about trying the doors myself, but I didn’t want to barge in on anybody if I got the wrong room. That could be really awkward, if you know what I mean.”
London’s brain clicked away, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.
Room 113 or 114 …
She knew that stateroom 113 was occupied by Cyrus Bannister, an enigmatic man who could sometimes be unpleasant. Room 114, on the other hand, was the suite where Mrs. Klimowski had been staying until she’d died. Had the captain really meant to put this fellow there? It was one of the ship’s grand suites, which seemed like an odd sort of lodging for a scruffy-looking character like this.
But the choice made sense in an odd way. Room 114 happened to be the Nachtmusik’s only unoccupied stateroom. There wasn’t any other place available for a new passenger.
But what is he doing here, anyway? London wondered.
She thought maybe she should touch base with Captain Hays.
“Give me just a moment,” she said politely.
She put Sir Reggie down, then took out her cell phone and sent the captain a text message.
Bob Turner is here. He says you know him. Please advise.
Although the message was immediately marked “delivered,” London knew better than to expect an immediate reply if the captain had urgent business to attend to at the moment.
Meanwhile, what was she supposed to do? The newcomer was bending over patting Sir Reggie on the head, and the dog seemed to be approving of him.
The man straightened up and stifled an agonized yawn.
“Miss Rose, if you don’t mind, I just flew in from Miami, and I’m awfully tired, and I’d really like to get off my feet.”
London didn’t suppose it would do any harm to show him to his room. She led the way down the passageway and he followed, wheeling his suitcase along behind them. When London turned the knob, she found that Room 114 really was unlocked.
The man walked on inside, but Sir Reggie lagged behind in the hallway. London could guess why. This had been his room when Mrs. Klimowski had still been alive. Mrs. Klimowski hadn’t really known how to handle a dog, so Sir Reggie’s memories of this room probably weren’t very pleasant. He wasn’t taking any chances on being shut up in here again.
She left the door open, but the little dog trotted away.
When London turned back to Bob Turner, she still couldn’t see his eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, but his mouth was hanging open with amazement.
London understood how he felt. The suite was vast by riverboat standards, with a separate seating area and elaborate décor. Piano music played softly over the room speakers to welcome the new guest.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Bob Turner said. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“It is room 114.”
“Man oh man,” he said, looking all around. “This place is a palace. Are all the rooms like this?”
“No, this is one of the two really grand suites.”
Bob Turner grunted with surprise.
“Huh. So what’s a bum like me doing in a getup like this?”
London couldn’t help but chuckle at his self-deprecation.
She decided it would be impolite to tell him that this was the only room available.
Turner cupped his ear and listened.
“What’s this tinkling music?” he said with a hint of disapproval.
“Uh, it’s Beethoven. Für Elise. It’s playing to welcome you here.”
“Beethoven, huh?”
“That’s right. The suites aboard the Nachtmusik are composer-themed. This is the Beethoven suite.”
“Is it, now?”
His eyes fell on the enormous picture hanging above the head of the bed. It was a portrait of Beethoven looking down with crossed arms and a severe scowl on his lips.
Turner let out a chuckle at the sight of the portrait.
“And here he is—the big guy himself! Hey, Mr. B, it looks like we’re going to be roommates. I hope that suits you.”
Then he turned toward London with a wink and added, “Maybe I should speak louder. Folks say he’s kind of hard of hearing.”
Well, he’s got a sense of humor, anyway, London thought.
Turner pointed to a speaker, which was still playing Für Elise.
He said to London, “Listen, I’ve got nothing against this old-style music. But I’m more of a classic rock kind of guy, if you know what I mean. So I wonder if maybe …”
London immediately understood what he meant.
Indicating a list on the end table next to the bed, she said, “You choose just about any kind of music you like. Or none at all.”
She switched off Für Elise.
“Oh, I like music all right,” Turner said. Looking intently at the portrait, he added, “Mr. B and I will look at our options, won’t we, Mr. B? Hey, Mr. B, did you know Chuck Berry wrote a song about you? You’d get a kick out of it, I think. Maybe you’ve heard it—‘Roll Over Beethoven.’”
Turner sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Man oh man,” he said with a groan. “I ache from head to toe, and I’m tired as all get out. Folks aren’t kidding when say this jet-lag thing is murder.”
“Did you say you flew in from Miami?” London asked.
Turner nodded.
“That must have been a long flight.”
Turner nodded again.
How can I draw this guy out? London wondered.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, “what brings you aboard the Nachtmusik?”
Turner didn’t reply. She wondered if maybe he’d fallen asleep while sitting up. With those mirror sunglasses, London couldn’t tell whether he was starin
g into space or had closed his eyes.
Finally he spoke in his seemingly perpetual monotone.
“I hear you had a murder aboard.”
London felt a jolt at his mention of the murder.
“Yes, back in Gyor,” she said. “It was a terrible thing. Fortunately we caught the killer.”
“So I hear,” Turner murmured sleepily. “So I hear. Well …”
He yawned and added, “I’m just here to help out however I can.”
He kicked off his sneakers and stretched out on the bed.
“You can’t get too much help,” he said in a near-whisper. “That’s what I always say.”
London squinted with confusion. The man wasn’t being the least bit forthcoming. But she felt as though prodding him with further questions would be rude.
“Welcome aboard the Nachtmusik, Mr. Turner,” she said. “Please give me a call if there’s anything you want or need.”
Turner’s mouth dropped open and a long snore rumbled out. The man was already fast asleep, and he was still wearing his sunglasses.
London stepped quietly out of the room and closed the door. Sir Reggie was nowhere in sight, but after all, he had the run of the ship now.
She knew that the passengers who were going on the morning tour must be gathering in the reception area. She needed to join them, but she still wanted to find out more about the new passenger.
Just then her phone buzzed. She saw that the call was from Captain Hays himself.
Maybe he can tell me who this guy is, she thought.
And also what he’s doing here.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Hays’s voice on the phone was crisp and chipper.
“So you met our new arrival,” he said to London. “What can you tell me about him?”
She was a bit startled.
“Um … sir, I was kind of hoping you could tell me about him.”
“Oh, dear. Being mysterious, is he? What is his name again?”
“Bob Turner.”
“Yes, that’s it. Well. I got an email just this morning from Mr. Lapham. Let me see …”
London heard the clacking of computer keys before the captain spoke again.
“It reads thus: ‘Expect the arrival of a certain Bob Turner very shortly. He will assist you on security matters during the rest of your voyage.’”
“Is that all he wrote?” London asked.
“Yes, it is. Then Mr. Turner showed up at the gangway just a few minutes after I got that email.”
“Didn’t he tell you anything about himself?”
“Well, to be fair, he didn’t have much of an opportunity. I was called away on an urgent matter on the bridge and had to rush off. But I did tell him where to find the only accommodations we currently have available. I was just starting to call and tell you to stop by and make him feel at home, but when I got your message, I gathered you were already taking care of that.”
“Yes, he had a little trouble finding his room, but I managed to get him there.”
“Weren’t you able to draw him out just a little?” Captain Hays said.
“I’m afraid not. He fell fast asleep right away.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll learn more about him in good time.”
“I hope so,” London said, feeling disconcerted that even the captain wasn’t clear on what the odd Mr. Turner was doing here. But she had no time to worry about that now.
“How’s your morning shaping up?” the captain asked.
“In just a few minutes, Emil and I are taking a tour group into Vienna.”
“Capital. We need to do whatever we can to put the last couple of days behind us. Do your best to keep folks busy and happy.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
They ended the call, and London hurried back to the reception area. The tour group was gathering, and Amy was on hand to take their names. Emil was circulating among the passengers chatting with them.
London saw some thirty passengers milling around, which was about the number she’d expected. There were some familiar faces, including the five people who had shared their musician dolls for display in the lounge last night. She was happy to see Gus Jarrett in his usual golfing outfit and his buxom, gum-chewing wife, Honey, with her heavily dyed red hair. Those two were far from polished or sophisticated, but London had come to like them during the last couple of days.
She wasn’t as glad to see the moody, dark-clad Cyrus Bannister, the occupant of the Schoenberg grand suite across the hall from where Bob Turner was now lodged. But she knew it was up to her to make sure that everybody enjoyed the trip, so she said good morning to him with a smile.
As she surveyed the group, a nearby voice said, “Guten Morgen, Fräulein.”
She turned to see Emil’s suave smile.
“Guten Morgen, mein Herr,” she replied. “How does it feel to be in a country where people speak your native language?”
“Refreshing. How is your German?”
London replied with a smile.
“Ich hoffe, es gut genug, um es zu schaffen,” she replied. Good enough to get by, I hope.
“Ich bezweifle es nicht,” he replied. I don’t doubt it.
Actually, London felt reasonably confident about her German—much more so than she’d felt about Hungarian, anyway.
Just then, Amy pushed in between them, wielding her clipboard.
“Everybody’s accounted for,” she said.
Then she added in a slightly petulant tone, “I guess I’d better get back to my other duties. Lord knows you keep me busy.”
As Amy stalked away, London knew why she was cross. The concierge would rather be out conducting tours of her own today instead of staying aboard the boat. But there was a lot to take care of with the rest of the passengers right here on the Nachtmusik, and not much time to spend in Vienna.
And besides …
The last time Amy had gone ashore, she’d developed a crush on the jewel thief who had killed Mrs. Klimowski. That poor judgment seemed reason enough to keep Amy on the boat for a while at least.
London and Emil led the group across the gangway, where they all boarded the chartered bus that awaited them. A moment later, the bus was headed toward the heart of Vienna.
Standing in the aisle, London picked up a microphone and spoke to the passengers.
“Willkommen in Wien, fellow Epoch voyagers!” she said.
“Danke,” many of them said cheerfully in near-unison.
London was pleased that most of them had picked up at least a few German words in preparation for their visit.
She continued, “As you know, our tour is behind schedule due to the unfortunate events of the last few days.”
The group murmured in sad agreement.
“Our stay in Vienna will be shorter than we’d originally planned. This morning’s tour will give you a brief introduction to the city. If you would like to see more, you can spend the rest of the day exploring as you like. There are plenty of modes of transportation available, including cabs, buses, trains, and subways. Emil and I can help out with schedules and routes. I hope you enjoy your time here.”
She sat down beside Emil and looked out the window. So far, the city didn’t look at all as she’d remembered. The buildings appeared distinctly sleek and modern as the bus headed along the bustling, four-lane Lassallestrasse.
Then the first significant landmark came into view on their left. It was truly an impressive sight, and London swallowed hard as memories of being here before swept over her. The passengers on the right got up to get a better look, and London handed the microphone to Emil.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “here you see the famous Wiener Riesenrad—the Vienna Giant Ferris Wheel. It was built in 1897, which I believe makes it the world’s oldest operating Ferris wheel. And with its height of 212 feet, it was for many years the tallest Ferris wheel in the world, until the Technostar was built in Japan in 1985.”
The group let out exclamation
s of awe.
“The Riesenrad is, as you might say, a true survivor,” Emil continued. “All the other early great Ferris wheels—in Chicago, Paris, London, and St. Louis—were destroyed within a few decades after their construction.”
“Why did this one survive?” one of the passengers asked.
Emil chuckled.
“I was hoping somebody would ask me that,” he said. “It was scheduled for demolition in 1916. But due to a lack of funds, nobody got around to tearing it down! So here it stands, well over a hundred years later.”
The passengers laughed, echoing his amusement.
Emil continued, “But do not let its age worry you, in case you want to take a ride on it later today. It is far from decrepit. Oh, like many structures here it was almost destroyed during World War Two, but it was rebuilt and has been excellently maintained ever since. You might remember Orson Welles taking a ride in it in the movie The Third Man. And I can tell you from personal experience that the view from the top is stunning.”
Stunning is right, London remembered. Many years ago, when she was just a little girl, she had ridden in one of those large gondolas. They were built like passenger train cars, and Dad had lifted her so she could see through a window. From the very top of the wheel she could see all of Vienna, and even beyond into the surrounding forests and hills.
London felt her throat tighten at the memory. Even so high above the ground, she hadn’t been afraid. She couldn’t remember ever being afraid when she was with Mom and Dad.
It seems like so long ago, she thought.
As the bus continued on its way, Vienna seemed to undergo a magical transformation from a modern city into a picturesque center of history and culture. Emil took the microphone as the bus crossed the bridge over a narrow waterway flanked by stone embankments.
“We are now crossing the Donaukanal—the Danube Canal—which borders the city center. Once a natural branch of the Danube River itself, it has been managed as an artificial channel since 1598.”
Finally the bus pulled to a stop in front of what looked like a magnificent palace with rows of massive arches and columns. London knew that it was not a palace, but something even more wonderful in its way.