The Detection Collection Page 9

  The man shook his head and both women were now dipping their hands into their hand-luggage.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Emily.

  But Marion’s fingers continued to scrabble around the bottom of her bag, trawling a collection of brochures, tour-guides, papers, documents and whatever; and was placing them all in a pile on the arm-rest beside her when Emily gave a sotto-voce squeak of delight. ‘I’ve got them – both of them!’

  The man checked and clipped each ticket, and moved on a few paces before turning round and eyeing the cases.

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am sorry but …’

  ‘You want them moved?’ asked Marion belligerently.

  ‘Next stopping per’aps many people …’

  ‘We understand,’ said Emily.

  Ernest grinned at me: ‘I think per’aps, er, we ought to …’

  ‘So do I.’

  We both stood up and joined Marion, who was already out of her seat and staring fecklessly at the luggage when Ernest laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and relax. I’ll move the cases to the luggage place at the end of the carriage. They’ll be fine there – it’s where my friend here has left hers.’ He smiled sweetly; and Marion expressed her gratitude equally sweetly as she sat down again – as did I when Ernest insisted that he could manage well enough – better, in fact – without any help from me.

  Quickly the cases were stowed; and with my companion back beside me I had no opportunity of developing a second dazzling sentence that would follow my daring murder of poor big Jimmy. In any case there was soon a further interruption.

  Two uniformed Czech soldiers stood beside us, asking in good English to see our passports. Ernest and I were immediately cleared. As was Emily. But Marion was once again scrabbling away in her bag in a state of incipient panic.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam. We’ll come back.’

  They moved along the carriage, and a flushed-faced Marion turned to Emily. ‘It’s in my wallet. I know it is. But where is the wallet?’

  ‘Didn’t you see it when you were looking for your ticket, dear?’

  ‘I just can’t remember and then you found my ticket and … I’m going mad … I just—’

  She broke off, very close to tears now as, for a second time, she began piling up the bag’s contents on the arm-rest, and as a kneeling Emily was spreading her small hands over every square inch of the carpet around them. And we joined her. With no success.

  ‘I had it when …’ bemoaned Marion. ‘I just wonder if … You know those sort of zip-up things on the side of my case? Yes! I’ll just …’

  She got up and walked to the luggage area, only to return almost immediately, her face betraying disappointment.

  ‘Do you know exactly what else was in the wallet, Marion?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘About a thousand euros – more, I should think.’

  ‘As much as that?’

  ‘You don’t have to rub it in, Emily!’

  A knight in shining armour now rode upon the scene in the form of a dark-suited middle-aged man who had been seated further along the carriage and who spoke excellent English, albeit with an obvious German accent. ‘Excuse me for intruding, ladies. My name is Herr Steiner. I just wonder if I may be of some help to you?’ He explained that he worked with the Canadian Consulate in Vienna, and that he couldn’t help overhearing about the wallet, containing passport, money and (surely?) plastic cards as well. (Marion had nodded.) Above all the good lady should be worried about the cards, because even without a PIN number the thief would for a while have unlimited access to the big stores in the major cities.

  For the first time Marion seemed aware of the full implications of her loss: ‘I shall have to cancel the cards, yes.’

  ‘That’s where I can help you, if you wish it. You have a mobile phone?’

  ‘My good friend here—’

  ‘It’s not charged, dear,’ confessed a contrite Emily.

  ‘Do you have any details about your passport number, card numbers …?’

  Temporarily at ease, Marion produced the sheet of A4 which we had already observed on the arm-rest.

  Herr Steiner perused the sheet carefully: ‘My goodness! Passport number, copy of your photo, card numbers – even your PIN number. You really shouldn’t let anyone see that, you know. But it won’t be difficult to sort out the passport and cancel the cards. And if you would like me to do it for you …?’ The offer was gladly accepted; and very soon we heard Herr Steiner, back in his seat, reeling off strings of numbers in German into his mobile phone.

  Ten minutes later all arrangements had been made: cards cancelled, and the address given of the consulate offices in Vienna. Herr Steiner was back in his seat resuming his reading of Heinrich Heine’s biography. Marion and Emily were now conversing almost normally. Ernest and I were swapping our assessment of the tour so far, and promising to send each other a copy of our short-story entry.

  After crossing the Czech-Austrian border, it came as no surprise that we were subjected to a further passport inspection with (we had been warned) the Austrian police somewhat more officious and perhaps a little more efficient than their Czech counterparts (who, incidentally, had not reappeared). The two men considered our passports carefully, like scrutineers at some electoral recount; then moved on to the Canadian travellers, and it was Herr Steiner who came forward and encored his guardian-angel act. He took the A4 sheet Marion handed to him and showed it to the policemen, itemising the information given in rapid yet quietly spoken German. After some note-taking, and some discussion, their faces impassive, the policemen passed on up the carriage and Herr Steiner translated their instructions to Emily and Marion: when the train reached its destination in Vienna, both of them must remain in the carriage where a station official would meet them.

  And that was about it really. Well, no – it wasn’t.

  Just before we reached Vienna, our group leader came through to ask us to join the main party for a short briefing. Ernest fetched my case and the pair of us left the carriage, bidding farewell to the Canadian ladies, but not to Herr Steiner, who must have been temporarily elsewhere since Heinrich Heine was still lying on his seat.

  And what of Marion’s wallet? Well, it will perhaps surprise my readers to learn exactly what happened to it because I know the full truth of the matter.

  It is easy enough to make a couple of intelligent guesses: first, that the wallet was not lost, but stolen; second, that the theft occurred on the train, and most probably in the very carriage in which Ernest and I found ourselves. Again, motives for the theft are variously obvious: in themselves passports are valuable items for much criminal chicanery, particularly for falsifying identities or legitimising bogus immigrations; the possession of other people’s credit cards, especially with PIN numbers presented on a plate, can be extremely profitable – at least in the short term; and the attraction of a thick wodge of banknotes … Need I say more?

  But who was the guilty party in all this?

  Plenty of suspects. The Czech police would be the obvious ones, since anyone finding the wallet would probably give it to them, and they were on the scene from the start. The Austrian police? If they’d had little opportunity of finding the wallet itself, they’d had ample time to note down its key contents, so obligingly set forth on the sheet Marion had handed them. But why, if they were the guilty party, did they bother to arrange a meeting with a ‘station official’ in Vienna? If, in fact, they had done so …

  But no! Cross all four off the list, as well as the ticket collector – no, I’d not forgotten him! I know that in detective stories it is frequently the unlikeliest who turn out to be the crooks; but in real life it is usually the likeliest; and for me it was that smoothie of a ‘diplomat’ (ha!) who had moved into the top spot. Was it really necessary for him to spend so long studying Marion’s sheet when he’d ph
oned – if in truth he was talking to anyone? And where was he when he left the carriage? Not in the toilet or the buffet-car because he would have had to pass us if he’d visited either. And he didn’t. And incidentally, he wasn’t the thief either.

  So what we needed was a sharply observant detective, like Poirot, say – or someone like me. For I was the one who had observed the thief bend down to pick up a deliberately dropped Vienna guide from the dark blue carpet at the side of the aisle; and to pick up something else at the same time – the semi-camouflaged wallet, also dark blue, and casually to slip both items into what he called his Fisherman’s Bag. That person was Ernest, my companion.

  How he profited from his theft I do not know, and have little desire to know. But it was a sad day for me when he came to sit beside me on that journey. The saddest recollection of all, though, is a small thing, yet one I always shall remember. As the train was slowing down at the outskirts of Vienna, Emily got down on her knees and felt along the whole of the carpet once more. I could have – should have – told the poor old dear that she was wasting her time. But I didn’t.

  Finis

  Well, there it is, Ronald. Sorry I couldn’t think of a decent anagram of your Christian name: ‘Roland’ is far too weak. But your surname came to the rescue, tho’ I’ve never been too fond of ‘Ernest’. Do read the story and let me know what you think.

  Fond regards,

  Diana (Duncan-Jones)

  P.S. No Brownie points for guessing the ‘one incident’ that’s been changed!

  29 Emmanuel Road

  Cambridge

  14th August

  Dear Diana,

  Thank you for your story – much enjoyed – although the last two paragraphs were a bit painful to tell you the truth. I understand why you had no joy in trying to anagram Ronald but I trust I’ve done better with you! I haven’t got your skill as a writer since (until your dénouement) you describe the sequence of events with accuracy and economy and you quite certainly took our leader’s injunction to heart about just changing one of the incidents. I’ve decided not to enter the competition myself but I’ve girded my loins and written an ending which relates far more closely to the truth. Ready? I begin with ‘So what we needed …’

  So what we needed was a sharply observant detective, like Poirot, say – or someone like me! For I was the one who had noticed Nadia bend down on the pretext of retrieving a deliberately dropped guide-book and picking up the wallet with it and nonchalantly slipping both into her capacious handbag. I cannot believe she was sufficiently street-wise to understand the full potential of the wallet’s contents. But I do know (she had told me on the tour) that she was getting uncomfortably short of ready monies. How she profited from her theft I have no desire to know but it was a sad day for me when I went through to join her on our railway journey. I said nothing to Nadia of course since I felt a keen distaste for the bloated Marion who looked as if she’d been stuffing her stomach with the most expensive meals in the most expensive restaurants in Prague – probably at the expense of the emaciated Emily.

  Finis

  Now listen Diana! For me the saddest thing of all is that we should both have come out of this with our reputations tarnished at least on the printed page since clearly neither of us has a particularly high opinion of the other. I must admit though that I took a bit of a shine to you and I think I still would have but for our time on the train together. What a pity things have ended like this! I shall put pen to paper no more about that strange morning since I am not such a big fan as you are of the ‘changed incident’ guidelines. But as you will have noticed I have changed just that one little thing: I did not actually see you pick up the wallet. I did however see the wallet in your handbag and I did see you push it down deeper so that it was no longer visible.

  On a final and more constructive note let me congratulate you on your much more economical use of dashes and let me congratulate myself on using not a single comma in this letter to you.

  Ronald Sterne

  Extract From a Diary

  Feb 5th 2005

  I’ve only a few weeks to live, they tell me, and tho’ I was brought up as an R.C. I’ve never been into a confessional to tell of the sins I’ve committed. In any case I’ve no real regrets for any of them. My only confidante in life has been you, dear diary, and this will almost certainly be my last entry.

  Marion and I were in the same class in secondary school; but after leaving we had exchanged only a few perfunctory letters over the years. So it came as a surprise when she wrote to me early last year informing me that her (second!) husband, a big wig with BA, had died, and inviting me, a lifelong spinster, to join her on a fortnight’s Hapsburg Holiday, dividing our time between Prague, Vienna and Budapest. An additional carrot was Marion’s promise of an upgrade to Club Class (thanks to her late husband), and it was that which swayed me. I felt fairly sure that I could, in spite of my deteriorating health, just about cope with the travel, and almost everything else really – and I accepted the invitation.

  Marion had always been a big and bouncy and bullying girl at school, and I had been hurt deeply (we were both seventeen) when she had robbed me of the only boyfriend I’ve ever had in my life, one of the sixth-formers a year ahead of us: Jonathan. And it took a very short time for me to realise that her boisterous nature had blossomed over the years (thirty-five of them) and developed into a selfish bossiness that I found well-nigh intolerable on occasions. Increasingly I found I had no real say about where we went, what we ate, at what time we did whatever she’d decided to do. I won’t go on.

  At one point tho’ things did become intolerable.

  Many times when we were sitting together over a meal or over drinks, we spoke of our school days; and the evening before we were to catch our train from Prague to Vienna she asked me a question quite out of the blue.

  ‘Did you ever keep in touch with Jonathan?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was very sweet on you, you know.’

  ‘Not as sweet as he was on you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. After you’d left school and gone off to Shropshire – and after things had cooled down between us—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He asked me if I had your new address.’

  ‘Which you did have.’

  ‘Of course. But he would have been no good for you, Emily dear.’

  ‘Did you give him my address?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. He was a bit of a wimp, you know, and I thought you’d got over him by then – like I had.’

  ‘Don’t you think that what I thought was more important than what you thought?’

  ‘To be truthful, Emily, I don’t, no.’

  That was it – virtually verbatim, I swear it. I didn’t want to murder Marion, not quite, but I desperately wanted to hurt her. How? I’d no real idea, but someone was smiling down on me the morning we boarded the Vienna-bound train.

  Seated immediately behind us were two youngish things on a group holiday; he, Ronald by name (we could hear all they said) seemed a pleasant enough fellow, with a quietly diffident manner, in sharp contrast to his companion, named Diana, who sounded a selfish little bitch, openly flirting with her beau and equally openly bemoaning her shortage of cash. But both of them got up to help Marion when the ticket-man told us to move our luggage. So I was left alone for a couple of minutes, and all I needed was a couple of seconds. My opportunity! I took Marion’s wallet from her bag and through the gap at the back of our seats I pushed it down into Diana’s open hand-luggage. A lightning impulse and so risky. If the girl had told us of her great surprise at finding the wallet in her bag, who could have done the deed – except me? And I have never in my life felt so relieved as when we finally reached Vienna without her saying a word about the matter.

  Marion soon bounced back of course from this slightly distressing experience. The station official at Vienna was charming and helpful; the consulate had already made arrangements for the passport, all cards
had been cancelled; the insurance company later coughed up not only for the euros but even for the wallet. This last information I learned when she rang me a few weeks later, but we have not communicated since. My one remaining hope is that she will not hear of my death and turn up to shed a perfunctory tear at my funeral. But I mustn’t be too hard on her. At least I enjoyed flying Club Class.

  Just one thing I’m vaguely curious about: I wonder whether Diana and Ronald kept in touch after they reached home, and if so what they said to each other. At least he would have had knowledge of her address, surely so – which, alas, is more than Jonathan had of mine.

  THE LIFE-LIE

  Robert Barnard

  ‘It’s going to be a hard couple of days,’ said Einar Høgset. Arnoldus Fossli simply shrugged. ‘One might have hoped that age had mellowed him, but …’ Høgset went on, gesturing at a pile of newspapers.

  ‘Verdensgang,’ said Fossli bitterly. ‘The Way of the World. If this is the way the press is leading us, God help us.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not leading us, but following. The appetite for sensational stories about prominent people seems to be universal nowadays.’

  ‘Maybe. And perhaps he has behaved badly. But didn’t he have cause? The world’s greatest dramatist on a seventieth-birthday tour of honour to Copenhagen, the gastronomic capital of Scandinavia, and what do they offer him? Two sandwiches and a bottle of schnapps.’

  ‘It shows a terrible lack of sophistication,’ agreed Høgset. ‘And Stockholm was no better.’

  ‘To address him at a formal dinner as “du” – the familiar form! The whole world knows he expects “de” except from close friends.’

  ‘Of whom there are remarkably few. Yes, it’s no wonder he marched straight out of the hall … We in Bergen will do much better in both respects.’

  ‘True,’ said Fossli. ‘Because we have been warned – by Verdensgang. But remember, there must be millions of other ways of offending, irritating, or insulting Herr Ibsen. And most of those we have not been forewarned about. The possibilities for disaster are endless.’ He looked around the cavernous spaces of the Hotel Bristol, as if to get a warning on other potential pitfalls during the impending visit, but no inspiration struck.