The Secret of the Night Train

by Sylvia Bishop

  By now it was getting late, and Max had promised not to be long, so she hurried home through the dark familiar streets. She said goodbyes as she ran: to the tree with a trunk like a face, to the shop with the best pain au chocolat, to her favourite house with its poppy-red shutters, to the distant Eiffel Tower that came in and out of sight as she ran, to her school playground and the post office and the cinema and the statue of an angel with the face all rubbed off.

  As she raced round a corner into the Avenue de la Pompe, five minutes from her house, the soft street lamps were suddenly replaced by harsh blue light, flashing on and off. There was a cluster of police cars, and police offers were standing around importantly, and hurrying in and out of a grey hulk of a building. The building was just like all the others on the street, but it seemed somehow extra familiar – and then Max realized, with a shock, that it was the vault from the news, the one with the diamonds so important that they had to be locked away and not looked at.

  She was very curious to know what was going on, but the way that the police officers were making notes and muttering into walkie-talkies reminded her of her mother tidying, and she thought she had better not ask questions. For a minute she lingered, trying to pick up clues, but a policewoman noticed and shooed her away. So she left the pulsing blue, and ran home double-fast to make up for lost time. There wasn’t time for chocolat and the attic before dinner, so she scribbled her notes hastily at the kitchen table:

  Something going on again at the big vaults on Avenue de la Pompe. Lots of police and everyone looking very worried. A theft? No one would tell me. I have bought a new brown travelling case with creamy silk on the inside and tomorrow I leave for ISTANBUL.

  While she was scribbling, her great-aunt called to check that there were no problems, and to say again how pleased she was, and to remind Max’s mother to make sure that Max had packed enough jumpers and was definitely going to wear the horrible hat and had snacks for the journey and so on. The tinkling of her voice sounded kind.

  Then there was dinner as usual, and coffee as usual, and the evening news as usual, and at last it was time to pack. Max packed her new notebook and her old one, with the maps and notes on Munich-Budapest-Bucharest-Istanbul. She packed her clothes and washbag and hairbrush and the book she was reading. She double-checked everything. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, watching the street lamp outside her window blink on and off, and she felt a bit peculiar. She went downstairs to see what everyone else was up to, but they were all busy preparing for meetings or studying chessboards or being-too-old-for-things, so she came back upstairs again. There was nothing else to do, so she changed into her pyjamas, and went to bed.

  That night, she dreamt. The dreams were the messy sort that never really decide what they are about – she was running on and off trains, and trying to best a nun at an impossible game of chess, and searching everywhere for her red armchair in the attic, which always seemed to be just around the corner. Everything was washed in blue light, pulsing on and off, on and off. Eventually she woke herself up with worry, and by then it was dawn outside, and she was too hungry and alert to sleep again.

  Suddenly, she was afraid to leave.

  It was a feeling without words or shape, but it covered her all over, like being soaked in cold water. She missed her home, and she hadn’t even left it yet. She missed the way that things happened at the same time every day, and she missed the heavy curtains and dim lamps and soft carpets, and she missed her own armchair with the skylight overhead.

  Just lying there made the feeling worse, so she got up, put on her slippers, and went up to the attic. “I want to go,” she told herself, “and I won’t feel homesick.” The sky outside was turning silver, and as she watched it lighten, she began to feel slightly steadier. “Munich,” she whispered. “Budapest. Bucharest. Istanbul.”

  But by the time Sister Marguerite arrived, she was still feeling the strange cold-water fear. When she heard the doorbell, something inside her twisted sharply. She picked up her case and went downstairs to meet her chaperone.

  To be honest, Sister Marguerite was not one hundred per cent reassuring. She somehow just looked like the sort of person who would always be tripping over things and missing trains and getting lost and so on. She was enormously tall, with miles of grey sock sticking out underneath her habit, and her wimple framed a long, lopsided face with an even longer nose. Max wasn’t sure how you were meant to wear a wimple, but she was pretty sure that Sister Marguerite had got it wrong.

  “This is Maximilienne,” said Max’s mother; and Marguerite broke into an enormous smile, as if Max was exactly what she had been hoping for.

  “Of course she is! Ready to go, mon lapin?” (Mon lapin is French for “my rabbit”, and it’s quite a nice thing to call someone, if you happen to be French.)

  Max nodded.

  “Now, be good, Maximilienne,” said her mother. “Remember, your great-aunt is very elderly. And she’s not used to the Ways of Children.” And she added a third scarf to the two that Max was already wearing, and untangled the scarves from her plaits; which was her way of saying, “I love you, be safe.”

  “Goodness me,” said Marguerite. “How alarming. I hope she’s used to the Ways of Nuns.”

  Max’s mother smiled politely, but it was wasted, because the nun was already marching towards the door in a billow of habit. She threw it open, and turned to salute Max’s mother.

  “Istanbul calling!” she announced. “Au revoir, Madame Morel!” And without waiting around for any further ado, she strode away down the street at a powerful speed.

  Max gave her mother a hug goodbye, and reminded herself that it was exciting, and not terrible-and-horrifying, to be off on an adventure to Munich-Budapest-Bucharest-Istanbul. She took a deep breath, held on to her plaits, and scurried down the Rue de Vie after Sister Marguerite.

  “Thought you weren’t coming for a minute there,” said Marguerite with a grin. “You OK? Got everything you need?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Incorrect, mon lapin,” Marguerite declared triumphantly. “The first rule of travelling is: you have always left something behind.” And she chuckled to herself, as if this was a very good and unexpected joke.

  They turned a corner, and Max’s house was out of sight.

  Munich, Max thought to steady herself. Budapest. Bucharest. Istanbul.

  An hour later Max and Sister Marguerite were sitting on the TGV Duplex train at the Gare de l’Est, Paris, waiting to set off for Munich Hauptbahnhof. The TGV Duplex was a double-decker train, and Max had a top-deck seat. From here, she watched as people heaved their suitcases up the platform, and hugged each other goodbye; and watched as latecomers pounded up to the train, red-faced and puffing; and watched as the platform emptied, leaving only an official in a bright orange jacket behind. Then she watched the emptiness for a long time, waiting for the train to pull out of the station. But it didn’t. It was late.

  Max still didn’t feel right. Now that she was leaving Paris, she was all knotted up with a strange feeling – something a bit like being scared, and a bit like being sad, but not quite either of them. In her mind, Pierre rolled his eyes and said “I told you”; and Max tried imagining challenging him to a butter-knife duel across the dining-room table, but that made her think of home, and she felt even worse. She knew her maman was busy, but it would have been nice if she had been able to come and wave her off.

  I just have to think about something else, she thought. Just to get through the hard part.

  Sister Marguerite, meanwhile, had decided that now was a good time to fix her left shoe. She had produced a huge wood-handled leather needle and a bag of threads from her habit (along with two packets of crisps, a newspaper, a jar of jelly beans, and – Max tried not to stare – a houseplant for their table), selected a thick blue thread from the bag, taken off the shoe, and spent the last five minutes stabbing stitches through the leather and humming to herself. Max had a feeling that if she tapped her on the e
lbow and said, “I’m feeling a bit homesick,” Marguerite would stop stitching at once and say something cheerful. But if she said that out loud, then Pierre would be proved right.

  So Max pressed her nose to the window, and didn’t say anything. The minutes rolled on, and on, and still the train waited in the station. Passengers who had come in twos or threes muttered complaints to their friends, and passengers who had come alone raised their eyebrows at each other over the tops of books and newspapers. The muttering and eyebrow-raising grew and grew, and still the train didn’t move. Back home it would be time for chocolat and notes, but Max couldn’t have any chocolat, so she just got out her notebook. And that did make her feel a bit better.

  She saw her entry from the day before, and picked up Sister Marguerite’s newspaper, to see if she could solve the mystery of the police on the Avenue de la Pompe. She didn’t have to look far: it had made the front page. While people around her muttered more and more at the delay, and her stomach did strange jumbling-abouts, Max tried to ignore it all and concentrate on the paper:

  “HEARTBREAK DIAMOND” STOLEN IN LATEST PHANTOM ATTACK

  Police confirmed last night that they have discovered the theft of the so-called heartbreak diamond from a top-security vault in central Paris. A substitute “diamond” was left in the vault, and it is not known when the real diamond was removed. In a statement on behalf of the police force, Commandant Le Goff told the Paris Gazette that the theft is thought to be the work of the infamous “Phantoms”.

  The heartbreak diamond is only two inches in length, and shaped roughly like a heart. It is a red diamond, but divided exactly in the centre by a streak of white diamond. It is the only known case of such a jewel in the world.

  The diamond’s strange appearance is not the only reason for its romantic name. Legend has it that this diamond has never been owned by one person for more than three years without moving on. Some of its owners have lost the diamond to thieves, fires and floods; others lost their fortunes and were forced to sell; and one simply woke up to find the diamond gone. But the diamond’s reputation as a heartbreaker has only increased its intrigue and value for jewel collectors.

  This is the ninth high-profile theft by the so-called Phantoms. They have earned their name by stealing diamonds without damaging locks or breaking safes, as if they can pass through walls. Only one of their operations has ever been foiled, when German police intercepted phone conversations and were able to recover a valuable tiara.

  The group are believed to operate from Istanbul. Police have advised that the diamond is likely to be transferred to their headquarters, and are working closely with the Turkish police to monitor all routes into the city.

  True to form, the Phantoms have managed to steal the diamond without leaving a trace. “It’s amazing,” said Stephan Dupont, manager of Fort, the security firm in charge of the vaults. “I’m amazed.”

  “I’m really feeling a lot of amazement,” he added.

  M. Dupont went on to stress that the security of the vaults is “absolutely top class, top notch, top banana, seriously,” and urged people not to panic. Nonetheless, jewel collectors across Europe are expressing grave concern for the safety of their prized possessions, and many are taking steps to move their most valuable jewels to new secret locations.

  This is the second incident at the Fort Vaults this fortnight. Three masked robbers attacked the vaults last Wednesday, but were quickly apprehended before they were able to remove anything.

  Max looked at the photo of the diamond, which seemed to wink from the page, as if it was pleased to have made its escape. Strange to think that it, too, was travelling to Istanbul. What sort of person, Max wondered, was a diamond thief? She tried imagining that she was a thief, the tiny diamond winking in her pocket while police hunted all over Paris.

  And then, as if she had imagined them into life, there were police on the platform. They burst on to the cold grey emptiness quite suddenly, and fanned out, one to each door of the train. From Max’s high-up seat they seemed to move silently, like shadows in their black uniforms. They were so exactly like Max’s daydream that she felt her heart flutter nervously in her stomach, and she had to remind herself that they weren’t really looking for her.

  While most of the shadows guarded the train doors, three of them boarded, at the other end of the train to Max. She looked around the carriage: no one else had noticed. They were all too busy muttering and looking at their watches and putting up their eyebrows. But the next moment, the intercom crackled into life, and everybody stopped muttering and put their eyebrows down again to listen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the driver, “we are experiencing a slight delay.”

  “We know,” muttered someone. A few people shh-ed him. They shh-ed so loudly that other people had to shh the shh-ers. There were a few seconds of general shh pandemonium.

  “Police have reason to believe,” the voice went on, “that a valuable object is being smuggled on this train. All bags will need to be inspected, and we must ask for your full cooperation. We may be here some time.” The intercom crackled off, then back on again, and the driver added, “Sorry about that.”

  There was a froth of muttering up and down the carriage, as people agreed with each other that the driver did not sound nearly sorry enough. Max took her brown case out from under her feet and hugged it to her chest. A valuable item on board … could it be?

  They were right at the far end of the train, and Max had to wait a long time for anything more to happen. The shadows guarding the doors never moved. While they waited Max and Marguerite got through most of the jelly beans the nun had brought, and Marguerite explained to Max all about how you sew the welt of a shoe to its sole, and they did half the crossword in the newspaper, and the muttering from the other passengers grew ever more mutinous.

  At last, there was a tut-PFFFfff behind them. It sounded so much like a tut and a sigh that Max turned around, half-expecting to see her mother; but it was just the sound of the automatic door. And the person who came in was very much not her mother.

  He was dressed in a smarter black uniform than the people on the platform, with a long black coat, and a face like a serious egg. Two ordinary officers stood behind him. He cleared his throat and held up a shiny badge.

  “Police,” he said, unnecessarily. “Bags, please.” And he began walking up the carriage, inspecting bags and asking questions. The other two officers helped out by staring meaningfully at people, coughing importantly, and occasionally writing in notebooks.

  Max stared at them. “What do you think they’re looking for?” she whispered to Marguerite.

  “Precisely what I would like to know, mon lapin,” said Sister Marguerite, with enormous satisfaction. “We shall have to ask.”

  Max looked uncertainly at the serious-egg man, who was advancing up the aisle. He didn’t look like the sort of person you were meant to ask questions. Something in the set of this man’s jaw told her that uncertainties of any kind were not allowed anywhere near him.

  But Sister Marguerite was not going to be put off by a firm jaw and a passing likeness to an egg.

  “Good evening, mon chou,” she said, as he approached their seats. “This is all very exciting. What are you looking for?”

  Mon chou is French for “my cabbage”. Surprisingly, it is actually quite a nice thing to call someone; but normally someone that you know very well, not stern police officers. The policeman’s jaw got even firmer, and the other two officers stared very meaningfully indeed.

  “A stolen item,” he said stiffly. “I am Commandant Le Goff,” he added, to avoid any more chou business.

  “Bless you,” said Sister Marguerite. “What kind of stolen item, exactly?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Sister,” said the Commandant, running an impatient hand through Marguerite’s bag, then reaching out a hand for Max’s. Max thought he seemed faintly bored by the whole situation. But if he was really Commandant Le Goff, then
she had just read his name in the newspaper; and that just might mean that something very un-boring was under way.

  She handed over her case, and decided that if Sister Marguerite could ask questions, she could too. “Are you looking for the heartbreak diamond?” she asked.

  Commandant Le Goff paused mid-reach, leaving his hand to flap around foolishly in mid-air. One of the officers started to nod, but the other one kicked him. “How – ahrrrrm,” said Le Goff. “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Oh, excellent guess, Max! Yes, I read all about that. It was in the papers,” said Sister Marguerite, pointing at the newspaper on their table. The Commandant looked where she pointed, and raised his eyebrows at the houseplant, but didn’t answer. By now he had recovered enough to take Max’s case and start wafting his hand around in it. Max couldn’t help thinking that if she was looking for stolen diamonds, she would do a slightly more thorough job. But Commandant Le Goff seemed keen to move on.

  Marguerite was not giving in that easily. “How do you know it’s on our little train, then?”

  “We’ve had an anonymous tip-off. But I wouldn’t get overexcited, madame. These people are normally time-wasters.”

  “Really?” said Sister Marguerite. “That seems a bit harsh. Surely we can be a bit excited. Will it go all the way to Istanbul by train, do you think?”

  Commandant Le Goff snapped Max’s case shut. “Good day, Sister. Good day, mademoiselle.” The other two officers took their cue, and shuffled forward to stare meaningfully at the next row of people.

  “Is that all?” Marguerite exclaimed. “The heartbreak diamond is tiny. I could be hiding it in my wimple.”

  The Commandant’s egg face was starting to twitch a bit, as though it might hatch at any moment. “That will be all,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t want to double-check the wimple?”

  “Really,” said the Commandant irritably, “I think the wimple is neither here nor there.” And he moved on to check the bags of nice, normal people who didn’t bother him with questions and unusual headwear.