by Peter King
“I’ve only attended the fair once,” she said, “and that was six years ago. Don’t they change presidents more often than that?” She produced the statement with all the flair of a conjuror bringing a white rabbit from a top hat.
“I would think so. Or he could have been re-elected.”
She smiled. “Still, did I do well?”
“Very well. Anything else?”
“Conti does seem to travel a lot. I tried to find out why because he doesn’t seem to do enough writing to justify it. He wasn’t helpful though.”
“Did he say where he travels?” I asked.
“France, Italy, Spain, and he mentioned Germany, Hungary, and the old Yugoslav republics.”
“All wine-producing areas,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “So that supports his story, doesn’t it?”
“Did he say where he lives?”
“A village near Venice.”
That fitted with Karl Kramer’s information. What now, I wondered? Irena was looking at me hopefully, awaiting a gem of investigative wisdom from the pride of Scotland Yard. I couldn’t disappoint her.
“For the moment, we have to shift our attention to other suspects,” I said resolutely. “We will come back to Conti when we get further information on him.”
“Do we have other suspects?” she asked. It was “we,” already. Scotland Yard had just gained another recruit.
“Everybody is a suspect,” I said portentously, hoping that her inexperience as an investigator meant that she hadn’t heard that old chestnut a hundred times.
“So whom do you want me to interrogate next?” she asked eagerly.
I reached for another slice of pumpernickel and applied butter deliberately
“We can’t rule out the possibility that the murderer is a woman.”
She looked disappointed. “I think I would be better at interrogating men.”
“Mata Hari used to travel on this train. Did you know that?”
“Yes. I’ll bet she preferred interrogating men, too, although, as you probably know, she had her own techniques.”
“So I’ve heard, but I’m not suggesting that you have to seduce every man on this train,” I told her.
“I might not have to go that far,” she said, and took a slice of my pumpernickel from the basket. “Not every man, anyway.”
“It could be dangerous,” I said.
“Is that the only reason you don’t want me to do it?” A pout accompanied the question. It was a tough one because I wasn’t sure of the answer myself.
“It’s enough of a reason,” I temporized. “If you were the next victim because of something you found out, I’d lose a valuable assistant.”
She was smiling faintly as if she had just learned an interesting fact. “I wouldn’t want that to happen.”
“Helmut Lydecker may be the next one on the list,” I said.
“He knows Magda Malescu,” Irena said thoughtfully, “so he may have had some connection with her mysterious disappearance. But did he know Talia, her understudy?”
“Yes, he did. He may have had an affair with her.”
“As a way of getting back at Malescu?”
“That’s a shrewd observation. It could be a reason.”
“H’m, all right, I’ll put Herr Lydecker on the list. What about Larouge? He’s not much of a mystery man, but if he’s trying to avoid suspicion, he wouldn’t want to appear mysterious, would he?”
“Good point. I’m a little bothered about him myself—though I admit it’s mainly because there’s nothing to be suspicious about.”
“So he’s the next on the list,” she said briskly. “Who else?”
The waiter came with an offer of fresh coffee, and we both accepted. “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to spoil your trip—you didn’t come on this train to be sleuthing, you should be—”
“Oh, I love this,” she assured me.
“There’s a woman we don’t know enough about—Elisha Tabor.”
“That’s more in your line, isn’t it?”
“Are you suggesting that I seduce every woman on the train?”
“It sounds as if we’re both going to be very busy, doesn’t it?” she asked, her eyes dancing.
“I wasn’t serious,” I told her, even as I realized I was being a little pompous. I quickly thought of another candidate for investigation.
“Have you talked to Herr Vollmer?” I asked.
“No. He’s in some sort of business, isn’t he?”
“He is with Nord Deutscher Energie. He says he is going to discuss offshore oil drilling in the Black Sea.”
“I don’t know much about oil,” she said, shaking her head.
“I’m sure you know enough about men,” I told her, and she smiled as if I had complimented her. Maybe I had.
“Oh, and I’m forgetting one other. The Swiss fellow, Reingold.”
She did not look enthusiastic. “He doesn’t look too interesting.”
“You can’t pick only the ones you want to seduce,” I said.
“Of course not, but he can’t be a murderer surely?”
“Anyone can be a murderer,” I said, plucking another bon mot from the files of Scotland Yard.
“This is getting to be a long list,” she complained.
“Have another slice of pumpernickel,” I suggested. “You may need to build up your strength.”
She smiled and took a slice. “Pass the butter, please.”
We separated after breakfast. I watched the scenery as the train swept effortlessly up the steep bank of the Danube River. We had passed Bratislava during the night and Slovenia was on our left. The river along this stretch winds and weaves like a wriggling snake and only the superb balancing mechanism and brilliant engineering kept us from being travel sick. It also meant that our progress was slow. In places, the riverbank was sandy and, in others, stony. Rooks and gulls swooped low in search of food.
“Roman ruins are just visible from the other side of the train,” a voice advised me. It was Professor Sundvall.
“They are?”
“Yes, the Heidentor is a massive arch, and near it is the ancient Roman city of Carnentum.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “I don’t know this area.”
“Yes, Carnentum has sulfur springs where the Fourteenth Roman Legion used to rejuvenate themselves after a long march when returning from subjugation of the barbarian tribes. Marcus Aurelius lived there for many years, too, and wrote several of his Meditations during that time.”
“I am on the wrong side of the train,” I said, and he laughed.
“Soon,” he said, “we will see the March River. It is very wide here and flows in to swell the Danube. Here also, is the Hutelberg, the ‘Hat Hill.’ It is from a later period than the Romans—it is a huge mound that was formed by the inhabitants who brought earth in their hats. It was their way of raising a memorial in remembrance of the expulsion of the Turks.”
“You are a mine of information, Professor,” I told him.
“Now I must go,” he said. “My little talk on Mozart was, it seems, very popular, and I have been asked to say something about Johann Strauss.”
“I must hear that,” I said. I had a secondary reason for that—it would be a good opportunity to rub shoulders with the passengers. Including, surely, a murderer?
As he left, Henri Larouge came along the corridor. He nodded pleasantly, but, before he could pass by, I asked him, “How are you enjoying the food on this trip? As you are in this business, you must be well qualified to give an opinion.”
“It is very good indeed,” he replied. “I have traveled on other luxury trains, and I cannot recall one of them that served finer meals. The produce is fresh, the cooking is imaginative, the meals are satisfying, and the service impeccable.”
“High praise,” I said.
“It is justified. Also, they are very clever at introducing the cuisines of the various regions we are passing through.”
/> “I have to agree with that, too,” I said. “What about the wines? Do they come up to expectation?”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “Austria, Hungary, Romania, Slovakia—they are countries that offer good wines but few great wines so there are few outstanding vintages. The DS Bahn has done well in selecting the wines they have served so far; all have been very pleasing:”
I noticed that he used the word “pleasing” as the French do when they are being grudging with their praise. The situation is analogous to the English use of “interesting” as applied to works of art. It usually means that the speaker finds it hard to find suitable compliments but does not wish to offend with critical comments.
“The Veltliner was better than most I have tasted,” I said.
“Yes, the ones they serve on the train are from the northern regions of the Wachau. They are very good. The Gumpoldskirchen is a more renowned wine, of course,—”
“But it’s a little too sweet for most tastes,” I said, “especially with food.”
“True,” he agreed.
“Tell me,” I said, “do you think these vines that we have on board will be successful in reviving the Romanian wine industry?”
He turned pensive. “From what I have heard of them, they have the potential,” he said slowly.
“You sound doubtful.”
“I have no doubt that the vines could revive the industry in that country, but I was talking to Paolo Conti—you have met him?”
“Only briefly,” I said, wanting to squeeze out of him all I could.
“He is very concerned over the safety of the vines.”
“In what way?” I tried to sound obtuse.
“There have been rumors of threats, it seems.”
“Why would anyone want to damage or destroy them?”
“Conti wasn’t willing to speak outright and tell me where the threats were coming from—if he knows.”
“Surely not rival vineyards,” I said in my most ingenuous manner.
He gave me a scornful look. “It is possible.”
I agreed with him there. The French Huitieme Bureau is an operation set up to investigate crimes affecting the wine business in France. The famous Deuxieme Bureau is the Secret Service, and only those in the inner circle of the French government know in which pies the third to the seventh bureaux have their fingers, but certainly the Eighth, the Huitème Bureau, is a powerful if shadowy organization with uncounted finances to back it. Larouge must have had dealings with them, and certainly he would know of their activities—as much as anyone on the outside ever did.
I wondered how much more Larouge knew that he was not telling me. I probed a little further. “Rival vineyards in Romania or in other countries?”
“Both are possible,” Larouge said decisively.
“Would a revived Romanian wine industry be that much of a threat?”
“Certainly. The ‘Wine Lake’ is already overflowing.”
The “Wine Lake” is the expression used to encompass the wine production of the countries in the European Community. The inclusion of the former Eastern European countries in the European Community is resulting in an ever-expanding capacity.
“What’s the latest estimate on the volume of the ‘Wine Lake’?” I asked casually.
He gave an equally casual shrug. “Twenty thousand million liters, probably more.”
Larouge was better informed than I had expected. I should pay more attention to him. Perhaps he was not as peripheral a player in this deadly game as I had supposed.
“You will excuse me now,” he said. “I would like to hear the professor’s words on Johann Strauss.”
He went past me as I stood, thinking.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I HAD NO TIME to deliberate. Gerhardt Vollmer, the oil man, came along and greeted me. He looked dapper in a light tweed jacket, light slacks, and brown-and-white shoes.
“I’m going to hear Professor Sundvall on Johann Strauss,” he told me. “I don’t usually listen to talks like that, but my wife is an enthusiastic pianist, and Strauss is one of her favorite composers—so I thought I should know more about him. Are you going that way?”
I agreed, and we passed through the train into the lounge coach where Professor Sundvall was just starting.
“The Strauss family consisted of five musically gifted members,” the professor began. “Johann Strauss I, ‘the Elder,’ was passionately involved in music from an early age. He began composing waltzes at the age of twenty-one and, after delighting Viennese audiences for some years, toured Europe on several occasions.” Professor Sundvall’s eyes twinkled as he referred to Wagner’s account of Strauss as a conductor, “‘he conducted with a mad passion’. He wrote 150 waltzes and over a hundred other pieces,” said the professor as he continued.
“His eldest son, Johann Strauss II, was known as ‘the Younger,’ and it is his works that we know best. The Blue Danube, Tales from the Vienna Woods, Voices of Spring, and Wine, Women and Song are the outstanding examples of the elegant and charming waltzes he composed while ‘Die Fledermaus’ and ‘The Gypsy Baron’ are among the sixteen operettas he composed. His father was opposed to his taking up a musical career, but music seemed to be in the blood of the Strauss family.
“Strauss the Elder had two other sons, Joseph and Eduard, who both composed and conducted, while Eduard’s son, Johann III became director of the court balls in Vienna and later Berlin.”
Professor Sundvall clearly had a love of his subject. He was one of those educators who sincerely enjoyed passing on his own ardor to others.
The crowd was not large but listened attentively. Franz Reingold, the Swiss with the ski lift inheritance and the train hobby, was there, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Stanton Walburg who, I was willing to bet, never missed any entertainment of any kind. Dr. Stolz came in late and stood at the back. The Australian couple was there, too, and clapped loudly.
I had hardly expected Herman Friedlander to attend, and he did not. But he came in just as Professor Sundvall was finishing. Maybe his timing was deliberate. I went over to him to find out, and said, “You missed an interesting talk, Herr Friedlander, but then perhaps your opinion of Johann Strauss is similar to your view of Mozart.”
I am not usually that confrontational, but persons who are that way themselves are not usually aroused by others who display the same attitude to them, so I felt safe. My confidence was borne out as Friedlander turned a slightly sour look toward me, and said, “Johann Strauss writes powder puff music. Now Richard Strauss—no relation, of course—there is a real composer.”
“I have always found Strauss’s waltzes to be lighthearted and uplifting,” I said. “Surely no music portrays its place and time as accurately as does that of Strauss and nineteenth-century Vienna.”
Friedlander’s sour look showed no sign of being sweetened by my words. “Music has the power to stir our deepest emotions,” he said. “That is how it should be used—not to sugarcoat life and make the masses happy.”
I could see we were about to get into a political debate and I was not sure if I wanted to mix music and politics. I was still juggling an answer when Karl Kramer appeared and saved me.
He gave me a rare and clearly a professional smile as he said, “Meinherr, I wonder if I could have a few words with you?”
He took me by the arm, and we walked through the lounge coach. When we had passed through the automatic door connecting to the next coach, Kramer turned to me as we entered the corridor of the next coach. We continued to walk, but Kramer’s step quickened and took on an urgency.
“I have ordered the stewards in each of the coaches to be particularly alert since the death of Fraulein Svarovina,” he said. “One of them has just reported that Signor Conti did not come into breakfast in the restaurant coach, nor did he order breakfast in his room.”
“He could have spent the night in another compartment,” I suggested. “After all, several young women are on the train and—”
“I had
the stewards check the other passengers. None is unaccounted for, and all have had breakfast in either the dining coach or their compartments.”
We went on through the train while, outside, pleasant green countryside spun by, copses and dense woodlands, occasional gently rolling hills or a periodic church steeple poking above the treetops. It was hard to believe that we were in a train, as the sophisticated gyroscopic devices on the Danube Express compensated and adjusted to the deviations in angle and curvature of the track.
Kramer came to a stop. A steward stood on duty by a compartment door, trying not to look too obviously like a guard. Kramer reached into his pocket and took out the wallet-like piece of apparatus that I had seen before. Punching in numbers, he pulled out the cylindrical key electronically prescribed. Before inserting it in the lock, he knocked, gently at first, then louder. There was no response, and he tried a third time.
He shrugged when there was still no response and inserted the key in the lock. He turned it once, then again. The door opened.
It was dark in the compartment. I started to follow Kramer inside, but he held up a warning hand. He glanced up and down the corridor. No one was in sight. We went in and closed the door behind us.
It was dark and silent. Kramer called out Conti’s name. The silence continued. He snapped on the light.
The layout of this compartment was different from both mine and from Magda Malescu’s. It was not as large as Malescu’s and, though about the same size as mine, the design was different. Kramer went through the small anteroom and into the living area. It was tidy but empty Kramer gave me a quick wave to follow him and went into the bedroom.
Conti lay on the bed in blue pajamas. His arms and legs were at awkward angles. His face was pale, and there was no sign of life.
Kramer felt at his wrist and throat. He shook his head. “I can’t find any indication that he is alive,” he said, still trying. Finally, he gave up and shook his head again. He moved around the room, lithe as a cat, quickly looking in the closets and the bathroom.
“No one here,” he said, his voice normal.
I was looking carefully at the body. No signs of violence were visible. Nothing else was on the bed. I went around the room sniffing like a bloodhound.