Dine and Die on the Danube Express by Peter King Read Free Book Online

forward to the grilling I was about to get from Karl Kramer. He looked as if he knew all the tricks of interrogation, although at least I had the satisfaction of knowing that he could hardly have a coach full of thumbscrews, dental forceps, and pointed tweezers—well, surely not on the Danube Express?
    The swoosh of the train changed in tone, and I saw that we were traversing a bridge over a sizable river. No vessels were in sight, but a few fishermen sat immobile on the river bank, rods out over the water, which they obviously hoped teemed with fish.
    I was stalling, pausing to note every detail. I walked on, though not rapidly. Coach Seven, one more to go . A couple passed me, smiling an acknowledgment as they went to lunch. A steward passed with a loaded tray—someone was not feeling companionable and was eating in the compartment.
    I went on and knocked at J-4. A barked command told me to enter. The compartment was set up as an office. A large teak desk was the centerpiece, and Karl sat at it, studying a green folder. On the desk were two telephones, one black, one white, several other folders in various colors, a tray full of papers, and a beer stein filled with pens and pencils.
    Two teak filing cabinets stood by the wall, and a fax machine and computer were on an adjacent desk. Two large document boxes were underneath it. The walls were unadorned, giving the compartment an austere look.
    Kramer motioned to the only chair other than the one in which he was sitting. It faced him across the desk, and I took it. His attention returned to the open file before him.
    “So you are a detective.”
    I groaned inwardly. This happens to me frequently. I am a food-finder, I seek out rare food ingredients, advise on the use of little-known food specialties, recommend menus for theme banquets, and suggest substitutes when delicacies become hard to get. But food and wine have become big businesses and it is inevitable that greed and avarice have crept in, sometimes to the extent of unlawful activities.
    I have managed to get myself mixed up in some of these nefarious doings and have been lucky enough to work them out satisfactorily. I had been dubbed “The Gourmet Detective,” and the sobriquet had stuck. Some in the official police departments of several countries had questioned my title, and I always start the rebuttal with the same disclaimer—“I’m not really a detective, the way it happens is that—”
    My intention now was to trot out that same line but before I could do so, I looked again at the way Kramer was examining the file on the desk before him.
    “Is that my dossier you have there?”
    “A very interesting career. You have been present when crimes have been committed on previous occasions, is that not so?”
    “Yes but—”
    “Several occasions, in fact.”
    “Well, yes, I—”
    “And several crimes.”
    “Not of my making—”
    “How is that you are so often present when a crime is committed?”
    It was time for a more vigorous defense. “Any multimillion-dollar enterprise attracts unscrupulous people. Food is such an enterprise, and it grows every year. Rare spices, for instance, are more valuable by weight than silver. The more important a business becomes, the more money is involved—and that brings in more unscrupulous people. I have never committed a crime, and I have no intention of ever doing so; but sometimes, when I am involved in such a case, I have to help in order to clear myself.”
    “You have to help,” Kramer echoed, putting the green folder down at last.
    “Yes. I have helped the police from time to time.”
    As soon as I had said that, I knew it was a mistake. It opened for him the opportunity to tell me to keep out of this affair and mind my own business or he’d have me behind bars as soon as the Danube Express reached a station. I hoped that at least he was too civilized actually to throw me off it before we reached one.
    He pushed the folder away from him. His pale blue