Free Dine and Die on the Danube Express by Peter King

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