The Iron Angel

by Edward D. Hoch

  “And you killed her?”

  “She died,” Grimsby said. “But how did you know Nita was alive? How did you know where to find us?”

  Michael shook his head, unable to accept their cool dispassion. “Is that all a human life means to you?”

  “How did you know?” Grimsby repeated. “If we slipped up somewhere –”

  “The makeup was good, and you arranged the body perfectly. When the neighbor found it, and when I saw it later, the first thing we saw was the scar. You even dressed her in the same clothes Nita wore yesterday. So I saw the scar and the clothes – your scar, your clothes, your apartment, Nita – and I didn’t need to study the face. But there was one thing that bothered me. You said you’d come to Athens for plastic surgery on your scar, but you also said a Gypsy cut you. When pressed, you said it was Sasha.”

  “But both things couldn’t be true. If you came to Athens for surgery then you had the scar before you met Sasha again. He said you didn’t have it when he met you, and that stumped me for a while. But then he told me it was raining that day. I decided you’d gone out on some quick errand and hadn’t bothered with the fake scar, fearful the rain would expose it for what it was. My suspicion of a false scar made me remember two other things. When I left you yesterday, you said you had to change your clothes for an appointment, yet the dead woman was wearing the dress you’d had on. You might have changed back into it, of course, but there was something else – the scent of your perfume in the apartment. I smelled it today on board the Quincade. At first I thought it was Grimsby’s cologne. But Grimsby didn’t come to your apartment until after I’d left, and cologne wouldn’t have lingered from his last visit. It was your perfume I smelled, Nita, and I smelled it again on the yacht because you were there. You were probably listening to our conversation from behind the cabin door.”

  “And so you followed us here to Kea” she said.

  “It’s where you both were twenty-five years ago. I thought you might be sentimental enough to come back to the same place for your second funeral.”

  “What do you plan to do”, Grimsby asked. “We’re beyond the jurisdiction of the Athens police.”

  “I plan to do nothing,” Michael said, and stood up. “Nothing.”

  “Michael –” Nita called as he walked away, but she did not come after him.

  As he boarded the ferry, he saw a bearded man getting off, carrying an easel and a roll of canvas. All the way back to Athens, he tried not to think of what might have been inside that canvas

  He took the morning train to Romania and seated in the coach with the Sunday paper he found the story on page 2, under a headline that read: TWO SLAIN ON KEA. It was brief story, with more details promised in later editions: “A wealthy British businessman and a woman companion were slain Saturday as they finished dinner on the terrace of their hotel on the island of Kea. A lone assassin opened fire with a submachine gun and escaped in the ensuing panic. The dead man was identified as Alec Grimsby, in his fifties, said to have close ties to various Middle Eastern factions. The woman killed with him has not been identified.”

  THE GYPSY DELEGATE

  Michael Vlado was working back in the field on the day that Captain Segar of the government militia drove up through the hills to seek him out. It was January and there was little farming to be done, but the horses Michael raised always needed tending to. His wife Rosanna was in the house and she rang the dinner bell to summon him.

  Word had reached the Gypsy village of Gravita of the stark events of previous weeks, when the uprising of the Romanian people had ousted the country’s leaders and led to the Christmas Day execution of the former President and his wife. Trudging back across the frozen earth, Michael caught a glimpse of Captain Segar standing in the doorway with Rosanna and his first thought was that his old friend had been dismissed by the new government. The familiar militia uniform was missing and Michael could see that under his dark blue overcoat Segar wore a conservative business suit like those he’d seen worn by government officials.

  “Are you out of a job?” he asked, shaking hands with his friend.

  Segar smiled. “I’m out of the militia, but into a better job with the new government. I’m an official in charge of this region. I may have to run for election, depending upon the working of the new constitution, but for now –”

  “Congratulations!” Michael said, meaning it. “You’re exactly the sort of official our new government needs.”

  “If I can get through my first month without being shot, perhaps there’s some hope.” Segar’s face turned serious. “But I didn’t drive up here for your congratulations, Michael. The new government has a mission for you.”

  “For me – a Gypsy? The former President never looked on us with any great favor.”

  “Things have changed, believe me. Remember King Michael?”

  “I was only a baby at the time, but I was named after him.

  “You know he was forced to abdicate at the end of nineteen forty-seven when the Communists took over the government. But did you know he was still alive?”

  “Michael, alive?” Somehow the idea surprised him. “He’d be – what? almost seventy years old now. Where has he been?”

  “Living in exile in Geneva. He has offered to return if the Romanian people want him.”

  “As a king? Do the people really want that?”

  “Of course not. They want their freedom, along with the rest of Eastern Europe. But the new government feels it might be wise to send a delegation to Geneva. It would be an unofficial delegation, of course, without notice to the press. Because of my familiarity with the Gypsy villages in this area, I was asked to nominate a Gypsy delegate. I suggested you.”

  “Me!”

  “They want a five-man delegation representing various groups. When it was decided one representative should be a Gypsy, I immediately thought of you, Michael. Naturally the chosen one should be a Gypsy king, to meet with our deposed king, and you know yourself that many of the others are elderly and unable to travel. You are a vigorous man only in your mid-forties.”

  “What would this involve?” Michael asked with some misgivings.

  “You would meet your companions at an orientation session in Bucharest next Monday and then proceed by train to Geneva.”

  “Wouldn’t flying be faster?”

  Segar shrugged. “Dr. Vincenti, chairman of the delegation, does not fly.”

  “How long would I be away?”

  “You would be back here by Friday.”

  Even before discussing it with Rosanna, Michael knew he would go. It wasn’t every day one got to meet a deposed king and one’s own namesake.

  On Monday morning Michael met the other four delegates in an ornate high ceiling room at the Palace of Culture. It was the minister of culture who spoke to them, explaining first that the President was otherwise occupied. “We must realize that these are trying times for our nation, and for all of Eastern Europe. You five have been chosen to make a delicate, unofficial visit to our deposed king. Of course, to reinstate him in his former position is out of the question, but with demonstrators still in the streets we must investigate every avenue that could lead to stability. Perhaps a conciliatory statement from him might help our situation.”

  Michael found his thoughts wandering to the other four seated with him. They would be his companions for the next few days. All were dressed conservatively, though he wore a red high-necked tunic under a dark blue suit coat. Dr. Vincenti, a tall man with a silvery white beard, had been the first to introduce himself. He was the official spokesman for the group and had known King Michael in his youth. Now, at seventy, he was a distinguished educator who’d managed to stay clear of government involvement for much of his life.

  Michael’s main attention was directed toward the lone female in their group. Slava Botosana’s conservative grey suit and white blouse couldn’t hide the fact that she was an exceptionally attractive woman in her thirties. Her dark hair was nicely styl
ed and her makeup carefully applied – something one rarely saw in the villages of Michael’s area. As if to counteract the plainness of her suit and blouse, she wore fashionable shoes with three-inch heels, and an expensive leather briefcase, probably purchased in the west, leaned against the leg of her chair. As the cultural minister spoke, she made notes with a slim gold pencil.

  The younger of the other two men, a representative of the Romanian Workers’ Alliance was quite outspoken. His name was Petru Grazu, and Michael guessed his age to be about thirty. He was blond and handsome with Germanic features that marked him as one of the nation’s two percent minority from the Banat region.

  “What route will be we be taking to Geneva?” he wanted to know.

  The minister didn’t seem pleased at the interruption. “You leave this after-noon by train to Belgrade. There you change to the Direct Orient Express, which will carry you to Geneva with stops at Trieste, Venice and Milan. The train actually stops at Lausanne, but that’s only sixty miles along Lake Leman from Geneva – a very scenic bus ride.”

  “Is Michael expecting us?”

  “Of course. We have been in communication with him. It is best to avoid the media however – we do not want it known that a delegation has gone off to see the deposed king, even on an informal basis.”

  It was the fifth member of the group, a balding man about Michael’s age who broke in to say, “Referring to two Michaels is confusing. It may help our new friend Michael Vlado if we refer to the other as King Michael, though we realize he will never hold that title again.”

  Michael smiled at that man and shook his hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Constantine Aman. I was director of the Art Museum of Romania until the former President dismissed me for deviation from the strict party line. Now I am back in the government’s good graces – as long as there is a government.”

  As the meeting was breaking, Michael sought out Slava Botosana. “Did I hear someone say you were an actress?”

  She laughed softly, and he found it a pleasant sound. “Once I was. Now I am on the governing board of the national theater. I believe they chose to include me only because I am a woman. They wish to charm King Michael into making a statement on behalf of the new government, and I have a reputation for charming men, even those nearing seventy.”

  Michael reflected. “We’re a mixed group. An educator, and actress, a workers’ representative, a former museum director –”

  “And a Gypsy king.” She said it with a smile. “I thought you would be a bearded old man with a limp.”

  “Our old king was too old, with too much of a limp. He was confined to a wheelchair and I was pretty much running things, conducting the Gypsy court, deciding issues that affected our people. Then someone killed the old king in a robbery and the title passed to me. I was surprised the people chose me, but I am grateful for it.”

  “Why don’t you travel around in caravans like other Gypsies?” she wanted to know.

  “Some of my people do, but Romanian Gypsies have never been as nomadic for some reason. We have settled here in the hills, farming the land and raising horses.”

  “So now you are a statesman!”

  Michael held up his hands in protest. “No, no – only a poor Gypsy. I hope you will put up with me for the next few days.”

  They were in Belgrade that evening, changing trains while the last of the daylight faded. As the train pulled out of the station, Michael saw leafless trees outlined against the dark blue sky and, for a time, a pack of wild dogs chasing alongside.

  “What is it, Gypsy?” Dr. Vincenti asked watching the dogs. “An omen?”

  “Only if you believe in omens. I am one Gypsy who does not.”

  “But if something bad happens –”

  Michael shrugged. “It will be a coincidence.” He looked at Vincenti. “What is it that bothers you about trip?”

  “This is a time of great uncertainty for the Romanian people, Michael. The government situation is still fluid, with several factions fighting for control. Some think the old government hardliners might even try for a comeback. If that were the case, they might begin by assassinating the deposed King Michael.”

  “Why do that? There’s no chance he’ll return as our ruler.”

  “No, but he could become a symbol. Sometimes symbols can be as dangerous as omens for those who believe in them.”

  There was a little smile on his lips as he spoke the words but Michael thought about the exchange that night when he was trying to sleep.

  In the morning he had time for only a shave and a quick breakfast before the train arrived in Venice. Michael was sharing a compartment with Grazu and Aman, while the elderly Dr. Vincenti and Slava Botosana had private compartments of their own. The woman and the two younger men joined him for break-fast and later when he stopped by Vincenti’s compartment he found the man studying some papers he’d spread out on the lift-up table with which each compartment was equipped.

  “No breakfast today?” Michael asked him.

  “Perhaps later. I must prepare my remarks for our meeting with King Michael.”

  “I think I’ll take a look around the station here in Venice.”

  “Don’t get left behind.”

  Michael found himself in the company of the young man, Petru Grazu, as he left the train to stretch his legs. “Have you ever been to Venice before?” he asked Michael.

  “Never.”

  “How many more borders do we have to cross?”

  “Only the Swiss border, after our stop in Milan.”

  “The policeman at the Yugoslav border really annoyed me. They treated us all like some sort of criminals despite our diplomatic passports.”

  “It is not an entirely pleasant experience,” Michael agreed. “But at least the food is reasonably good.”

  The outspoken labor representative nodded. “For a time in the Seventies, there wasn’t even a dining car on the Orient Express. Passengers had to obtain food and drink from vendors on station platforms. At least it’s better now, though the train will never recapture all of its lost glory.”

  “You sound like a capitalist,” Michael observed.

  “Hardly!”

  A while after they reboarded the train for the depressing journey out of Venice, crossing the oil-slick lagoon to enter a vast flatland of refineries and factories, Slava came along the corridor and joined them. “How long to Milan?” she asked.

  “We should be there early this afternoon,” Grazu told her. “Is Vincenti still working, do you know?”

  “I think so.”

  Constantine Aman was just coming out of Dr. Vincenti’s compartment as Michael and Grazu moved down the corridor. He brushed back the thin hair on his forehead and turned to say, “I’ll check in with you when we reach Milan.”

  “Still working?” Grazu asked.

  “Yes. He doesn’t wish to be disturbed for a while.”

  Aman wanted another cup of morning coffee, so Michael accompanied him through the train to the dining car. “Are we really accomplishing anything with this journey?” he asked the museum director.

  Aman eyed him critically as they found seats at one of the tables. He took out a felt tip pen and removed a small pad from his inner pocket. With a few rough strokes he drew a crude pie chart. “You see this tiny wedge, Michael? This is the percentage of Romanian who are Gypsies. Only two hundred and thirty thousand by the last census. The very fact that you are here, included in this mission, accomplishes something for your people.”

  Michael took the pen and marked off a larger segment of the pie. “Most Gypsies in the country have settled down in one spot. They consider themselves Romanians and many have good reason not to declare themselves as Gypsies. Most estimates place their number at over a million.”

  “Good reason?”

  “The Nazi death camp were not just for Jews.”

  “That was fifty years ago.”

  “Gypsies have long memories.”

/>   Slava came in then looking puzzled. “Has either of you seen Dr. Vincenti? He wanted my opinion of his opening statement to King Michael and he promised to stop by my compartment.”

  “He was still working on it when I left him a few minutes ago,” Aman told her.

  “In his compartment? I knocked on the door and called his name, but no one answered.”

  “He told me he didn’t want to be disturbed,” Aman told her.

  “But surely he would have answered.”

  “I’ll go check on it.” Michael left them and walked back to the next car where their compartments were located. He knocked on Vincenti’s door but there was no answer. Then he turned the knob, found it was unlocked and pushed it open.

  Vincenti was lying on his side on the seat, his distinguished head toward he closed windows. In front of him on the desktop was spread the penciled draft of the remarks he’d been working on. Michael took a step closer, reaching out a hand to the man who seemed to be sleeping.

  Then he saw the blood, and the slim dagger plunged into his right side.

  Michael found Petru Grazu alone in their compartment. The younger man came alert when he saw the intensity of Michael’s expression. “What is it?”

  “Dr. Vincenti has been murdered in his compartment. Stay by the door while I get the others.”

  He hurried back to the dining car, where he was surprised to see Constantine Aman holding Slava’s hand across the table. When he saw Michael, Aman got quickly to his feet. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Someone’s killed Vincenti – come quickly!”

  “Oh, no!” Slava gasped.

  Grazu awaiting his return stepped aside as Michael pushed the compartment door open and allowed the others to enter. “Don’t touch anything,” he cautioned. “We don’t want them blaming one of us for this.”

  Grazu turned to face him. “Who should they blame? Surely it must be obvious to you that we are the only suspects. Who else even knew we were traveling on this train?”