by Peter King
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARENA KOSLOVA WAS STARING wistfully out of a window in the corridor. She looked lovely in profile, and I stopped beside her.
“I hope the journey is continuing to be all you hoped for,” I said.
She shrugged enigmatically, then said, “Yes,” but it was not entirely convincing. I turned to the view she was watching.
The train was climbing effortlessly up a steep slope, the track clinging to a hillside. Oak trees grew in profusion, many of them gnarled and twisted as they struggled to survive on the inclines, some of them precipitous. Their branches reached out like grasping arms, seeking for something to hold on to for stability
“The lounge coach is next,” I said. “Shall we sit?”
She nodded, and we walked on into the lounge coach, which was almost empty. We sat opposite each other across a small folding table. She produced a wan smile, then took a deep breath.
“I was having ‘some gray moments,’” she said. “Do you say that in English?”
“No, but I know what you mean,” I told her.
“We have a number of sayings like that in Romanian. I suppose you would call us a melancholy people?”
“The English are considered a stiff, unfeeling people,” I said. “Unemotional, ungiving, and a lot of other ‘uns’—so I suppose all nationalities look different to others.”
“You didn’t look unemotional when you were having lunch with Magda Malescu,” she said, looking out the window.
I laughed. “You saw that, did you? Well, I don’t think any man could be unemotional sitting opposite her.”
“Yes, I saw you enjoying yourself.” She was relaxing now and spoke more easily. “You described her to me when we last talked as a woman not easy to understand. Do you understand her better now?”
“It would need a lot more than a lunch to do that. But then I’m not sure I find any woman easy to understand.”
“You surely don’t include me?” she asked, turning away from the outside view. “I think I am very transparent.”
“A woman who travels alone on the Danube Express because it is something she has always wanted to do? No, I wouldn’t describe that as transparent. Unusual—certainly. Mysterious—very possibly.”
“Ah.” She nodded and was silent for a few seconds.
Then she said, “Perhaps I should explain that to you. You see, I was engaged to be married, and we had planned to spend our honeymoon on the Danube Express. We went for a short boat trip on the Black Sea. The steamer rammed a pier and we hit another boat. My husband-to-be was drowned. I was rescued.”
“What a terrible tragedy. I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“That was more than a year ago. When I heard about this twenty-fifth anniversary trip, I decided to take it. My decision was late, but there was a cancellation. Maybe it was not such a good idea—I have had a few of these ‘gray moments.’ Still, I’m trying to enjoy the journey, and it really is a rare occasion.”
“I hope you will enjoy it,” I told her, “and anytime you feel a ‘gray moment’ coming on, and you want someone to talk to—well, I’m here, I’m on the train.”
She smiled charmingly, and her mood seemed to have passed. “So what progress are you making in the investigation?”
“Not enough. I’m still puzzled about Malescu’s disappearance although it doesn’t seem likely that she is responsible in any way for the murder of her understudy.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“You’ve heard that that’s who was murdered?” I asked.
“Of course. It’s all over the train.”
“Have you heard any suspicions?”
She hesitated. “It’s all right,” I said, “you can tell me. I’m only collecting opinions.”
“Well, it’s probably only gossip, but one or two fingers are pointing at Herr Lydecker. Did you know he was a magician?”
“That’s what I heard. Is there anything between him and Malescu?”
So much for collecting opinions. I was collecting gossip now. The investigation was indeed in a bad way.
“They worked together on the stage—” She stopped and looked at me accusingly. “But you must know that.”
“I heard that she was an assistant in his magic act and that it was her first stage appearance,” I hastened to say, “but I haven’t heard any word to suggest that they have had any contact recently. That first stage appearance was a long time ago.”
She smiled. “La Malescu wouldn’t want to hear you say that—a long time ago indeed!”
I returned the smile. “Promise not to tell her,” I said.
“Not much likelihood of that,” she said, “but in any case, even if it was recent, it would have to mean that Lydecker had mistaken her understudy for Malescu, and that doesn’t sound reasonable. Surely he knew Malescu too well?”
“The two look very much alike,” I pointed out.
“Actually, they don’t,” Irena said, “but they can do so. There is a basic similarity, and both women look like they are makeup experts and, of course, both are actresses.”
“If they want to look alike, they could, yes, that’s true. Now, when we talked before, you suggested that one of her many lovers killed Malescu—that was when she had disappeared and everybody thought she had been murdered. Who else beside Lydecker might fit into that category?”
“That doctor—Dr. Stolz—isn’t he a possibility? The way she clings to his arm when they parade through the train—”
Was there a touch of envy there, I wondered? From a woman who had lost her man not that long ago? If so, it was understandable. “It’s hard to see what motive he might have,” I said.
“M’m, I haven’t heard any motives being suggested,” she admitted, and she looked especially pretty when she was pensive. She brightened. “Then there’s the Italian, Paolo Conti—”
“Have you heard anything about him?” I asked casually. Perhaps I could learn something about the mystery man with gigantic holes in his dossier, I thought, but she shook her head.
“Not really, but he’s very—what do you say in English?”
“Dishy?” I suggested.
She repeated the word doubtfully. “What association does he have with a dish?”
“I don’t know. Some English slang words have strange origins.”
“Well, I’ll use it,” she decided, with a brief nod of her head. “He’s dishy.”
“And—?”
“Well, he’s a man, isn’t he? And Malescu’s an eater of men.”
“She is? Oh, you mean a man-eater. Yes, I suppose so.”
“There are only so many men on this train,” Irena said. “One of them must be guilty of Svarovina’s murder.”
“Couldn’t the murderer be a woman?”
“No. Certainly not.” She was unhesitating in her answer, and I held back a comment about female intuition.
“There’s another puzzle on this train,” I told her.
“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “I don’t like people being murdered when I’m on holiday, but this is exciting, isn’t it! What’s the other puzzle?”
“This is beginning to sound like a Mystery Train Tour,” I began. “They are popular in many countries now. Actors and actresses put on a murder play, and the audience has to guess who did it.”
“This is a little too much like that,” she said with a delightful shudder, “but go on—what’s the other puzzle?”
“When Malescu disappeared, someone on the train gave out the story that she had been murdered. The story seems to have come from a journalist called Mikhel Czerny.”
She nodded. “He is very well known. He gets a lot of sensational stories.”
“He also seems to have a vendetta against Magda Malescu.”
Irena smiled. “He certainly does!”
“So,” I persisted, “nobody seems to be sure what he looks like, but if the story came from somebody on the train, who is he?”
&
nbsp; She was quiet. Then she murmured, “Another puzzle, yes, I see.” She turned her gaze to the window where the Danube was almost on a level with the track. It looked very wide, and we passed a white cruise boat. It had several decks, and passengers by the rails waved. White smoke came from a large funnel, and I wondered if it was as synthetic as our smoke on the Danube Express. We surged past it and soon left it behind.
“Conti is a journalist, too, they say.” Irena’s comment was in a thoughtful tone of voice.
“Yes. He writes for the European Wine Journal among other magazines. Do you know anything about him?”
“No, but couldn’t he be Czerny?”
I considered that. “Possible, I suppose.” I decided not to say anything about Kramer’s information concerning Czerny’s shadowlike existence, but here was a thought that hadn’t occurred to me. If he didn’t have much of a profile as a wine journalist, was it because he spent his time reporting for the Budapest Times?
I looked at Irena in a new light. “It’s an idea,” I told her, and she smiled with satisfaction.
“Would I make a good detective?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “you’re too attractive.”
“Wouldn’t that make me a better detective?” she purred.
“Do you know anything else about Czerny?” I asked.
“No, and no one seems to know anything.” She moved in her seat. “I must go. I have a lot of work to do on myself to get ready for dinner.”
“You look great to me,” I said gallantly.
“Ha! Wait till you see me tonight!” She rose and was gone before I could ask her what her plans were.
It would not take me as long to get ready for dinner as Irena said she needed. I meant it when I said she looked great and, by my estimate, fifteen minutes would be ample to get her looking terrific, but my experience of women was that they always thought they required six times as long to get ready as they really did. Maybe that is because they have to try out the image in the mirror with six different pairs of shoes or six different combinations of a blouse and a skirt.
Regardless of such speculation, fascinating as it might be, I didn’t need to start getting ready yet, so I had plenty of time to carry out a task I had been thinking about for some time. It was a task of which I had reminded myself by talking about Malescu’s double mystery—being allegedly murdered and being definitely missing.
I went in the direction of the restaurant coach, which was being prepared for dinner. Glasses were being carefully examined before being placed on the snowy white tablecloths, knives, forks, and spoons were being given an extra shine, and vases of flowers were being strategically located.
I went on through and into the first kitchen coach. This was something I would have wanted to do anyway. I always like to look at kitchens, and I was curious as to how one that was expected to provide outstanding meals could do so in the limited space of two coaches, even coaches on the renowned Danube Express.
The head chef was an Austrian, Heinz Hofstatter. He was big, bearded, and jovial—almost an archetypal chef, but then I knew that such a responsible position required a person with good PR skills in addition to his talents in the kitchen.
I mentioned Erich Brenner’s name after telling Hofstatter who I was, and cooperation was immediately assured. “Herr Brenner told me that you would wish to see our railroad kitchens.” Hofstatter beamed. “Let me show them to you—it will be a pleasure.” He hesitated momentarily. “I hope you will not be disappointed that we do not have any Scottish dishes in preparation.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I am English, I’m not—”
“But you are from Scotland Yard—”
“Ah, I see—but Scotland Yard is not actually in Scotland.”
“No?” He was surprised.
“No. I am not here on official business in any case. It’s just professional interest.”
He beamed again and led the way. Stainless steel glittered everywhere in the halogen-lamp-illuminated coach—ovens, workbench surfaces, storage cabinets, exhaust hoods, all were made of it, and the reflection doubled the lighting intensity. Pans simmered softly, and enticing aromas were already beginning to fill the air. A young woman came in with a box heaped with fat, pink shrimp.
Another woman with fair hair braided in traditional Austrian fashion was pressing aspic into elaborate shapes, while a small Latin-featured man with dark circles under his eyes and burns on his hands was tasting the contents of a large, steaming pan.
The train’s air-conditioning system had to work overtime here, I guessed, and it was doing a fine job, keeping the working temperature at a level much lower than most kitchens I knew. It was doing it despite all the ovens, infrared heaters, and the high-induction surface burners.
“I had thought you might have to serve fixed meals because of lack of space,” I told Heinz Hofstatter. “I am amazed that you can offer a menu with such a wide choice of dishes as you do.”
“We don’t do the impossible,” Hofstatter said jovially, “but we come close.”
A door opened at the far end of the coach, and a young fair-haired man came in with a large basket on his shoulder. I inhaled. “That must be marvelous bread,” I said.
“Olive bread, pepper bread, mushroom bread, sun-dried-tomato bread—we even have anchovy bread,” Chef Hofstatter said. “We bake and serve them all. Then we have focaccias, garlic twists, brioches, and Sicilian breadsticks—Bertrand, come here a moment!”
The young man approached. He had a smile on his face that I was glad to see—work in a kitchen should be satisfying and enjoyable. “Bertrand is one of our bakers,” Hofstatter said. “He is from Alsace—Bertrand, give our honored guest a taste of one of your offerings for today. What do you recommend?”
Bertrand looked dubious. “They are all good—”
Hofstatter laughed. “That I am sure of. For a taste though—what do you suggest?”
After a moment’s thought, Bertrand reached into the basket and unwrapped the top of a stack of small rolls. Each was the shape and size of a large egg.
“Please take one,” Bertrand invited, and I did so. It was deliriously browned and hot from the oven. I bit into it and chewed. Crispy on the outside, it was soft and delicious on the inside. “Magnificent!” I said.
“Tell the Ehrenmann,” Hofstatter said, using the nattering but seldom-used German name for a gentleman, “about it.”
“In Alsace, we have a large number still of Benedictine monasteries,” Bertrand said. “Alsace also has the finest charcuteries in all of France—”
“Bertrand is prejudiced”—Hofstatter smiled—”but in that statement, he is correct.”
Bertrand went on, “Well, there are none better in Europe. Naturally, we make the most use of these, and a popular bread has become this one.” Bertrand paused, watching me eat the rest of the roll, daring me to guess its ingredients.
Hofstatter watched me, too, still jovial but not above putting me on the spot. “I’m not familiar with the taste—which is superb,” I said. “You gave me a clue by referring to charcuteries, so there is obviously a pork product included in the baking. The pork, the bacon, the sausages from your Alsace charcuteries are the finest.”
Both smiled, waiting. I went on, no stopping and no turning back now. “The ingredient that gives it such an unusual flavor might be chopped sausage, but it is richer than that, firmer and fuller. I think that it is what is called ‘blood sausage’ in England, ‘blood pudding’ in the USA, and known as ‘boudin noir’ in France.
“Traditionally, it consists of pigs’ blood and suet—suet is not seen much anymore as it is considered too fatty. It comes from the fatty tissues around the liver of cattle and sheep. Consuming blood is not well accepted today either—”
“Not even in Transylvania.” Hofstatter and Bertrand chuckled, and I acknowledged that riposte with a grin.
“—but it is still used in some parts of Alsace, especially in the Strasbourg region,” I continued. �
�Finally, I think ‘boudin noir’ is ‘Blutwurst’ in German, is it not?”
Hofstatter burst into raucous laughter. Bertrand looked from me to him, then set down the basket with a wide grin.
“Yes, Meinherr, Blutwurst is the correct word,” he admitted.
“You are a chef?” Hofstatter asked, still amused.
“No, not anymore,” I said, “but I used to be.”
“You can identify the ingredients in all foods?” asked Hofstatter.
“No, not all. Some, though.”
“You know Steinmetzbrot?” Hofstatter asked. He pointed to a dark loaf in the basket. “Rye or wheat can be used. It is a little spicy, and it has to be baked long and very slowly in order to caramelize the starches. It has a very unusual flavor.”
He indicated another loaf, smaller in size, and Bertrand picked it up with a napkin, handling it as tenderly as a kitten. It emitted an aroma that was discernible above the other breads. “Schluterbrot,” Hofstatter said. “It is made with rye and oats. Then we have linseed bread and—” He broke off with a laugh. “You must excuse me. Bertrand and I get enthusiastic about our breads.”
“It’s good to see enthusiasm,” I told him, “about any food.”
Bertrand picked up his basket and went on his way, giving me a cheery wave. Hofstatter said, “Shall we continue the tour of our tiny establishment?”
“Certainly,” I agreed.
“Fraulein Malescu wanted to see everything—I think you should see everything also.”
My pulse quickened. Aside from my professional interest in seeing the kitchens, that was why I had wanted to take this tour.
I particularly wanted to know if Magda Malescu had been there.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THROUGH THE NEXT COACH, we went past the bakery, where the ovens sat quietly but hard at work as the dials on the panels indicated. Dough- and pasta-making machines spun and turned softly, and next to them was a battery of shining machines ejecting various shapes of pasta.