by Peter King
“What a pity the Danube is never blue,” I commented. The dirty brown color belied its soubriquet completely as it slid out of sight behind us.
“Oh, but it is always blue!” Sundvall protested. He smiled at my questioning look. “Yes, it is always blue to Austrians!”
The train was picking up a little speed as we left the city. “We will be passing through Melk very shortly,” said Sundvall. “It is famous, too. Melk Abbey is one of the finest Baroque buildings in the world.”
“It’s mentioned in the Niebelungenlied, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. I believe its fame in present times is due to its use in Umberto Eco’s excellent novel, The Name of the Rose. It stands overlooking the Danube and has done so since before the year nine hundred.”
“Three hundred years before the Niebelungenlied was written,” I commented. Every German knows the epic poem that tells of Siegfried and Brunhilde and the attempt to steal the vast treasure of the Niebelungen, a tribe of dwarfs. People of the other Western nations know the music of Wagner that illustrates the same story.
“Unfortunately,” said Sundvall, “we will not be able to see another famous sight just past Melk Abbey—and that is Durnstein Castle.”
“Ah, yes, where King Richard the Lionheart was imprisoned on his way back from the Crusades.”
“Exactly—when, from outside the walls came the sounds of the lute played by his troubadour, Blondel, who was searching for his master.”
“A wonderful story,” I said. “Why can’t we see the castle though?”
“It is north of the Danube. We use the track that follows the Danube Valley.”
“What are those large birds?” I asked.
“They are herons. The men who operate boats on the Danube call them ‘water makers’ and observe them closely.”
“Why is that?”
“If the heron is seen to be standing in the shallows with its beak pointing upstream, then it means that high water is approaching. If it is pointing downstream, then a stretch of low water is approaching. That used to be very important in earlier days when the depths of the Danube had not been measured and mapped. Heavily laden vessels could easily run ashore without the guidance from the herons.”
The Danube was twisting and turning as we rolled on, but the railbed smoothed it out, using bridges, some old and stone and some newer, steel and ugly.
“We come now to the Strudel,” said Sundvall. “It is a series of white-water rapids. Many vessels have been wrecked here. There are whirlpools, too.”
A tall, sharp rock rose on the far bank, a ruined castle on its tip, and just beyond it, on the near bank, was another castle, much larger and in better condition.
“Tales of hauntings are common here.” Sundvall smiled. “Ghostly orchestras, armed knights, the clash of swords, and the neighing of warhorses—all have been heard or seen. We are approaching another ruined castle—there, it is coming in sight. It is known as the Devil’s Tower and is said to be inhabited by the Black Monk, who shows false lights that lure ships onto the rocks.”
“Lucky we’re on a train,” I said.
“Indeed it is. Ah, I am sorry, I must go. My wife awaits me.”
“Thanks for all the information. I look forward to talking to you again.”
At the other end of the coach, Herman Friedlander, the orchestra conductor, appeared. I approached him and asked if he was enjoying the journey.
He brushed back his long hair with a flick of the fingers that was obviously an oft-repeated gesture. The long face that I had initially considered doleful was the same, clearly normal for him.
“Ja.” He nodded. “I thought this was going to be an enjoyable trip, but there are stories. You have heard them?”
He was making it easy for me. I lowered my voice to a suitably conspiratorial level. “I have heard that Magda Malescu has disappeared. I have also heard that she has been murdered. Both sound ridiculous—but I have not seen her on the train. What have you heard?”
“I have heard those, too—but then the woman is such a demon for publicity, one must take the stories with a large amount of salt.”
“I understand that not everyone in Hungary is a fan of hers,” I said. “There’s that journalist—”
“Mikhel Czerny, yes. He tears her apart in print at every opportunity.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Does he treat any other prominent persons that way?”
“No, none.”
“It sounds as if he has some personal hatred for her, doesn’t it?”
Friedlander shrugged. “I suppose so.” He pointed out of the window. “We are now in Austria.” The landscape that was rolling by did not look very different, but I didn’t doubt that he was right. I presumed that he did not find the Malescu mystery absorbing so I tried another tack.
“You are going to Bucharest?”
“Yes.”
“Are you conducting there?”
“Yes, I am guest conductor of the Bucharest Symphony.”
“Are you conducting the missing Mozart?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. It was as if he had not heard. He kept watching the rural scenery sweeping past the window. His voice was cold when he said, “Certainly not.” I wondered if he was going to say more, and I waited.
Finally, he said, “Evidently, you do not know. Most people who follow European music are aware that I am a descendant of Antonio Salieri.”
“Ah,” I said, “the famous rivalry between Mozart and Salieri. I thought that had been dismissed by musical historians as largely fictitious and promoted by Peter Schaffer’s play?”
“Not at all. There is such a faction, of course, but the rivalry—well, it was much more than that. Pushkin had already written of it in very strong terms.”
“The missing manuscript is on this train, I believe.”
Friedlander dismissed my comment with another shrug. “So I have heard.”
“Our newspapers haven’t reported much about it. I suppose it has been reliably authenticated?”
“I have heard that, too.”
“It must be very valuable,” I went on, determined not to be put off by Friedlander’s personal prejudices.
“Not to me,” he said icily.
“You must agree that Mozart is a musical genius though?”
A third shrug was inevitable—and it came. Here was a man who carried a grudge a long way.
“So this missing manuscript could be one of his greatest works?”
“Will no one rid me of this pestilent fellow?” was written all over Friedlander’s face, but I was determined to learn all I could about as many passengers as possible, and I wasn’t going to let go of my victim of the moment. After a pause, he said, “It could be, but I doubt it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It was written while the foolish boy was still in love with both his cousin, Maria Anna Tekla, and the singer, Aloysia Weber. It was a productive period in his life, certainly, but he was smitten by both these girls and was not able to concentrate on being musically creative.”
“The love of a woman can be stimulative to an artist, can it not?”
“Not in Mozart’s case. He was an adolescent all his life. His idea of love was to write obscene and suggestive letters, and his language when with women he ‘loved’ was on the same vulgar level.”
“We have instances of many artists who could completely separate their personal lives from their careers. Maybe he was one such example.”
“No!” Friedlander’s answer was almost explosive. His heavy face took on a flush—the first sign of emotion I had seen from him. “He was a child who never grew up. His humor was that of the toilet. He did not know what love was.”
“What will happen to the manuscript when it reaches Bucharest? Is the work going to be performed?”
“It will be on display at the Music Festival.” His lip curled. I have read about people doing that—now I saw a perfect example.
He was wat
ching the fields and streams as they passed, but his mind was still on our conversation. “What will happen to it when it arrives in Bucharest, you ask?”
He turned from the panorama unfolding outside to face me. “Better to ask—if it arrives,” he said slowly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A STEWARD APPROACHED ME. “Entschuldigen Sie, Meinherr, but Herr Kramer would like to speak with you.”
I was curious to know why Friedlander had doubts that the manuscript would arrive in Bucharest but at the steward’s interruption, Friedlander said quickly, “We must talk again later,” and walked away down the corridor.
I went to Coach Six, compartment J-4, Kramer’s “office.” He was deep into the contents of a colored folder as I entered, but he looked up. “Ah, come in,” he called. “You too, Hirsch,” he added to the steward who had brought me.
“Please sit,” he invited me, and when I was seated, he said to the steward, “Now, Hirsch, tell us again your story.”
Hirsch was white-haired, a capable-looking man in his smart uniform. He had just the right balance for a responsible job as steward on the prestigious Danube Express—competent but not presumptuous. He stood at what was the nonmilitary equivalent of attention. In Germany, the difference between the military and the nonmilitary versions is minute.
He told his story, looking at Kramer but with an occasional glance in my direction.
“When I was seeing passengers onto the train and helping them to their compartments, one of the station staff brought me what he said was an urgent message for Fraulein Malescu. I delivered it to her just as she was going into her compartment.”
“Describe the message,” rapped Kramer.
“It was in an ordinary white envelope. There was nothing written on it except, ‘Fraulein Malescu,’ and in the corner in large letters ‘URGENT.’ I waited to see if there was an answer she would wish sent at once. She opened the envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, and read it.”
“Go on.”
“Well, she stared at me for a moment—as if she was looking right through me. Her face turned pale. I mean, her makeup showed clearly—underneath it, her face went white as if she had seen a ghost.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
“I asked the Fräulein if there was any answer. After a moment, she shook her head. I asked her if she was all right. She asked me what I had said, and I repeated it. She said, ‘Yes’ in a low voice. I asked if there was anything I could do, and she shook her head. She said I could go.”
“What did she do with the letter and the envelope?”
“I don’t know—she still held them as I left.”
“Any conclusions, Hirsch?”
“She was terrified, Meinherr—I assumed that whatever was in that note terrified her.”
“Anything else, Hirsch?”
“No, Meinherr.”
“Thank you, Hirsch. You can go. You will not, of course, speak of this to anyone.”
Hirsch bowed obediently and left.
Kramer looked at me expectantly.
“It sounds like a threat of some kind,” I said.
He nodded.
“The compartment has been searched for the note?”
“Yes,” he said. “There is no trace of it or the envelope.”
“And I’m sure you tried to track its origin on Munich station?”
“Yes, but it had passed through too many hands.”
“Any indication of where the smell of bitter almonds in the compartment came from?”
“No,” Kramer said. “It is still noticeable, though it is now faint. But there is nothing to suggest where the odor came from. Nor did we find anything else unusual.”
“I was talking to Larouge,” I told him, “when a thought occurred to me. That journalist, Czerny, seems to have concentrated much of his venom on Malescu. Apparently, he didn’t write about anyone else as critically as he did about her. Is it possible that there was something personal between them? Perhaps from an earlier time?”
“A motive for him, you mean?”
“Yes.”
He looked thoughtful. “I have Thomas digging deeper. I will suggest this to him. Anything else?”
“I was talking to Friedlander also. I asked him what will happen to the Mozart manuscript when it arrives in Bucharest—he said, the question was if it arrives in Bucharest.”
“That is strange. Friedlander is conductor of the Swabian State Symphony Orchestra. Such a man should be considered as above suspicion.”
I recalled a line from a Charlie Chan movie. “‘No one on the train can be considered as above suspicion,’” I said sternly.
“You are right. I must read his file again.”
Not for the first time, I wondered exactly what was in my own file, but I was not going to rock the boat by asking. Kramer had accepted me as his trusted assistant, and I wanted to keep it that way.
While I was cogitating along those lines, Kramer was rubbing his chin. I had noticed that he did that when he was thinking more intensely. “There have been rumors …”
“What kind of rumors?” I asked.
“We have many informants. A large number of persons are associated with the railroad in one way or another. Persons who pass along to us any whispers that they hear that affect—or could affect—the railroad. Much of what they tell us is useless but, now and then, fragments may fit together, and what emerges may be a clue.”
“And you have heard some fragments concerning the Mozart manuscript?”
“Yes, but that is what they are—just fragments, not substantial enough to act upon. Still, such rumblings may indicate that something is—what is the English expression—afoot?”
“That is the expression,” I admitted.
“You should also know that we have picked up similar fragments about a threat to the vines. Not as many, but some.”
“I’m surprised at that,” I told him. “The vines are invaluable to the future of the Romanian wine industry, but they can’t be of much interest to anyone else.”
“Yes,” said Kramer, “but what about the reverse?”
“Reverse?”
“Yes,” Kramer said. “Could someone want to stop Romania getting the vines?”
I thought for a moment
“Hungary, the nations of the former Yugoslavia, Bulgaria? They all compete for the same export market in white wines. But that’s too far-fetched.”
He frowned. “Far-fetched?”
“Improbable, unreasonable, unlikely.”
“Because they are governments, you mean?”
“Well, yes. You sound skeptical—I suppose in your job, you run into a lot of international intrigue along such lines?”
He nodded. “More than you would imagine.”
“Have you had attempts on cargoes previously?”
“Yes,” he said. “Just a few. We have prevented them occurring in most cases. One or two have come close to an actual theft and those we stopped. We have an excellent record.”
“It sounds as if you are going to have a busy trip on this occasion. The vines, the Mozart manuscript, and the Malescu mystery.”
He nodded glumly. “It appears so.”
“One other thought—doesn’t a famous actress like Malescu usually travel with a maid? Someone to set out her clothes and attend to details for her? It seems odd that Malescu should be alone.”
Kramer looked pleased with himself. “I can see I picked the right man as my assistant. That is a very good point. Yes, I thought of that myself, and asked Thomas to check previous reports of Fraulein Malescu’s travels. She does, indeed, have a personal maid who is always with her.”
“Always?”
“Yes, always—except on this occasion.”
“Do you know where the maid is now?”
“The Budapest police made inquiries for me at the National Theatre, where Malescu appears often. The maid is flying to Bucharest
to meet Malescu there.”
“Is the maid afraid of trains?”
Kramer’s sense of humor didn’t extend that far, or perhaps he was too caught up in this aspect of the investigation. “No,” he answered seriously. “The theatre said she had some personal matter to attend to before leaving Munich.”
“Interesting,” I said. “You’re having the maid checked out, too, I’m sure.”
“Of course.”
“We are dining in Vienna tonight, I believe?” I said.
“Yes, although there was almost a change of plans. Because of the Malescu mystery, the police in Vienna wanted to take control of the investigation. That would have meant holding the train there.”
“But that is not going to happen now?” I asked.
“No. Herr Brenner believes that if we stop there, the Austrian police may not let us leave until the mystery is solved.”
He paused, evidently weighing if he should say more. He decided. “I will tell you. The franchise under which the Danube Express is allowed to use the railroad lines of various countries states that delay in arrival in Bucharest may be cause for cancellation of the contract.”
“Herr Brenner must have a lot of pull to override the Austrian police.”
Kramer was enjoying learning these slang English expressions. “Pull! Ja! like that!”
He rubbed his chin again. “Herr Brenner expects us—that is, you and me, to solve this quickly.” He gave a small smile of satisfaction at the thought of Brenner overriding the Vienna police. “He has friends in Berlin—influential friends—and Germany still has power to influence Austrian decisions.”
“So we just attend the banquet, then we return to the train. Is everyone attending?”
“We have arranged it thus. That will give us the opportunity to search the train once more—very thoroughly”
“Good thinking,” I told him. “That will be important in knowing how to proceed with the investigation—if we know for sure that Malescu is or is not on the train.”
“Just so.” He rose from the desk. “Now I must go and talk further with Thomas in the communication center.”
