Dine and Die on the Danube Express

by Peter King

  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 threat
ened 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 …”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WE 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.

  Henri Larouge sat a couple of seats behind her. He was at one of the seats with a folding table, which he had covered with papers. He was too busily engrossed in his work to pay attention either to the scenery or other passengers. He frowned then scribbled frantically.

  Resume your journey as if nothing had happened, had been Kramer’s order, but be doubly—triply—alert. Talk to everyone you can and listen carefully to what they say. Some person—or persons—on this train have information on these peculiar events and a word or two may give us a clue we need.

  I was doing just that, but the other passengers were going to have to be more forthcoming than Fraulein Svarovina, or I wouldn’t be able to learn a thing. I went across the aisle and sat opposite Henri Larouge. He glanced up from his papers and didn’t look particularly pleased to be interrupted. I hoped this wasn’t going to be two in a row.

  “Have you heard the rumors?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, and kept juggling numbers.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you—”

  “I am reviewing the food shipments we will be taking on in Vienna,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose the train has to take on more food at intervals,” I said, “sort of like in-flight refueling for planes.”

  He didn’t appear to relish the comparison. “It would be foolish to bring food for the entire journey from Munich. We take on food in Vienna and in Budapest. We normally stop in Belgrade but the present political unrest changes that.” Despite his dislike of being interrupted, he evidently enjoyed the responsibility of his job enough to want to tell me about it.

  “It is all planned by the DS Bahn. This way, we get food that is really fresh and are able to serve the food of each different country and know that it is authentic.”

  “I didn’t realize that you worked for the DS Bahn.”

  “I do not. The company I work for us is contracted by the DS Bahn.”

  “So you have heard the rumors?” I returned to my theme.

  He could see he wasn’t going to get rid of me that easily. He pushed his papers away a couple of inches with a visible sign of impatience. “I have heard that Fraulein Malescu has been murdered, and I have heard that she has disappeared.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, too,” I told him chattily. “I don’t see how she could do both.”

  “Nor do I. It may be some publicity stunt. She is a very flamboyant woman.”

  “Has she been in the news before in similar circumstances?” I asked.

  “Several times. She loves the headlines.”

  “You have followed her career, have you?”

  “No, not at all, but all the big newspapers and TV stations report her affairs, her movements, her appearances, her performances—she is news whatever she does.”

  “You sound disapproving,” I said. It is a comment that I have found often useful.

  “I do not disapprove,” Larouge said. “Now Czerny—there is one who disapproves.” He permitted himself a superior smile.

  “Who is Czerny?” I had heard what Karl Kramer had to say about him, another viewpoint would be helpful.

  “Mikhel Czerny, he is a journalist on the Budapest Times. He detests Malescu—he criticizes all her performances, makes fun of her escapades, twists her interview statements around …”

  “Do you think he detests her enough to kill her?” I asked. “Or kidnap her?”

  “Of course not,” he said decisively,
then he thought for a moment. “It sounds very improbable,” he added.

  Another thought struck me—could Czerny have a personal motive? Could a reason have arisen beyond his hate campaign in the media? Something personal? Maybe it was the other way around? Perhaps he had had a personal antipathy toward Malescu, and that had found a vehicle in his columns?

  Larouge found my contemplation on these ideas an opportunity to return to his calculations. I decided to leave him alone and find another victim. A man in his late sixties with curly fair hair and twinkling eyes introduced himself. He was Henryk Sundvall, the Swedish historian and biographer of the Danube Express.

  “We will be passing through Linz in a few moments,” he told me. “It is one of the places where the Danube is at its widest.”

  “I am pleased to see that you look excited,” I told him. “It is good to have a guide who is enthusiastic about his work.”

  He chuckled. “A guide? Ja, I suppose I am though I do not guide the train. I enjoy this job, though, and I love this part of Europe.”

  The countryside was getting more hilly, and the railroad descended gently into a beautiful valley with wooded hills on both sides.

  “This is the Kirnbergerwald,” Sundvall said. “It will be pines all the way to Linz.” He pointed. “That is the pilgrimage church of Postlingberg, and coming up next—there it is—Mount Calvary or Kalvarienberg, also famous as a destination for pilgrims.”

  “Will we be able to see any landmarks in Linz?” I asked.

  “The Schloss, the castle, stands high above the Danube and close to the south bank, so we will have a good view of it. It was built for the Emperor Friedrich III, who resided there with his court in the fifteenth century. It was burned down but rebuilt and is now a fine museum. We are approaching it now”—he pointed—“there!”

  It was a square, solid-looking structure, more of a residence than a conventional castle. “And over there”—Sundvall pointed again—“is the old cathedral, the Alter Dom. It was built by the Jesuits.”

  He waved a hand. “Beyond it, just out of sight is the Bruckner Haus. Anton Bruckner, the composer, was born there. The building is now a concert hall, one of the most acoustically perfect in Europe. Many famous composers have lived in Linz—Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert composed some of their finest work here.”