The express from Vienna to Berlin seemed to be a singularly ill-named train. It dawdled across Austria, delayed at starter by apparent coal shortages, delayed later on by snow of the line. Passengers in Third Class carriages shivered in their coats as the heating proved inadequate; passengers in First Class were only a few degrees better off – unless they had provided themselves with footwarmers.
For Alder Bishop, this trip had so far been a busman’s holiday.
Nine long months he had toiled in the artificially glittered, soul-sucking morass known as Hollywood, USA. Someone – he suspected his evil agent in collusion with God-alone-knew-whom from the studios – had come up with the brilliant idea that a prolific mystery novelist could supply the movie industry with enough written material to keep the insatiable maw of the film industry stuffed full.
Then they got him out there and never let him write.
Instead he went to meetings. He was given assignments. To write romances. Where the bold hero was a dashing sea captain. But two days later was a hard-bitten police officer. Until it mysteriously became a period piece starring, it was guaranteed, the next Errol Flynn.
And the heroine was of course in turns plucky and scatter-brained, bluestocking and unconsciously sensual.
While you’re at it, Alder, don’t forget the Hays Code.
And the sun! All day every day without letup! Hateful! How did they bear it?
Finally Alder had escaped – though not home to the Big Apple. He’d felt too restless and unclean to desecrate the brownstone for long with his unhappy presence. Not, God knew, to accompany his father southward to the latest stage of his Floridian retirement contentment. No, he would stay well away from all he knew and loved until he yanked himself out of this funk.
So Alder booked passage on the first available ocean liner and set sail for Europe, there to catch the first train that came along.
If other than mere fancy was directing Alder’s decision to pass time on the Continent — the contents of a thick Manila envelope liberally spangled with foreign stamps, perhaps — his father had given him a shrewd ice-blue gaze, muttered “Hm,” and said nothing more.
Had Dad said something about…? No, whatever it was couldn’t be that important.
Alder’s journey had wound its way ever northward. Then, with the first snowflake…
Inspiration.
The title and its twist bloomed redly in his mind: “The Cerebrus Assignment.”
He dove for his Remington Noiseless.
But then, for the train and its passengers, there were the border crossings.
On some journeys, the border guards would board the trains to inspect passports and visas; on this journey, the guards preferred to stay snug and warm in their building; the passengers were required to disembark and queue twice in the cold – at the Austrian/Czech border, and then again at the Czech/German border.
“There’s a lot of tension at the moment,” one tall, lanky Englishman said to his stockier companion. “All this Sudentenland business has people on edge.”
Joseph Lawrence had travelled enough to know that he didn’t want to get into a political conversation with a stranger, certainly not a stranger who he might have to spend some more time with in confined quarters (like a train), and even more when you can’t be sure who is listening in. He was travelling on to Berlin, after all.
Flora DeWilde, as a journalist, had been keeping abreast of the news, so she listened interestedly to the two men’s conversation, but didn’t attempt to say anything about it.
The journey should have seen them arriving in Berlin in time for dinner; instead by 4pm on Christmas Eve, they were still moving through the mountains that bordered Northern Czechoslovakia and Southern Saxony.
And if that wasn’t enough ….
There was a sudden loud, long blow on the whistle and the train came to a precipitate halt. Anyone standing would have been knocked off their feet.
Alder never noticed the whistle, being as he was, as he had been for some days, Possessed by Story. Stories, actually. Three short stories and several plot twists.
What he did notice was the Remington Noiseless sliding out from under his finger-tips. Only a quick reflexive grab was all that stopped the faithful machine from upending itself and the tale in progress onto the limited floor-apace.
“Good God!” he said, sliding the Remington back into place. He stared at it, but his train of thought was irrevocably broken.
Train…broken…!
Belatedly he glanced at his recently acquired travel companion, whose habitat was well padded with blankets and hot water bottles. “Mike, are you all right-?”
His companion blinked large dark eyes at him reproachfully.
“Be right back. I’m going to see what is going on.”
The carriage attendants moved swiftly through the train, offering reassurance.
“Meine Damen und Herren … a n avalanche has brought down snow on the line. We regret … it cannot be cleared today – or until after Christmas.”
Flora had long since despaired of making Paris by Christmas, as she had hoped; on her European trip so far she had spent enough time on trains to realize that the kind of punctuality American railroads prided themselves on could not be hoped for. Nevertheless, it was a blow.
“However, there is a village ahead – Bad Bernsdorf,” the attendant continued. “There are inns there where you might stay … the Hotel de Saxe will provide admirable accommodation for First Class passengers. Wagons will be arriving shortly. Please remain in your compartments.”
Shortly after this, however, by the strange osmosis of gossip that strangely affects stranded travellers, they learned that it was not quite as simple as the attendants had led them to believe. The avalanche had not only blocked the railway track, but also a country road that ran next to it and it was feared that a farmer and his two sons had been caught in the avalanche and buried, together with their horse and wagon. Even now frantic efforts were being made to save them … indeed, despite the gathering gloom, these efforts could be witnessed by those bold enough to open the windows or, indeed, the doors.
Alder caught up with his cabin steward in the hall only a few steps from his door and quickly took in the news.
“I’ll help, Johan, of course,” he said quickly before the offer could be denied – and the steward was not that averse to denying him; Alder was a tall, muscular man in the prime of his life, well suited to handling a snow-shovel and other tools. “Let me grab my coat.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a wad of notes and pressed them into the steward’s hand. “See that my things get to the hotel, would you? Get me a room with some natural light. Don’t move the paper in the typewriter.” After a moment’s further thought he added another folded bill. “Mike has a traveling case – you remember, that’s how I brought him here. Put a few crickets in first, he should go in just fine. Don’t catch his tail. Put the case under your coat, make sure he stays warm.” After another moment — possibly spurred by the steward’s incredulous expression – he added more money to the stack, dived back into his cabin and quickly pulled on his parka and accoutrements
Johan, the cabin steward who had been looking after Alder and that verdamnt lizard for some weeks now, gazed dazedly after his charge, then stared down at the not inconsiderable sum of money in his hand.
He shrugged.
Crazy Americans.
Any other proposals to lend assistance were quickly scotched by the attendants, who were eager to ensure an orderly departure for their passengers. They were not quick enough to prevent one passenger – the tall, lanky athletic figure of Alder Bishop – who headed off, presumably to lend assistance, before he could be prevented.
Flora’s eyes widened in recognition as she peered out the window at the tall, lanky man.
Joseph was cold. He was bundled up in his overcoat, a large book, old-looking and exquisitely illustrated on his lap, and his face scrunched up in concentration as he studied it. In fact, examining one page took him so long, he had time to absend-mindedly fiddle with his gloves – on, off, on, off – before he had to turn in. He did so without thinking, to an almost comical effect to anyone watching him. When the train abruptly stopped, he instinctively clutched the volume to his chest with one hand, using his other one to push back the spectacles that came gliding down his nose.
First Class had its benefits, but Karl Stransky had long since pulled on boots as the cold began to creep across the floor of the compartment. He rubbed his hands and considered lighting a pipe.
He gazed out over the unblemished carpet of snow. The sudden stop hadn’t surprised him, and he was well-prepared for it. After all, he’d done this journey dozens of times before. Of course, it wasn’t so long ago there were no border guards to contend with, only the long sweeping expanse of Austria-Hungary from Vienna to Galicia. Perhaps soon this journey would become impossible.
He had a lot to say about Sudetenland, but didn’t engage the Englishmen in conversation, having neither the necessary command of the language nor the inclination to talk politics. Better to consider more peasant diversions.
The arrival of the news of the avalanche, and their proximity to the village made him smile. Bad Bernsdorf, and that meant the Hotel de Saxe. Ah, he wouldn’t mind staying there, not at all.
Karl rose from his seat, pulling on his gloves and dragged a small, perfectly buffed suitcase from the rack. He made his way out of the train both to see how best to proceed and to perhaps offer assistance to any unaccompanied young ladies who might need a hand.
Hunched and miserably cold in third class, Judy heard the announcement with dismay. Hotel de Saxe was designated for First Class passengers and there was no way that she would pass as one of Them. She anxiously scanned the road beside the track for any sign of a wagon. Perhaps she could persuade a driver to let her ride outside with him, although that meant risking frostbite.
She grabbed her small cardboard case and desperately hurried after the attendant, “Please? Hotel de Saxe. I must get there.”
“Pft,” he dismissed her with a hiss, “FIRST. Class. Only” He spoke slowly, as though to an imbecile, grimacing with narrow-faced scorn.
“Please!” She scrabbled through her purse, “I have a booking …” but he had already moved away and let the door to the next carriage slam in her face.
Then the attendant turned, and found him face to face with Karl Stransky (who should have been able to catch a glimpse of Judy’s face as the door slammed on it).
“A third class passenger,” he said to Karl, recovering his usual deference quickly. “They will be found alternative accommodation.”
Somehow, he managed to make the “alternative accommodation” sound singularly insalubrious.
“*Nonsense!* In this weather?” Karl replied in his perfect and most imperious German. “Are we barbarians?”
He grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, gesturing for Judy to disembark.
“Fraulein…Mademoiselle….My Lady?” He ventured, hoping this would elicit a response that would reveal the native language of the young woman.
“Sir, I’m Miss Judy Nowak, I speak English, I was raised there.” She bit her lip which momentarily stopped the nervous babbling, but did nothing to quell her shivers. “I have a booking for Hotel de Saxe. It’s a small room, nothing that anyone else would want.” She did not add that it was the cheapest, that was obvious from the thin wool suit she wore and pitifully battered case.
“Ah, eine Engländerin! Pardon me, my English is not so good. I am Karl, may I help? I know the Hotel de Saxe.” Karl smiled encouragingly,and unwinding his scarf he offered it to Judy. “Please, take.”
“Come to where the wagons will be arriving. We must get you somewhere warm, quickly! I can carry your bag, perhaps?”
After his initial look of confusion, Joseph quickly, but carefully, packed the book into a bag. A chance to see the local architecture with my own eyes! was one of his thoughts, before hearing about the farmer and his sons. He, too, rose to see whether he could be of help, slower than Karl and Alder had been, but no less sincere. His suitcase and bag seemed rather large, but from the way he handled them it was clear they didn’t weigh much. They reflected his traveling life, but they were of good quality and obviously well-cared for.
Steadying his glasses once more, he made his way to, and out of, the doors of the train.
Joseph sent the other gentleman an appreciative glance, agreeing with his actions. He looked around to see whether there was anything he could do for someone, keeping only half an eye on Karl and Judy, as things seem to progressing well there. He was, of course, available to translate, or to help with bags (and cardboard boxes), as the train attendants seemed to be busy.
The train attendants were mostly endeavouring – with a fair measure of success, to keep the passenger on or near the train until the wagons arrived to take them onwards to the inns of Bad Bernsdorf. Joseph inclined his head to the woman standing near him. “Joseph Lawrence. It seems we’ll have a chance to visit the renowned Hotel the Saxe, which I’ve heard is very nice.” He glanced towards the avalanche blocking their path. If there were people trapped there, he would very much like to help. But the train attendants kept telling him that, without knowledge of the snow and the mountains, he would only be in the way. It grated, but if he was more helpful standing here, stand here he would.
Flora was traveling with a trunk which was (she hoped) more or less safely stowed in the baggage car. Clutching her handbag, she made her way out of the carriage and looked up and down the line, spying out the lie of the land and exactly where the baggage car was.
When she appeared in the door behind him, Joseph held out his hand to help Flora down. The gesture was automatic, the smile as he looked at her was genuine. “Can I be of assistance, miss?” he asked politely.
“Thank you, kind sir,” Flora replied, returning the gentleman’s smile as she accepted the proffered assistance. “Do you happen to remember which one is the baggage car?”
“Over there, I think, at the back of the train. May I accompany you?” Joseph answered, arranging his own luggage with a practised gesture, leaving one arm free to assist the lady in the treacherous snow.
Ashton Sherman glided to a halt on his skis near the train attendants. He was a fairly unremarkable looking man and could often be missed in a crowd. He called out to train attendants in his best broken German “Can I help?”
He glanced along the train carriages that were slowly being emptied of their passengers. He noticed one well-dressed gentlemen that he thought he recognised from somewhere. Maybe an art gallery somewhere. Then with surprise he saw a young lady that he didn’t expect to see again.
“Good heavens, Miss DeWilde! What are you doing here?” he exclaimed aloud.
It took a moment for Flora to recognize Ashton Sherman in his skiing gear; it was actually more his voice than his appearance that she recognized. “Why, Mr. Sherman! I should be less surprised to see you here, I suppose. You look considerably more prepared for the conditions than I do!” she laughed. “As you can see, our train has been delayed by the snow. Do you know anything about this Hotel Saxe they’re talking about?”
“What a coincidence,” Joseph said, wonder at how the universe works in his voice. The name Sherman, combined with the face looking at them from the young man on ski’s, was familiar to him as well. “Mr Sherman, who would have thought to see you here? Did you enjoy the rest of the day at the Bellier Gallery in Paris?”
“Mr Lawrence. What a small world this is. Yes, I did enjoy my time at the Bellier Gallery, it was a most fascinating visit.” Ashton turned to look at the mass of snow in front of the train. “If you would both excuse me I should see if I can lend any assistance before heading back to the Hotel.” He moved off towards the train attendants to see what help he could offer them.
Of course he left room for the other man to answer Miss DeWilde’s question about the hotel, although the information he recalled about the fascinating Umgebindehäuser was burning on his lips.
It was about an hour later when the lights of five stout carts could be seen approaching. Well, not so much lights as lanterns, swinging from poles attached to the carts.
The train attendants could be seen to be sighing with relief that soon the passengers would be safely on their way to Bad Bernsdorf. The baggage car attendants had already piled up the cases to be taken to the inns.
At the exclamation Karl turned, made a quick assessment of the passengers, then returned his attention to where the lights are coming from.
He intended to be on the lead cart.
“Quickly, Miss Nowak! Let’s get out of this snow.”
A small smile spread across Joseph’s face. “Well, we may not be here by choice, but that is a beautiful, dreamlike, sight, isn’t it?”
After a moment of silently gazing at the dancing lights, Joseph shook himself awake, and made his way to the baggage car. “Leave those for now,” he suggested to the attendants, indicating several large crates bearing his name. “They are empty anyway, and I’m sure there are others who need their luggage.”
Flora was one of the people who certainly would need her luggage. She was curious about why anyone would be travelling with empty crates.
Joseph would be glad to assist her, and would be oblivious to her questions unless she made them more clear, as to him it’s so obvious. The crates are large, marked with his name, and seem to be custom-made.
Flora was never shy about asking questions when she wanted to know something, which was practically all the time.
“Why on earth are you traveling about with these very handsome crates, with nothing in them, Mr. Sherman?” she asked him. She gave a mischievous smile. “Will they have something in them eventually?”
“I hope so,” Joseph said, sounding hopeful as well. There was a curious mixture of anticipation and other emotions going on, briefly suspended as he first located Ms DeWilde’s bag, only to discover that it had been taken by the attendants, who put it in the carts. “” I’m travelling to Berlin, where I hope to buy some paintings and maybe some other pieces as well. I’m sure they have crates there, but these are made to preserve the art, so I can protect it from wear during travel.” He smiled broadly, fully expecting her to be as excited about preserving something beautiful as he is.
“Oh, I see! That makes perfect sense!” Flora said, an expression of enlightenment coming to her face.
Recent Comments