by Peter King
We were all seated at one large oval table which made it easier to converse with most of the guests. I was located between Eva Zilinsky and Irena Koslova. Almost opposite was Magda Malescu, who had received enough attention that one might suppose she had personally struggled hand-to-hand with the villains. Karl Kramer, as a hero of the struggle with Conti and a savior of the day, was there. Erich Brenner was also close by, and so were Doctor Stolz, Helmut Lydecker, and Franz Reingold—the balance of male and female had been thrown out of synchronization by the two deaths. However, they and my other companions on the journey were all enjoying the caviar being served as an appetizer.
“Some Romanians eat as much as half a kilo—that’s a pound—of caviar at a sitting,” Irena told me, and I resisted a plebeian urge to ask how much that would cost.
“Bucharest’s famous ‘Ikra Bar’—‘Ikra’ means ‘caviar,’ it’s a Russian word—serves over forty different kinds of this most precious of all appetizers,” explained Erich Brenner. “They have selected the best of the forty kinds for us this evening,” he went on. He was in a more jovial mood now that the strain of the past days was removed, and he was determined to make the occasion memorable. “‘Fish eggs,’ it may be called by the critics,” he said, “but served chilled with slices of lemon, chopped onion, thin crackers, and champagne, it is a superb dish.”
All of those accompaniments were on the table, and the starter was proving extremely popular. “I think this table is trying to beat that half-kilo record,” I commented to Irena. “By the way, where does this caviar come from?”
Erich Brenner heard the question and cut in with the answer. “The Caspian and the Black Sea provide almost all of our caviar today. The Baltic and the Atlantic used to be suppliers, but dredging and poisonous discharges from factories along the shores have caused the total disappearance from those regions.”
“That one,” said Irena, determined not to be left out as knowledgeable about caviar and indicating a dish of a light reddish color, “is called red caviar, but it is actually lumpfish. Many people like it better, though its color has tempted some suppliers to blend in salmon, which is much cheaper.”
Eva Zilinsky joined in the discussion. “Worse than that is the stuff they sell as ‘Romanian Caviar.’ It is actually eggplant, flavored with paprika.”
“Some people serve that at home for parties,” added Irena. “It impresses their friends.”
“I’ve heard of that.” I had to make a contribution, and that was as good a time as any. “The trick is to bake the eggplant first, un-peeled, for at least an hour. Then it’s peeled, pureed, and mixed with olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and paprika. Finely chopped onions are added just before serving.”
“That’s cheating,” said Eva Zilinsky disdainfully.
“I know,” I agreed. “I was involved in a case once where a group of food enthusiasts put on a monthly dinner at each of their houses in turn. The hosts had to serve one dish that was not what it seemed. This was one of them.”
“Why were you involved?” asked Eva Zilinsky.
“Because one of the group was murdered.”
“Speaking of murder—” Eva Zilinsky began, then looked around the table at a few reproving glances. “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, “but we have all been through a harrowing time—not to mention two murders. Who’d have thought that nice young Italian man was responsible?”
“That ‘nice young man’ murdered two women,” commented Dr. Stolz acerbically.
“How is he, by the way?” asked Magda Malescu. “I watched him being shot again this afternoon on television.”
“He has a 20 percent chance of living and a 95 percent chance of losing his manhood,” said the doctor, forgetting his bedside manner in favor of statistics. Several eyes turned in my direction. As the one who pulled the trigger, it was inevitable that some comment was expected.
“I didn’t have time to do much thinking,” I said. “I just did whatever I could to protect myself against a man with a gun.”
“You did it very bravely, too,” said Magda firmly, and Irena led a minichorus of approval.
“Killing those two poor girls was unforgivable,” added Mrs. Walburg.
“Mikhel Czerny was not a ‘poor girl,’” stated Eva Zilinsky loudly. “Many in Hungary are not sorry to have him removed from the pages of the Budapest Times.”
“A harsh way to go,” said Friedlander, reaching for more caviar. “So that story about Conti being poisoned was not true?”
It was not a story that had received wide circulation on the train, and the details had to be explained. “We had investigated him,” said Kramer, “and found many gaps in his background—”
“But it wasn’t really him,” objected Henri Larouge. “Hadn’t he taken the identity of a real agent of the Amici della Uva?” I realized that as a Frenchman and involved in the wine business, Larouge might well be one of the few who knew anything about that organization.
“He must have realized that the identity he had assumed made him suspicious,” said Kramer. “Taking a reduced dose of the poisonous herb himself was, he hoped, a way of removing suspicion.”
A phalanx of white-uniformed waiters approached, and a concert group struck up some cheerful music that sounded like Georg Enesco, the Romanian composer. Several of Bucharest’s top restaurants had combined to present the meal, and, when the next course appeared, my advisor on matters Romanian, Irena Koslova, explained. “The Greeks introduced this dish to the region. They are called Mezes, and a similar word is found in many other languages.” It consisted of a bean salad, baked aubergine, raw carrots, and tomatoes, various cheeses, ham, and small sausages.
“It is not very different,” said Irena apologetically, “but then cooking in Bucharest cannot be compared to Paris.”
We were given a choice of main courses. Irena chose Ratusca, roast duck. It looked superb, cooked to a golden brown and with a crispy skin. It was served with dumplings—”very popular in Romania,” said Irena. Magda Malescu ordered grilled trout. “I know it’s not specifically Romanian,” she said, “but I like it.”
“I will have something Romanian,” declared Kramer and asked for the Chicken Givech. It was cooked with onions, garlic, red peppers, mushrooms, and zucchini. I chose the lamb marinated in vinegar and red wine. It was served with noodles in garlic sauce.
We had a discussion on Romanian wine and everyone knew enough to agree that it was time some official backing was given to wine development.
“Our delivery of the vines today may well be the first step in such a program,” stated Brenner.
“I think it was wonderful the way you two fought to save them,” said Eva Zilinsky, and proposed a toast to Kramer and me. “Pofta buna,” she said, and we all echoed it in a variety of bad accents. She went on to Kramer, “I missed something when I was watching it on television. When you answered your phone, what was being said?”
“I had to keep Conti from knowing,” Kramer explained, “so I kept my answers simple. Thomas—in charge of the communication center, had alerted Herr Brenner that something was wrong. Herr Brenner’s first question was—‘Is there a problem?’ I answered ‘yes.’ Then he asked, ‘Should we take any action?’ and I said ‘No.’ As I hoped, these satisfied Conti.”
Kramer turned to me. “One thing you have not explained to me,” he said, lowering his voice, “is that cryptic message to Switzerland. I gave you a reply this morning that Thomas had received, so I suppose you can now clarify?”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “The message went to an old friend who is an authority on wine. Emil is retired now but acts as a consultant, and little happens in the wine business that escapes him. First, I said in the message, ‘Before you drink your next glass of Pinot Noir—’ That’s sort of a code, Emil doesn’t like Pinot Noir, so he knows the message is really from me. Then I asked for a physical description of ADU 121. ‘ADU’ means Amici della Uva, of course, and 121 are the numbers on the b
adge on Conti’s jacket. Emil’s message said the agent who carries that number weighs sixty-six kilos, is 170 centimeters tall, has gray eyes, and gray hair—that converts to 145 pounds and five feet eight inches tall.”
“Obviously not Conti!” said Kramer.
“That’s right.”
“A pity that message did not arrive earlier,” Kramer said drily.
“It is,” I agreed.
“So you were suspicious of him?”
“Not especially, but when Elisha Tabor was found poisoned with the same drug as Svarovina, I began to wonder more about the attempt on Conti. The poisoner was so efficient in killing the two women—why was he was so inefficient with Conti and didn’t give him enough to kill him?”
“Logical,” Kramer nodded. He liked logic. “Now what does the second part of the answering message mean?”
“The second question I asked was ‘Potential cargo buyer besides original?’ That meant ‘Is there someone else who might want the cargo of vines on board the Danube Express?’”
“This Emil knew where you were?”
“Point of origin would be shown on the e-mail, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, of course,” Kramer admitted. “And the answer was—?”
“Emil gave me the name of a vineyard that is large and well-known worldwide but has had recent weather problems. They have been involved in a few shady deals and would be likely to pay someone like Conti handsomely to steal these vines. They are wealthy as well as unscrupulous.”
“I see,” said Kramer. “That is the opposite of what we were thinking, is it not? We were pondering the possibility of another country wanting to prevent the shipment arriving.”
“Yes, and the more I thought about that, the less reasonable it seemed. So I turned the question around—it then became, not who wanted to stop the shipment arriving but who would want to get hold of the shipment.”
“Logical again,” Kramer said. “What will you do about it? Should I—”
“Let me pull a few strings through the Amici della Uva. This is their kind of problem. Let them see what connections they might be able to find between this vineyard and Conti. The ADU will probably contact you for further information.”
“Very good,” Kramer said. “I fear that the part of the investigation that we must continue will reveal that the real Conti is dead—killed by this man who took his place.”
“I am afraid that must be so.”
“Now,” said Kramer, “I will have another glass of this excellent—what is it?” He waved to the wine waiter and examined the label. “Ah, yes, Feteasca Alba.”
“One of the best of our Romanian white wines,” the waiter told him.
“The country is about to make great efforts to improve the quality of its wines,” said Erich Brenner. “Under the Soviet regime, they were obliged to concentrate their vineyard production on the sweet wines—which the Russians prefer. Now they are going to be producing drier wines, and I anticipate that they will make real progress in the world wine market.”
Irena leaned toward me. “I heard your discussion with Herr Kramer. I thought these were just a bunch of vines—are they really so special?”
“Yes, they are. They had to have been very carefully selected as resistant to Phylloxera, and they would need resistance to every known disease and virus as well as insects. They would have been grafted on to traditional vinifera vines, and this hybridization process would require time and skill. They must be very special.”
When we left the palace, I managed to arrange to move near Irena. “I suppose you are going home now. Are you glad to be back in Bucharest?”
“Oh, yes, but it has been a wonderful journey. I didn’t expect that much excitement though.”
“None of us did.”
Her eyes sparkled in the orange streetlamps. Taxis came and went. We stood there.
“You remember when I said I wasn’t sure which direction my compartment was in the train?” she asked. “You said you would walk me there.”
“I will never forget it.”
“So don’t you think it is only fair if I walk you to your hotel?”
“I’m all for fairness,” I assured her.
She linked her arm through mine. “Let’s go.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2003 by Peter King
cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7730-0 (ePub)
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