Dine and Die on the Danube Express (9 page)

“Herr Kramer asked me because I work with Scotland Yard.”

Her eyes widened still more.

“Scotland Yard!”

“Yes.”

“So you are looking into this strange matter involving Magda Malescu?”

“You know about it?”

“Everyone on the train knows about it,” she said scornfully.

“What do you know?”

“It is said that she has disappeared. It is also said that she has been murdered.”

“What do you think has happened?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I am interested in the viewpoint of every person on the train. Someone may have noticed some tiny clue that does not seem important to them but may have meaning to a trained investigator.”

I was exaggerating a bit, but it was in a good cause.

She remembered her vodka and took another sip, a large one. “One of her lovers probably murdered her in a fit of jealousy. She has so many, though, it will probably be impossible for you to find out which one.”

No vote of confidence here. I would have to work on changing that.

“It is not certain that she has been murdered,” I said. “She has disappeared also. Maybe one of her lovers has kidnapped her so that he can keep her for himself.”

“H’m.” She thought about that then said, a little wistfully, “It must be nice to be loved that much.”

“I would appreciate it if you would say nothing of what I have told you.” I squeezed a strain of officialdom into the words. The unfortunate citizens of the East European countries, grasped by the yoke of Communism for so long, have become inculcated with the power of the official. I didn’t want to intimidate her, but I believed that I could count on her discretion. To help make my statement more palatable, I added, “I may ask for your viewpoint—as a woman, I mean—on this investigation. Fraulein Malescu is not a woman who is easy to understand.”

She smiled tantalizingly. “I’m sure that many men have reached that conclusion. Do you personally find many women easy to understand?”

“I suppose not. Perhaps the next will be the first.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said, and held out her glass to touch against mine.

“I hope you’ll be at my table for dinner tonight in Vienna,” I said.

She pouted, shrugged, smiled. I took her reactions as a yes, or at least as a maybe.

L
ONG, GLEAMING BLACK LIMOUSINES
flying the flags of Germany, Austria, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, and Romania whisked us from Vienna’s
Westbahnhof
through the busy downtown area of the city to the Hotel Imperial. It wasn’t exactly a sight-seeing tour, but Henryk Sundvall was in the same limousine with me and pointed out several landmarks on the way, including the age-blackened labyrinth of mansions, palaces, and public buildings known as the
Hofburg.

From that complex, we drove through the covered tunnel and into the large square called the Michaelerplatz and past acres of beautiful gardens. We curled on to the famous Ringstrasse or, as the Viennese call it, simply “the Ring.” We cruised past red Viennese trolley cars and the professor kept up his running commentary on buildings and historical sights so enthusiastically that he looked positively dismayed when we reached our destination.

The Hotel Imperial evokes immediate thoughts of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Strauss waltzes. It is two blocks from the
Staatsoper,
the State Opera House, and one block from the
Musikverein,
the music association building, and has a long history of visits from famous names. Wagner stayed there, writing much of
Tannhauser
and
Lohengrin
during that time. The names of Domingo, Caballe, Carreras, Fonteyn, Furtwängler, and von Karajan are intertwined with that of the Imperial, said Sundvall.

The Swede also reminded us that the hotel was built in 1869 and was already renowned when the Nazis commandeered it as their headquarters in World War II and the Russian Army followed suit in 1945. The restoration of Austria’s independence returned it to its former glory.

It looked the part without a doubt. On the staircase leading up from the glittering salons are archways supported by statues of gods and goddesses along with two magnificent portraits of Emperor Franz Josef and his wife Elizabeth. Polished red, black, and yellow marble make a startling background to the crystal chandeliers, the Gobelin tapestries, and the Persian rugs.

Our banquet room was not the largest but an intimate chamber with murals of mythical heroes and unicorns, oval mirrors and gilt everywhere. The chairs had red satin upholstery and white-and-gold paint.

I found Irena’s name plate at the same table as mine, but it was located three chairs away and my attempt to correct that and put us side by side was thwarted by other guests moving in swiftly—all evidently anxious for the all-Austrian meal we were promised.

The meal began with a cheese-and-spinach strudel, and the creamed cottage cheese that is customarily used in such a dish was enlivened by the addition of feta cheese. Salmon mousse on very thin pumpernickel toast followed.

Next to me was an effervescent woman who introduced herself as Eva Zilinsky. “Viennese?” I guessed, but she shook an expertly coiffured head. “I know Vienna well,” she told me, “but I am not from there.” I waited, but she did not enlighten me. Her accent was vaguely Central European, but half a dozen languages stirred together and permutated by a score of dialects in each one and blended further made any guess a futile conjecture.

Spargelkremsuppe
followed. The Germans and the Austrians both love asparagus, and its preparation in this cream soup was kept simple, with no frills. All at the table approved heartily. My companion told me that Bavaria made the best
Spargelkremsuppe.
“You recall it from your childhood?” I hazarded.

“I have never lived there,” she said, “except for short periods.”

“Where have you lived?” I asked.

“Almost everywhere in Europe—oh, and some other places, too.”

She was probably in her forties, but she had clearly spent a lot of time and money avoiding getting beyond the forties. Face-lifts and other surgical cosmetic operations had kept her face young and attractive though some features were a little hard. She was tall and slim though her breast development was admirable and surely the result of surgical augmentation. Her silver-and-crimson gown was probably one of the most expensive Milan could offer.

She must have sensed that I was going to continue asking questions until I got some satisfaction. She leaned toward me—bringing a small cloud of ‘Pure Passion’ with her—and said, “My father was in the Diplomatic Corps. I traveled extensively with him.”

Stuffed Breast of Veal with Buttered Chestnuts was served with Braised Fennel and small boiled potatoes with watercress and tarragon. Brandy and Gruyère cheese were just discernible in the stuffing, and the veal was succulent.

“This is the way I like food,” commented Eva, and others agreed.

“Avoiding frills and fancies is the way to enjoy Austrian food at its best,” said Friedlander, who had not hitherto appeared to be anything of a food critic.

A
Wachau Gruner Veltliner
wine was served. It is one of the best white wines to come out of the Austrian vineyards although it is not well-known because it is best when consumed young. It is seldom exported and does not travel well, so we all agreed that this was
Veltliner
at its best. It was delicate but with a pronounced flavor and aroma and although not considered a sparkling wine, it nonetheless causes a faint prickling on the tongue. Some wine connoisseurs turn away from such young wines, but when served with uncomplicated food, they are extremely enjoyable.

In keeping with the rest of the meal, a dessert was served that could be declared prosaic but was far from ordinary. It was also as typically Austrian as a Strauss waltz. It was the world famous
Salzburger Knockerl.

Eva sighed dramatically. “I suppose it had to be. Oh, I know it’s famous, but isn’t it a little too touristy?”

“The most renowned dishes of every country have come in danger of being called ‘touristy,’” I said. “It’s the price we pay for making travel accessible to so many people.”

“What a shame!” Eva said. She leaned back, looking just like a character in a Noel Coward play.

“A few decades ago, you would have been traveling on the Orient Express,” I told her.

“I would,” she agreed immediately. “Now why do you think I would have been doing so? Carrying diplomatic secrets in my handbag? On my way to a rendezvous in Istanbul?”

“More likely you would be on the train to cajole secrets out of a helpless courier,” I suggested.

“Cajole? H’m,” she said contemptuously. “I would like to think that I could do better than that.”

“Seduction, you mean? Well, the Orient Express certainly had a reputation for that.”

“It did. Mata Hari was a frequent traveler on it, you know.”

This promising line of conversation was unfortunately interrupted by the arrival of waiters with dishes lined up on both arms …

A soufflé must always be treated as something special. The success of the dish depends largely on the egg whites being beaten to exactly the right stiffness. Folding the yolks into the beaten whites is also tricky. The milk needs to be just the right temperature, and the dish must be removed from the oven after a carefully measured baking time—and as if all these precautions were not enough—
Salzburger Knockerl
must be served immediately. Banquets, obviously, challenge the kitchen on this last point.

This
Knocked
was perfection. The first two mouthfuls asserted that. I am sure that succeeding mouthfuls would have confirmed it but I was never to know …

A waiter bent close to my ear. “Pardon me, sir, but Herr Kramer wishes to speak with you. The matter is urgent.”

He led me to the security chief, who was standing by the curtained doorway. “I am sorry to disturb you during such an excellent meal,” he said, “but we must return to the train immediately. Come!”

At the entrance two commissionaires, attired as commodores in the Ruritanian Navy and heavy with gilt and braid, had cordoned off a parking space by the curb, and, at a signal from one of them, a police car swept deftly into position, and we climbed in.

We were promptly whirled into the maelstrom of Vienna evening traffic. “What’s the emergency?” I asked Kramer.

“As soon as all the passengers were off the train, we commenced a thorough search of all the public areas. We found no sign of Fraulein Malescu, and I came on here alone, leaving the stewards to check the compartments. I just received a call saying that a woman’s body has been discovered in one of them.”

“Oh, no!” I said involuntarily. The sudden image of that vibrant star as a dead body was as much of a shock as if I had known her well. A dozen memories of her films flashed through my mind. “How did she die?” I asked.

“As soon as I heard this, I told the head steward to do nothing, touch nothing until we arrived there.”

We were both silent, each with his own thoughts, as the police driver wove swiftly and expertly through the dense traffic. In minutes, we stopped and were crossing the platform where the Austrian railroad police had several men on duty. The door of the nearest coach was open, and Kramer hurried in while I was close behind.

“Ah, Heinlein,” Kramer called out as a steward approached us. He had an extra strip of gold braid on the epaulets of his uniform, and Kramer confirmed my guess. “Heinlein is our head steward. He has been with the DS Bahn for—how long is it now, Heinlein? Forty years?”

“Forty-three,
Meinherr
.” He was a stalwart-looking man, with a steady gaze, a spare frame, and a resolute chin. Like most of the other stewards, he had the bearing of a former military man, and it was likely that the railroad chose such men on the basis of their records.

He took us along the corridor and produced a key. He stopped before a compartment door. Kramer asked the question a fraction of a second before I did, both of us still staring at the gilded number on the door.

“
This
compartment?”

It was the compartment of Magda Malescu.

“Yes,
Meinherr
,” said Heinlein.

Kramer made a helpless gesture but turned it into a wave to Heinlein to unlock the door.

“No one has been in or touched anything, as you instructed, Herr Kramer.” He stepped aside, and Kramer and I entered.

Female clothing was strewn around. A black skirt, a shoe, and a stocking were on the couch; the other shoe was across the room near the entrance to the bedroom. Kramer led the way, and we both paused at the bedroom door.

The body lay sprawled across the bed, arms and legs outstretched. A silvery gray blouse and another stocking were on the carpeted floor, and a black brassiere was on a chair.

Kramer and I went to the bed. The body showed no sign of life. She lay on her back, but her head was nowhere near the elaborate pillow. She wore a flimsy, almost transparent robe of a light silvery color, and on her feet was a pair of fluffy slippers.

“She looks different,” I said, and I heard my own voice, hushed in the presence of death.

“It is true,” said Kramer. “She does.”

Magda Malescu looked younger and totally vulnerable. She wore no makeup, and her face was smooth and unblemished. She looked, somehow, more feminine. No visual evidence of the cause of death could be seen, and though we both looked carefully around the bedroom, nothing appeared out of place, and there was nothing that should not have been there. Kramer prowled around. “We left everything as it was when we found Fraulein Malescu missing,” he said. “Nothing seems to have been changed.”

“Do you notice an aroma?” I asked Kramer.

He sniffed. “Perfume.”

The bathroom was untidy. A score of cosmetic items were in front of the ornate mirror, bottles of various colors and sizes, most of them opened. She was evidently a big user of towels—one was over the shower door, another half in the bathtub, another on the bathroom floor, and yet another by the sink. She was also a user of hair dyes, several opened bottles of brown, black, red, and various shades in between stood there. I looked in the waste basket—often a source of valuable information—but I could see nothing that looked like a clue.