Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “I understand your concerns, chérie, I really do,” Burke said. And he did. Hélène had suffered terrible anxiety two years before when his curiosity had landed him in hospital with near-fatal injuries. “I promise to just try this one idea and then I’ll tell the police what I know, if anything.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ll write a blog or two, disclosing the usual routine stuff, and then I’ll let the flics do the rest.”

  “And that’ll be all?”

  Burke nodded.

  “I hope so,” Hélène said.

  They talked a little about when they’d meet again and that seemed to ease Hélène’s mind. Since Burke would be riding with the team-building group to Tulln, it wouldn’t be until mid-afternoon. Hélène had a reservation at a hotel not far from where the ship would dock and within 300 metres of the Donaubühne stage. Thanks to Delisle who had heard about her culinary expertise, she would be traveling on the Sunna to Tulln, working with her uncle in the kitchen. She wouldn’t be paid, which Hélène was fine with, but she could help the tour group and her uncle.

  “OK, I’ll see you later,” Burke said, bending to kiss Hélène.

  “You will,” she said, trying to look stern but failing to hold her frown. “Please be careful and don’t do anything foolish. No risks.”

  Burke thought his next step was hardly risky, but he didn’t say that. He just agreed with Hélène’s wishes.

  Twenty minutes later, he was in the Sunna’s dining room, grabbing a coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs, toast and fruit. He took a spot at a vacant table ̶ since it was 7 a.m., there were only a handful of people in the room which wouldn’t get busy for another hour ̶ and waited. When he saw Carmen Moreau walk in, he motioned for her to join him.

  “Before you get your food, I want to ask you something.”

  Moreau sat.

  “You’ve been taking all kinds of photos and video of the group since we started. Do you still have all of them on your tablet or someplace close by?”

  “I’ve got them on my tablet, my laptop and on the Cloud.”

  “Good. I wonder if I can look at some photos and some video.”

  “Why?”

  “First, it’s important you don’t tell anyone what I’m asking you to do.”

  Moreau frowned. Despite her intense look, Burke thought many people would describe her as beautiful. But when it came to the men in the inner circle of the team-building group, not one had hit on her. Maybe they were all loyal to their spouses, but Burke wondered if it wasn’t something else that kept them from her.

  “Why are you being so secretive, Paul? Are you going to do something illegal or unethical?”

  “Not at all. I just have an idea that one of those photos or videos might be useful in knowing who might have killed Bennett Blake.”

  Moreau glanced around and then leaned forward. “You know who the murderer is?”

  Burke hoped that trusting her would prove a wise decision. If he judged her wrong, she could make his life difficult – and maybe put him at risk. “No, but I have a couple of ideas.”

  “Didn’t you help solve some murders back in France? I think I heard someone mention it when we started planning the trip.”

  “I might have contributed some useful information”

  Moreau nodded. She studied Burke for several moments before answering. “If what you’re asking isn’t illegal or unethical, is it something that’s dangerous?”

  Burke liked Moreau. She was bright, efficient and pleasant. He didn’t want to lie to her. “To be totally honest, I don’t think so, but it depends on us not letting others know what I want to do. If you help me on this, we have to keep it to ourselves because if word gets around the ship about what I’m doing, it might be dangerous.”

  “If you find anything, will you tell the police?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Moreau glanced around the room once more. Then she turned back to Burke and nodded. “I’ll help you. If the murderer is still on board the ship, the quicker the person is caught, the safer everyone is.”

  Burke thanked her and they agreed to get together later in the afternoon in Tulln. Burke said he would likely need just a half hour.

  “That’s good because Monsieur Delisle has a busy day planned for me.”

  Burke had a hunch the day was also going to be an eventful one.

  Chapter 51

  Renata Hable outlined the day’s objective: To be consistent from start to finish, riding at the same pace once they were out of Krems, regardless of the terrain which for the most part would be flat. The aim was to keep at 25 km/h, never going more than one km/h outside that speed. Each cyclist would take a one-minute turn leading the group before drifting back.

  “We know that consistency produces results not just in cycling, but in most aspects of life – including business. If you say what you’ll do and then do what you say, your credibility and your reputation will grow.”

  Burke looked around. Everyone was paying attention, more so than on earlier outings. He wondered why since Hable’s pep talk hadn’t been that stirring and her theme was hardly unique. He wondered if the participants were going through some attitude changes brought on by the tragedies of recent days.

  Once she was finished, they set out, led by Hable with the two accompanying police motorcycles ahead of her. Burke brought up the rear, noticing how quickly the group got into a decent formation. As they passed some kind of chemical company and a large movie-theatre complex on the east edge of Krems, he glanced at the speedometer on his handlebars. They were doing exactly 25 km/h. And when they crossed the bridge over the Altenwörth power station, they kept the same pace. Burke was impressed. They hadn’t gone outside that 24-26 km/h range once. Most of the time, they had been right on 25 km/h.

  The group was obviously focused, maybe more than on any other leg of the tour route. There was virtually no discussion except the occasion “well done” to a rider who had finished a turn leading the peloton. Even Kendall Young, usually the group’s weakest rider, was flawless in executing Hable’s instructions.

  After 90 minutes, Hable motioned for the group to stop at a large, wooden hut that was really a rustic café for cyclists and walkers since the path was closed to motorized vehicles. “Well done, everyone, well done,” she called out as she dismounted.

  The hut, located in a small forest maybe 50 metres from the Danube, had a couple of cyclists sitting at the counter, drinking beer. The hut’s half-dozen tables, each with four chairs, were vacant.

  Moreau had arranged for sandwiches and beverages to be provided at the hut. As soon as the riders sat down at the tables, one of the servers came out with two platters loaded with all kinds of sandwiches, wraps and finger food, saying she’d return in a minute with another two trays.

  “You’ve worked hard and you’ve worked well,” Hable told everyone.

  Still standing, she applauded the group. Burke joined in. A moment later everyone was clapping and sharing high-fives. Such a happy group, Burke thought. Too bad one of them could be a murderer.

  The other two trays showed up momentarily. Then the server took drink orders. Most ordered something non-alcoholic but a handful chose beers.

  “Where are you people from?” asked one of the cyclists at the counter in a flat American accent.

  “From all over the world,” Kendall Young said with a grin. “We’re a truly international blend.”

  Young had his outgoing personality back, Burke thought. And to emphasize the point, Young asked where the two strangers were from.

  “I’m from Illinois and Jake here is from northern California.”

  More discussion followed, all of it pleasant and lively. There were even some jokes at the expense of various riders’ nationalities. But no one minded. And as he watched, Burke thought Young, Dietrich Beck, Gert Vanderkamp, Roger Langford and David Fraser were totally relaxed, feeling no stress or anxiety. If an
ything, they seemed the happiest of the bunch.

  Burke wondered if he had been wrong in his assumptions about them. Then he considered if their relaxed moods reflected a belief they were off the hook for whatever activities they shared.

  He looked at the others. They were also enjoying the break, a little flushed from their efforts and from the hot sun. They were joking and swapping anecdotes, most of them about travel issues they had experienced in the past.

  No one mentioned Bennett Blake or Wilson Talbot.

  Burke glanced at Hable who was chatting with Niklaus Gast, Eric Chapman and Ingrid Froon. He leaned forward to catch what they were discussing. He heard a few words. The subject was the company’s upcoming series of German concerts with Chapman mentioning how the various concerts could be affected by the ongoing refugee situation. He predicted attendance numbers would be less than originally projected because people didn’t want to get anywhere near the venues where anti-refugee protests were expected to take place.

  Froon said people in her country were struggling with the issue in a similar way with fiery discussions about what the politicians should do. “Many of my fellow Dutch are sympathetic toward the refugees, but there are others who are angry because they believe we don’t have the space in our small country to accommodate more people,” she said. “And some of them are afraid that their Dutch-ness will be diminished.”

  Gast said his country was equally divided about how to respond to the refugee crisis. He then suggested a more detailed examination of asylum applications might help calm some of the anti-refugee concerns, especially when coupled with a stronger presence at border crossings. “It’s all about tightening the system. Once you do that, you’ll hear less rhetoric against the refugees. It’s a cause-and-effect situation.”

  “Niklaus, you sound like you should go into politics,” Chapman said with a grin.

  Gast smiled but dismissed the suggestion with a wave of the hand. “I’m too old and lack the patience for all the political games that are required,” he said. “Besides, I’m committed to my work and to my hobbies, and don’t have the time to try something new.”

  “That’s too bad,” Chapman said.

  The group switched topics and began discussing the ride into Vienna the following day. They sounded like they were all looking forward to it because the route would take them right into the heart of a city they had all visited before and which they all liked. No one, however, had ever cycled in Vienna and Burke wondered how many were actually nervous at the notion of mixing with cars, trucks and countless pedestrians, even though they’d be on a dedicated bike path for most of the city ride.

  A few minutes later when all the platters were empty, Hable announced it was time to get back to riding. They were about half way to Tulln and the route would remain flat and easy with a section that twisted through several fields of sunflowers in full bloom. She said the group would stop on one of the bends for photos. Burke knew the spot – it would make for impressive pictures.

  As they thanked the personnel at the hut and mounted their machines, Burke couldn’t shrug off the notion that he had somehow learned a few lessons during the stop.

  He just wished he knew what they were.

  Chapter 52

  When the ride was over and Burke and Hable had done their post-mortems on the group’s effort, Burke found Carmen Moreau and they went to her cabin which was half the size of Burke’s and crammed with clothes, notebooks and two laptops.

  “Monsieur Delisle likes to keep me busy,” she explained, having noticed Burke’s surprise at the state of the cabin. “He also encourages me to dress differently for every occasion.”

  Burke recalled rarely seeing her in the same outfit twice and wondered if Delisle contributed to her clothing bill.

  Moreau cleared a spot on her small table and they pulled up the only two chairs in the cabin. “I have videos and photos for every day of the tour,” she said, starting up a laptop. “Do you know the day or days you want to check on?”

  Burke did, remembering the first time he had heard anyone comment about the possibility of the Roma or refugees being involved. He gave her the day.

  Moreau pecked away at the laptop for a few seconds, calling up the videos. She had a dozen files that started with the morning’s initial activity and ended with the evening meal. She might have turned her cabin into a disaster area, but Burke could see her computer system was highly organized. “Which file do you want to start with?” she asked, nodding toward the screen.

  Burke looked at the images for the various video files and saw one he thought might be the one.

  It wasn’t.

  They tried a second and a third. The same result.

  The fourth, however, provided something better.

  “Would you play it again, please?” Burke asked after the initial viewing. “And if it’s possible, could you turn up the sound? It’s important that we hear as much as possible.”

  She increased the sound and replayed it. And then she replayed it again at Burke’s request.

  “That’s good,” Burke said, sitting back and thinking.

  “That’s it? That’s all you wanted?”

  Burke smiled and said he wasn’t done yet. “But keep this file open, please.”

  He gave her another date and they began the process of reviewing videos once again. This time, it took three times to find the right clip.

  “What is it you’re looking for, Paul?”

  “Just play the video and tell me what you see and hear.”

  Moreau watched the clip. “All the participants in the tour – except for Monsieur Blake, of course – are getting the latest update on the investigation from Monsieur Delisle.”

  “That’s correct, but let’s look and listen again.”

  Moreau replayed the clip. When it was done, she replayed it once more, leaning forward to get a closer view.

  Burke pointed to the screen. “Stop the video right there and tell me what you think is happening.”

  “It sounds like they’re talking about the Roma and the refugees possibly being behind the murder of Monsieur Blake.”

  “Who does the talking?”

  “From what I could hear, Monsieur Young and Madame Froon. I heard a couple of other voices, too.”

  “Keep that file open. Now, let’s watch and listen to the first one again.”

  They did.

  “They’re definitely talking about the Roma and the refugees in this video, too,” Moreau said.

  “Now, put the two open files side by side so we can see everyone in both videos.”

  She did as requested, making the files as large as possible.

  “Now, study where everyone is,” Burke said. “Do you see any coincidences?”

  Moreau was silent for a minute. Then her eyebrows shot up. “Two different videos at two different times, but in both videos the same three people are behind the ones who made the suggestions about the Roma or the refugees being involved in Monsieur Blake’s murder.”

  “Exactly. And who are they?”

  “Eric Chapman, David Fraser and Niklaus Gast.”

  “Now, let’s look once more at the first video and see if someone leans forward just a bit and looks to be saying something to the ones in the front row.”

  Moreau replayed the clip three times. Both she and Burke leaned forward and stared at the screen for each showing, neither saying a word. Burke saw what he was looking for on all three replays and wondered if she had been equally successful. “So, Carmen, what did you see?”

  “It’s hard to say, but if you forced me to guess, I would say either Monsieur Chapman or Monsieur Gast moved forward just a little and said something. What do you think they might have said, Paul?”

  “Never mind that, at least for the moment. Now, let’s do the same with the other video and see if it looks like either Chapman or Gast is talking to those in front of them.”

  Moreau went th
rough the other video twice and then turned to Burke. “I don’t know about Monsieur Chapman, but I believe Monsieur Gast says something. It’s difficult to be sure, though, because no one turns around to look at him. But his lips do move, not much but enough to notice if you’re looking for it. Maybe he said something in a really low voice. What about you, Paul? What did you see?”

  “The same thing.”

  Chapter 53

  Dinner, which was held early because of the concert at the riverside theatre, wasn’t as spectacular as the night before, but it was still popular with all the guests. Burke knew how hard Claude, Reinhard and their staff were working; when Claude drifted back to their cabin each night, he was usually asleep with 15 minutes, overtaken by 16-hour days that went non-stop.

  When the meal ended, there were still 90 minutes before the start of the special performance at the theatre. Some passengers drifted to their cabins, while others went into the lounge bar. A few left the ship, going for an evening stroll before the performance. Burke stayed at his table in the dining room, glad his work day was over. He had some thinking to do before heading to watch the show, but, first, he wanted to spend some time with Hélène.

  At just after 7 p.m., she exited the kitchen with her uncle not far behind.

  “You look tired,” Burke said when she approached him at his otherwise vacant table.

  “I feel it, too. I’m used to long days and working hard, but it’s different when you’re working in a kitchen with so many others and preparing so much food for people. The pace is relentless. It’s definitely a different world from the Café de Neptune back home.”

  “But she’s been brilliant, Paul,” said Claude, draping an arm around his niece’s shoulders. “The kitchen, or the galley as the crew members keep reminding me to call it, has been more productive and more creative because of her efforts.”