Dine and Die on the Danube Express

by Peter King

  “Anything?” Kramer asked.

  “No,” I said. “Nothing recent—and certainly no aroma of bitter almonds.”

  Kramer took out his phone and spoke rapidly into it. He was calling Dr. Stolz and asking him to come at once.

  We both searched the room more thoroughly. The closet was full of clothes; the bathroom was not unreasonably untidy. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing looked like a clue. The compartment appeared completely typical except for one item—the body sprawled on the bed.

  A knock came at the door, and Kramer let in Dr. Stolz. He had his habitual solemn face; it was probably part of his medical persona. He carried a small black bag and placed it at the side of the bed.

  He showed an instant of recognition as he looked at the face, then he was all business. He went through the whole procedure—pulse, eyes, mouth, carotid arteries, and heart. Kramer and I continued to look through the room while the doctor conducted his examination, but neither of us was finding anything helpful.

  The doctor took his stethoscope out and used it extensively. He produced a magnifying glass and used it, too, then pulled from his bag a small instrument with a green dial and small probes.

  A knock came at the door. Kramer went to it but did not open it, calling out, “Who is there?”

  A voice, evidently that of the steward who had been left on duty outside, said something that I could not hear. The steward replied, and Kramer unlocked the door and opened it just barely enough to admit Erich Brenner.

  Kramer closed the door quickly and locked it again, motioning toward the bed, where Dr. Stolz was still taking readings. Brenner’s eyes opened in astonishment. He went to the bed and stood beside the doctor, who ignored him.

  In a voice that was very different from his usual strong baritone, Erich Brenner asked Kramer for details. Kramer quickly ran through the sequence of events he had given me. Brenner shook his head. “This is terrible. Well, it’s terrible for poor Signor Conti, too, of course but I mean, coming after the other …”

  The doctor was still bent over the body, oblivious to Brenner’s entry. Brenner said to Kramer in almost a whisper, “Has he learned anything yet?”

  “He hasn’t said anything.”

  Stolz was still using the small meter, and Brenner looked at him expectantly, but the doctor continued without speaking. The three of us waited expectantly. At last, the doctor reopened his bag and dropped the meter into it.

  “Well, Doctor, what have you found?” Brenner asked.

  Stolz stood looking at the body contemplatively. He seemed reluctant to answer. Finally, he said, “Most of the signs are the same as those of the young woman, Talia Svarovina.”

  Silence fell. The hum of the train’s movement was all that could be heard. Not even the reassuring thunk-thunk of steel wheels over rail joints could be heard as in the golden days of the railroad. We were all assessing the significance of the doctor’s words.

  “This is too much of a coincidence,” said Kramer. His voice was decisive, a welcome shaking-up after the numbing effect of Dr. Stolz’s statement.

  “It will be difficult to explain this in Budapest tonight,” Brenner said, shaking his head. “The Hungarian authorities would have let us continue after the death of the unfortunate young lady—but now, it is very doubtful.”

  Dr. Stolz snapped his bag shut with a loud click.

  “The Donau Schnellzug should be able to continue past Budapest,” he said and there was something in his tone. All three of us stared at him. Kramer was the first to voice our perplexity. “Why do you say that, Doctor?”

  The doctor evidently enjoyed his small moments in the spotlight. I recalled that he had been similarly dramatic after the death of Talia Svarovina when, for a moment or two, we had all thought that Magda Malescu was dead.

  He looked at each of us in turn, as if inviting us to guess his next words, but when none of us spoke, he said “Signor Conti is not dead. He should recover in a couple of hours.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  KRAMER WAS THE FIRST to recover. “I could find no life signs,” he snapped.

  “I had difficulty at first,” the doctor admitted. “I had to use this new device—it detects movement of the blood in the circulation system. This continues even when the nervous complex is dormant, the pulsing of the heart is too weak to be detected, and the respiration is too infrequent for measurement.”

  “You mean Conti is in some form of suspended animation?” asked Kramer.

  “No, no,” the doctor said. “He is merely in a reduced state of being. All his systems are operating but at very low levels.” He looked for a blanket, found one, and laid it over the body, adjusting the sprawled position of the legs. “Need to keep his temperature up,” he explained.

  “The cause of this condition, Doctor?” Brenner demanded, anxious to bypass the medical trivia.

  “It would be necessary to analyze the contents of Signor Conti’s stomach to be sure … but I would be fairly certain that he has ingested the same herb, Farfalia, as Fraulein Svarovina. In her case, it proved fatal, but Conti’s much stronger male constitution has resulted only in complete incapacitation for a short period.”

  “How long ago did he ingest these drugs?” Kramer wanted to know.

  “Several hours ago; it is not possible to be more precise.”

  “When do you suppose he will recover, Doctor?” Brenner asked.

  “Recovery will probably be rapid,” said Stolz. “There is no sign of it at the moment, but as soon as any of his vital signs shows an increase, then he will be back to normal soon after.”

  “So, Doctor,” I interjected, “you mean that both Fraulein Svarovina and Signor Conti were given a dose of this Farfalia.”

  “Apparently,” the doctor said.

  Kramer was the one frowning now. “I don’t like this. Two people on the same train and within a few days of each other …”

  “Following Herr Kramer’s comment,” I said, “does it seem as if someone may have killed Fraulein Svarovina and attempted to kill Signor Conti?”

  “No, no,” Brenner said heartily. I could see that he didn’t even want to have such an opinion aired. “Other explanations are more likely.” I noticed that he made no effort to tell us what they were.

  Kramer was frowning. “Have you heard any reports or comments that might indicate other passengers on the Donau Schnellzug have been affected in this way?”

  The doctor shook his head firmly. “No.”

  Kramer was also looking unconvinced by Brenner’s words, but he decided this was not the time to debate them. He gave a brief nod that was more a termination of the discussion than any kind of agreement. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said to Stolz. “Please prepare your report, and you and I will talk again.” He turned to Brenner, “Be assured, Herr Brenner, that our colleague from Scotland Yard and I will have more information very speedily.”

  I tried to look both modest but competent at the same time and wondered how successful I was. Brenner looked satisfied that Kramer was taking an optimistic approach. Brenner and Dr. Stolz went out and Kramer said a few words to the steward in the corridor to continue his watch. Then Kramer locked the door from the inside, and said briskly to me, “We have been wondering about this Conti fellow with his strangely uninformative background, have we not? Well, here is an excellent opportunity to try to learn something.”

  Was it invasion of privacy, I wondered? Kramer intercepted my involuntary glance at the body on the bed, now partially covered by a blanket. He interpreted my look correctly. “We are continuing our investigation in the presence of the occupant of the compartment,” he explained with a straight face.

  We both went to work, starting at opposite ends of the compartment. I went through the wardrobes. Conti’s clothes were expensive and mostly Italian. It was hard to judge if that was because he considered them the best in Europe or it simply meant that he spent more time in Italy. I searched through every pocket of every garment.

  Kr
amer meanwhile was opening the drawers, which were also full of clothes. He subjected every item to a detailed scrutiny. He moved into the bathroom, and we went on with our search, as thorough as it could be without ripping out the wall panels.

  Kramer returned to the bedroom, and we looked at the recumbent figure. “No change,” Kramer reported, then he thrust out a hand. He held a cashmere jacket. I looked at it, seeing nothing unusual. Kramer gave me a moment, then, holding up the jacket, turned back one lapel.

  A tiny badge was there. I bent closer. It looked like gold and had an emblem of a single black grape with a green leaf underneath it. Both were picked out in colored enamel. Some tiny letters were at the bottom of the badge, and Kramer held the jacket higher so that I could read them.

  “Do you see what it says?” he asked.

  I could just read them. “Amici della Uva.” I said the Italian words out loud. Some tiny numbers followed.

  “You would say ‘Friends of the Grape’ in English, would you not?” Kramer asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do the words mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Kramer nodded complacently He returned the jacket to the wardrobe. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “France was the first country to appreciate the enormous significance of the wine industry in their economy,” I said slowly, putting the thoughts together as I went. “When any business gets big and powerful—and wealthy—it attracts crime. The French have had an espionage organization for nearly two hundred years—they call it the Deuxième Bureau. A direct translation would be the ‘Second Department’ but that is merely a name and it is operative today.”

  “I am aware of their existence, of course,” Kramer said. “Please continue.”

  “France has set up other organizations, but their precise activities are kept secret. One of them, however, the Huitième Bureau, or the ‘Eighth Department,’ has had a very limited amount of publicity. Problems have arisen in France because of the necessary involvement of the government in a major industry’s affairs. Because of that, another organization has been formed in recent years and it—”

  “It is called Amici della Uva.” Kramer completed the sentence for me.

  “Yes. It is not specifically French although the French are one of the larger participants. It is composed, in fact, of members from all the European Community countries who are wine producers. The name is Italian, but that does not mean anything—it’s just a name that trips off the tongue.”

  “I have heard of them,” said Kramer, “but I know very little.”

  “That’s all anyone knows. They operate clandestinely and have no visible presence. The power of twelve countries is behind them though, and they undoubtedly achieve much, even if little—if any—of it gets into the media.”

  “And our friend, Conti, here, is a member—or should I say, an agent—a representative?”

  “I don’t know what they call them,” I admitted. “I have heard bits of gossip about them here and there in my work but not what you would call hard facts.”

  “Scotland Yard must know about them,” Kramer said.

  I had to remind myself that I was the delegate—in Kramer’s eyes anyway—of that august body. “Ah, yes,” I temporized, “but England is too small a wine producer to be a member. So, er—we know very little of Amici della Uva.”

  He accepted that, I was glad to note. “His cover as a wine journalist presumably enables Conti to move around Europe on the business of this organization,” Kramer continued.

  “And his presence on the Donau Schnellzug must be due to the cargo of vines for Romania,” I added.

  “That seems probable,” he agreed. “Perhaps threats have been made or whispers heard that might mean some attempt may be made to steal the vines.”

  “Or destroy them. Yes, it does.”

  Kramer let out a sigh of exasperation. “That makes Conti a target, does it not? If some persons are determined to steal those vines, they may have found Conti an impediment to their plans. So they tried to kill him.”

  “And Fraulein Svarovina? Is she a victim of this murder plot, too?”

  “Ach!” He grunted. “So complicated! There is still much that we do not know.”

  “At least no difficulties should result when we arrive in Budapest later today,” I said.

  “That is one ray of sun in this whole affair,” Kramer agreed. “If Conti had been dead, the Hungarian authorities might well have detained the train in Budapest.”

  “Surely Herr Brenner will employ his silver tongue to good effect?”

  Kramer paused a moment as he searched for the right words. “I am quite sure that Herr Brenner will succeed in convincing the people in Budapest that the train should continue its journey.” He glanced around the compartment. “I do not believe there is anywhere else in here for us to search. I must go now and talk to the stewards to see if any of them has heard or seen something that could be helpful.”

  “I’ll do the same with as many passengers as I can,” I said.

  We both headed for the door, and as Kramer opened it, there came a loud groan from the bedroom.

  “He is recovering,” Kramer said unsympathetically and we went back inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “YOU HAVE SOME EXPLAINING to do,” said Kramer, and there wasn’t a hint of sympathy in his voice. Conti looked as if he had expected at least a little. He pulled himself up in the bed so that he reached a sitting position. He looked weak, tired, and vulnerable.

  “I feel terrible,” he said. “What happened to me?”

  It was true he didn’t look good, but he appeared to be recovering fast, just as Dr. Stolz had said he would. His eyes, foggy at first, were clearing, and his pale complexion was taking on a trace of color.

  Kramer’s obvious answer should have been, That’s what we want you to tell us, but he avoided the obvious, and said, “Please tell us the last events you recall.”

  Conti blinked. His eyes were focusing, but recall seemed to give him a problem, his mental processes evidently affected. He tried to say something, stopped, then tried again. “I was in the bar after dinner—” were the words that finally emerged.

  Kramer looked disappointed. I certainly was.

  Conti licked his lips. The drug had probably dehydrated him, but Kramer didn’t offer him a glass of water. Conti’s eyes were steady by then, and he was reapproaching normality.

  “That’s the last I remember,” he said slowly.

  “You were drugged?” Kramer put it as a question not a statement.

  “I don’t know.” Conti tried to shake his head but thought better of it after a wince or two.

  “Who were you drinking with?”

  “No one in particular …” His voice trailed off.

  “You think the bartender drugged you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there any reason why someone should drug you?”

  Conti looked at Kramer as if he found him unfamiliar.

  “I—no.”

  I knew what was making Kramer antagonistic. He didn’t like the idea of an undercover investigator secretly at work on the train of which he was the security chief. I had been lucky and slipped under Kramer’s radar screen before the boom was lowered. The Scotland Yard connection had stood me in good stead, and, once again, I hoped it would hold.

  Kramer wasn’t going to tell Conti that he had searched his compartment and found his badge. He was giving him the opportunity of admitting his mission. Maybe when Conti recovered further, he would do that; but so far, it looked as if he intended to hold out.

  “If someone drugged you, we need to know who it was and why?” Kramer continued remorselessly.

  Conti smoothed out the bedclothes with his outstretched palms. It had the appearance of a placating gesture but Kramer was not being placatable.

  “You might have died,” Kramer said. “You came very close to it. Who drugged you?”

  Cont
i dropped his eyes. He looked as if he were thinking, trying to remember. Then he looked up, and said, “I don’t know. I hadn’t drunk anything for some time before I went into the bar, just wine at dinner. I spoke to a few people there. Had a drink then I—yes, I had another. I didn’t feel well. I stayed a while longer. I was tired and decided to go back to my compartment. That’s all I remember.”

  “Who was in the bar at that time?”

  “Let me see—Lydecker was there, Reingold, the Swiss fellow, was talking about the Swiss railway system, oh and Friedlander came in but didn’t stay long. The Romanian girl, Koslova, was there talking to Larouge.”

  “Who else?” demanded Kramer.

  Conti’s brow wrinkled as he made an effort at recall. “Elisha Tabor was getting friendly with the oil man—”

  “Vollmer?”

  “Yes. I think there were one or two others I didn’t know.”

  “Which bartenders were on duty?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “Tell me, Signor Conti, do you take medication?”

  “When I need it.”

  “Have you taken any on this journey?”

  “Not up to now.”

  “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

  Conti frowned. “Sleeping? No.”

  “Have you taken any sedatives?”

  “No.”

  Kramer wasn’t finished with him yet though. “What have your researches on the Donau Schnellzug brought so far?” he demanded.

  “My researches?”

  “You are researching for an article on wine, aren’t you?”

  Conti looked uncertain. “Well, yes,” he said, “it’s going to be an article on the Express with emphasis on wine and the wine regions that the train passes through.”

  “You will be mentioning the vines for Romania?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? Are they not important?”

  “Yes, but they would make a separate story.”

  “You are writing such a story?” Kramer continued to press.

  “No, I have it in mind and it will come later.”