The Final Enemy. An Inspector Faro Mystery No.12.

by Alanna Knight

  Faro smiled, amazed. 'You know a lot about trains.'

  George laughed and said proudly. 'I once met Monsieur Nagelmachers who created this Orient Express. He came to visit Luxoria when I was quite small - four years old. He is a Belgian and King Leopold, who loved travelling on his trains, and was a great friend, came with him. The King was cousin to your Prince Albert, and liked visiting my mother.'

  Faro remembered that King Leopold was another of that great sprawling royal family of Europe, all of them related, near and distant, to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

  'Monsieur Nagelmachers told me all about trains, and he gave me a tiny model which I always carry with me. I'll show it to you sometime.'

  Faro looked across at Anton listening expressionless to this conversation with nothing to contribute. And he guessed that George's not-so-privileged companion probably had less happy experiences of travel, similar to his own.

  As for Dieter, he was positively animated. With an air of excitement he leaned forward, stared fascinated at George, then at Faro and back again, a smile twisting his thin lips.

  Returning to their compartments, those passengers who were journeying across Europe with hopes of enjoyable continental scenery were in for a disappointment. The weather had deteriorated since they left Paris. Rain streamed steadily down the windows, obliterating a landscape which, from very brief glimpses, Faro found flat and disappointing, used as he was to the more romantic undulating hills of Scotland. Vast tracts of land dotted with sentinel lines of poplar trees and rows of dry-looking sticks planted with mathematical precision stretched mile after dreary mile, sticks that in the proper season would blossom into vineyards, their harvest served as wines famous across Europe in every high-class hotel.

  Finding it difficult to concentrate on the problems of Edwin Drood, Faro turned his attention to his fellow passengers.

  Dieter leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed, apparently sleeping, since he had brought nothing, not even a newspaper, with which to while away the hours. Occasionally his eyes flickered open, he yawned and went into the corridor to smoke one of his strong-smelling cigars.

  After an altercation when Anton was accused of cheating and George seized the playing cards and set them aside, the two boys sulkily resumed reading the books they had brought with them. Faro was pleased to see that although Anton was reading in German, George had a copy of ‘Treasure Island’ by Robert Louis Stevenson.

  George sometimes glanced across at him, frowning. There was a word in dialect he wasn't sure about. When Faro explained, George asked, 'Do you know Mr Stevenson?'

  Faro shook his head. 'No. But my stepson was at the University in Edinburgh when he was studying law.'

  'He lives in Edinburgh?'

  'Not any longer. His health is very poor and he plans to live on an island in the South Seas.'

  George smiled. 'Will it be as nice as Orkney, do you think?'

  Faro laughed. 'I'm sure it will be much warmer.'

  Anton, once again not included in the conversation, suddenly put his own book aside with an irritable gesture and, picking up the pack of cards, began to shuffle them.

  ‘Another game?' he demanded in German.

  'Very well, if you promise not to cheat this time,' was what Faro understood as the gist of George's reply. 'Will you play with us, Mr Faro?'

  'No, thank you. I'll continue with my book.'

  But faced with a true life mystery, his efforts to solve Mr Dickens' fictional one had evaporated. What had happened to Helga? His thoughts kept returning to her. And because his life's work was a search for clues in apparently unconnected events, he took out paper and pencil and wrote down:

  Attempt on the life of Amelie. Possible connection with:

  The fatal accident at Glenatholl of George's bodyguard Tomas.

  George's kidnapping and rescue.

  Anton's attack and escape on the ferry. (Note: A big strong man was described on both occasions. At Glenatholl, indications were that he had a companion. A smaller man or a woman?)

  Helga's disappearance. Where did she fit into this curious pattern of events? And, more important, why had she been brought along in the first place other than as a gesture of kindness? Was there a more sinister reason? Had she been disposed of permanently?'

  He was too preoccupied to realise that Dieter had also found a vital clue to the secret of Faro's identity. It had taken Helga with her woman's intuition to hint what was now strikingly obvious and Dieter toyed happily with thoughts of President Gustav's reward for this particular piece of information.

  Chapter 14

  Faro's thought pattern was destroyed by the entrance of a waiter announcing luncheon in the restaurant car. The perfect antidote to possible boredom, though passengers had breakfasted only two hours earlier. Obviously this constant serving of meals to while away the hours was one of the spectacular luxuries of the Orient Express, a boost to flagging spirits, regardless of the weather beyond the windows.

  The two boys cheered. They were always hungry and had to be restrained from yet another headlong dash down the train.

  At last they were seated and an imposing menu set before them, calculated to tempt even the most jaded appetite: ‘foie gras’ served with Vienna rolls, smoked salmon, ‘steak tortellina’ and an extravagant range of vegetables.

  Faro looked anxiously at George and Anton since this was somewhat different from the homely fare even important visitors at Glenatholl encountered. He was pleased to see that the two boys tucked in heartily, undeterred by such a sophisticated meal, and how their eyes brightened at the sight of a rich chocolate ‘Sacher Torte’ served with thick cream.

  The waiter was not at all put out when Faro looked askance at their demands for second helpings. He smiled and said, in very good English, 'It is a pleasure. So many of the young ones travelling with their parents refuse the fare we have on offer and make a great fuss at every meal. Nothing ever pleases them,' he concluded with a weary sigh.

  'When do we arrive in Strasbourg?' Faro asked.

  'In one hour.' The waiter looked at the rainstreaked windows. 'However, we may be running a little late as I understand they have had a fall of snow.'

  'Surely it is early for that?' said Faro.

  'These things happen, sir.'

  As they returned to their compartment, the outlook was very bleak indeed, the grey landscape obliterated by heavy rain. The approach to the railway station on the outskirts of the town was through a huddle of poor dwellings, tiny hovels crushed together, Faro imagined, by a ruthless builder, interested only in profits and with scant regard for human comfort. The houses were so close to the railway track that every passing train must have rattled them to their flimsy foundations. From windows lacking glass and covered in dirty rags, white faces of children stared out wide-eyed at the magnificence of the Orient Express as it thundered past, a creation from a world beyond their wildest dreams.

  Remembering the luncheon’s several courses they had just enjoyed, the huge helpings, Faro thought of the plates removed from tables, many with their contents either half-eaten or untouched. They would have provided rich sustenance for those starving families bordering the railway sidings. He felt disgust at the extravagance, although these were familiar scenes he and Imogen frequently encountered in the slums of Europe’s great cities, and they never failed to stir in him feelings of guilt, the indignation of a social conscience at the unfairness of the distribution of the world's wealth.

  'Strasbourg! Strasbourg!'

  The Orient Express glided to a halt alongside the platform and Faro rolled down the window, determined to take this chance of a breath of air.

  As the clouds of steam diminished he looked towards the departing passengers. There was one he recognised. A figure in a navy-blue jacket and skirt, with an unmistakeable shabby bonnet, hurrying towards the exit.

  'Helga!' he shouted. 'Helga! Wait!'

  The woman half-turned, glanced back briefly and disappeared in the crowd.
/>   'Helga!' Faro shouted again.

  Dieter looked over his shoulder. 'What is wrong?'

  'That was Helga,' said Faro. 'Didn't you see her? She's just hurried towards the station exit.'

  Dieter stared at him. 'It cannot be. She never boarded the train. I told you she left us at Paris to stay with her grandmother.'

  'I tell you it was her.'

  'You must be mistaken, many servants wear the same style of outdoor garments as Helga. They are not unique by any means.’

  The boys now wanted to know what had happened, what all the excitement was about. The three talked in rapid German, impossible for Faro to grasp and interpret.

  As the whistle blew and the train began to move, Faro knew he was once again rendered helpless, in a situation he could do nothing about.

  The train gathered speed and he sat back in his seat, frustrated and angry, certain that he had not been mistaken, that the woman he had seen was Helga. He was certain, also, that Dieter had seen her and lied. Otherwise, how could he describe what she was wearing? Faro hadn't described that to him.

  Now the question was why? Why? Faro did not like being tormented by illogical reasons. His instinct would have been to race after the woman, who had always been an enigma, and question her. Her disappearance raised burning issues, in particular what she was doing on the train after all and why Dieter had lied about her staying in Paris if he was not somehow involved in the deception.

  Seeing Helga again aroused one of those imponderables which had long intrigued Faro - the reason for her presence in the first place. At least knowing that she was still alive removed one of his hidden fears about her disappearance, that something more permanent than a digestive upset had removed her from the train. He was consoled that he could dismiss the sinister thoughts regarding her fate that had plagued him since they left Paris. But that did nothing to settle his growing suspicion that Helga might have been involved with the kidnappers at Glenatholl and, even more disturbingly, the fatal accident to George's bodyguard Tomas.

  He tried to remember the man, who was certainly more lightly built than Dieter. Helga was a big strong woman, and as a servant would have had the most ready excuse for persuading Tomas that a window was jammed, and then pushing him out of it.

  If that was so, then there was an undeniable link with the attempt to push Anton overboard on the ferry. She might have been pretending to sleep in the cabin and followed him out on deck. Faro remembered the boy's uncertainty, his exact words. 'Someone - I think it was a man - '

  Such also had been the description of George's kidnapper. In neither case had the face of 'a big strong man' been seen. George had been grabbed from behind, lifted bodily. In the darkness Anton saw only a shadowy figure, a stout stick raised to strike him. In the darkness big strong Helga could have been mistaken for a man by a frightened boy. And Faro also remembered George's idea that one of his kidnappers might have been a woman, since her footsteps were lighter.

  Faro's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the ‘chef de train’. 'There was a telegraph message waiting for us at Strasbourg for Herr Dieter. We should have had it when we arrived in Paris but it came too late.'

  Dieter read it and said to George, 'It is really for you, Highness. The Grand Duchess, your mother, is home again from Mosheim. She is safe and well and longing to see you.'

  George took the telegraph and read it out to them again.

  'Such good news,' said Dieter. 'Is it not?'

  'May I see?' Faro asked. The message had been transmitted from Paris earlier that day to await arrival of the Orient Express at its next point of call. Unfortunately the time stamp was illegible.

  George was delighted. He clasped his hands, laughed excitedly. 'I am so glad.'

  Faro was relieved. He had been afraid from the start of their journey, that news might arrive that Amelie had died of her injuries in Germany. At this rate he might safely conclude that his royal command to restore George to his kingdom would end when he saw the boy on to the Luxorian train at Stuttgart.

  He was glad for another reason. He had little desire to go into the Royal palace. Some of this was self-preservation. He dreaded a meeting with the President, with a guilty feeling that if he were seen with George their unmistakable likeness might raise grave doubts in the President's mind about his own paternity. Gustav was not a man, by all accounts, who would take that kindly and Faro realised that the possibility of leaving Luxoria unscathed would be remote indeed. He would meet with an unfortunate accident, be eliminated. And George too. Nor would President Gustav have any remaining scruples about Amelie.

  It was a grim picture and Faro suspected that the secret was out already. Once or twice he had seen Dieter watching George and him with a curious expression. After seeing their reflections together in the compartment mirror opposite Faro avoided sitting next to the boy. Perhaps he was overreacting and his safety lay in the fact that Dieter would never imagine the Grand Duchess of Luxoria in an intimate relationship with a commoner. Especially an Edinburgh policeman.

  Casting aside his gloomy thoughts and observing George, he was greatly consoled by the boy's joy at the prospect of being reunited with his mother. By a bitter twist of fate, he had unknowingly met his real father but their time together was brief, already almost over. The secret was safe, never to be revealed. Indeed, it was better for all concerned that they were unlikely ever to meet again.

  The detective in Faro sighed. Already he was forced to mentally draw a line under Tomas's accident and Helga's disappearance, as well as George's kidnapping at Glenatholl. A few hours more and he would never know the answers to those unsolved mysteries. Although he had reached some conclusions, they would remain interesting theories only. It was very irritating, but he was aware that he had reached a dividing line and the time had arrived when he must set aside a lifetime's habit of thinking like a detective.

  As Imogen often advised, he was too ready to make a crime out of the most innocent happening. 'After all,' she had said, 'the world is littered with unexplained things and weird coincidences.'

  Faro was not convinced, believing that an explanation could be found for everything, if one looked hard enough. But the memory of Imogen's words made him smile. He would have a lot to tell her, so much to discuss about George and Glenatholl and the Orient Express.

  Suddenly he was content to look ahead, glad to be embarking on the next stage of his journey. He had come to terms with the inevitability of parting with George. Once the Luxoria train departed with the boy in Dieter's care, he would send a wire to Imogen and be on his way to Heidelberg.

  He had it all planned.

  It was not to be.

  Chapter 15

  Before sending a message to Imogen, Faro required a reliable timetable. No doubt this would be available at Stuttgart railway station.

  When he mentioned this Dieter seemed pleased at the prospect of their journey's end and said, with more enthusiasm than usual, 'It is possible that the guard will have timetables since the Orient Express passengers often have to link up with other trains.'

  'Good,' said Faro. 'I'll take a walk along the train. See if I can find some information about trains to Heidelberg.' He was feeling restless as well as in desperate need of exercise after all the rich fare he had consumed.

  'May I come with you, sir?' asked George.

  'Of course.'

  'I should like to see the rest of the train.'

  'Me too,' said Anton.

  The two boys hurried ahead of Faro, chattering excitedly, while Dieter trailed in the rear.

  Walking along the corridors, they were greeted by other passengers similarly engaged in this very restricted activity, the only exercise available on the great train.

  A door ahead of them opened and amid shrieks a tiny dog rushed out barking and dragging a ball of wool entangled in its paws. As the dog's owner appeared, shouting to it to stop, Faro bent down, grabbed the little creature by the collar and with a bow returned it to the middle-a
ged lady, who was volubly expressing her gratitude in German.

  Suddenly he realised that the ball of wool was familiar. A ball of red knitting wool.

  'That belonged to Helga!' he said sharply to Dieter.

  Dieter said nothing, merely shook his head and gave a despairing sigh.

  'I tell you that is her wool. Ask the lady where her dog got it from.'

  '1 cannot do that,' Dieter protested.

  'Of course you can, Do it!"

  There followed a conversation of what seemed like interminable argument and length. It was very difficult to follow but Faro gathered that the lady thought he wanted the wool for some reason and freed her pet from its entanglement, eager to hand it over.

  Faro got only the gist of it. 'Ask her where her dog found it?'

  The woman clearly thought this Englishman was quite mad and Dieter said, 'the dog has had it since before they left Paris, so it could not have belonged to Helga. She would never have been parted from her knitting.'

  'She could have dropped it,' Faro insisted.

  Dieter gave an exasperated sigh. 'Red is not an unusual colour, Mr Faro. Many women the length and breadth of Europe will be knitting garments in that colour. This is a mere coincidence. I should advise you to be calm, sir.'

  Calm indeed! Here was Dieter making him sound like the village idiot. Damn!

  Again that frustration of not knowing the language, but Faro was sure the woman was pointing and saying that the dog had found it. Someone lost it. He heard the word Strasbourg. Left the train?

  Certain that Dieter was lying, Faro groaned. If only George hadn't dashed ahead. He could have translated.

  Finally the woman dismissed them with a rather exasperated shrug and returned to her compartment, clutching the dog and firmly closing the door.

  Aware of Dieter's long-suffering sigh, Faro knew there was nothing more he could do. The guard appeared and he asked for a timetable to Heidelberg. 'I do not have one, sir, but we will be arriving in Stuttgart shortly.'