'Helga is in a constant state of anxiety about her health, even when she is quite well,' said Dieter. 'She suffers from her digestion.'
That, thought Faro, was one answer to her rather flustered manner on the platform.
‘The journey has been difficult for her,' Dieter went on, 'so she decided it would be advisable to spend a few days with her grandmother, who lives here in Paris, to recover before continuing her journey to Germany.'
Faro wondered when the silent and withdrawn Helga had imparted all this personal information to Dieter. Listening to the man as he talked, watching him closely, Faro decided he could hardly argue, although Helga had seemed robust enough on the Club Train journey from Calais, recovered from her seasickness and content to sit in a corner with her knitting. A smooth tale, well-prepared, he thought, but was it the truth? Again his aversion to the man brought a cold feeling of distrust, a twitch of his old intuition returned again.
And the sinister fact remained, what had caused Helga to so abruptly change her mind?
Once more studying Dieter, he made a mental note that he must never relax vigilance, that this man who had appointed himself their leader was an unknown quantity, a ruthless man, one who would not think twice about killing an adversary or of getting rid of someone who was no longer of any use to him, their presence an inconvenience. Especially if he was being paid well to do so.
The train was now gathering speed. Faro was helpless to do anything. He could hardly raise an outcry about a missing passenger and insist on the train returning to the platform while he went in search of Helga.
He bit his lip, frustrated. True, he owed her nothing, her attitude toward him had been indifferent, even faintly hostile, but he could not shake off the fear that some misfortune other than a suspected fever had prevented her from joining the train and continuing the journey with them.
'I wish Helga had told us of her intentions,' he remarked to Dieter, in a tone of stern disapproval.
Dieter grinned at him, a cold mirthless parting of his thin lips. 'She informed Anton of her change of plan.'
Confiding in Anton also seemed rather unlikely, thought Faro.
'You must understand that her English is not good,' Dieter explained. 'She would have found it difficult to explain to you why she was leaving us, and perhaps feared that you might have objections.'
"Why should I have objections?’
Dieter shrugged. 'You might wish for a maid to look after us. Most gentleman in your position would expect such services. For the laundry and so forth.'
'I hardly think we will need the laundry on this train,' Faro said coldly. 'I imagine all such matters are well in hand.'
'I am sure you are right, Mr Faro,' was the smooth reply. 'But look at it this way. Is it not to our advantage and more convenient, as you will surely see, to have four males sharing a compartment - for safety?' he added emphasising the word. 'A lady's presence would have been difficult. We would have had to engage a separate sleeping compartment for her.'
'I had presumed you would have thought of that,' said Faro. 'Surely the train provides places for lady's maids and nannies travelling with their employers.'
Dieter gave him an angry glance. He did not like being questioned. 'I would have found accommodation for Helga once the train had started,' he said shortly. But was that all? Had Dieter regretted his impulse to bring her along, overcome by some crafty measure of thrift that Faro knew nothing about?
The man was an enigma, he thought, as Dieter shrugged and looked out of the window, indicating that the matter was closed.
But was it? Faro continued to have pangs of conscience about Helga, wishing he had taken more notice of her and that he could believe Dieter's story had some elements of truth in it.
The boys announced that they were hungry and when Dieter responded by saying they should all go directly to the restaurant car, they raced ahead and George cannoned into a crusty old gent.
'You should teach your son better manners, sir,' the man said to Faro.
Faro pretended not to hear, the significance of the remark lost upon him as he gazed at the elegant restaurant car. The walls were padded in Spanish leather, the ceiling painted in Italian stucco, and at tables set with linen and silver, ‘petit dejeuner’ was being served. Studying the menu he was unaware of Dieter's puzzled gaze changing into sudden enlightenment.
There were wine glasses and George, tapping one with his finger, said solemnly, ‘Real crystal, Mr Faro, like we have at home.’
Faro smiled, for crystal was one of Luxoria's famous exports. It would have seemed an extravagance considering the possibilities involved in a swaying train, the kind with wooden seats and no facilities, crowded with people and all too often with their animals too - trains that he and Imogen were used to in their travels across Europe - but here was a machine from the world of the future, gliding along the railway lines so smoothly. Imogen would be so envious when he told her about it. He thought wistfully that some day in the future, if they saved enough money, they might manage a very short journey on the Orient Express.
Having observed Faro's anxious reaction to the possible fate of crystal glasses, George said, ‘This carriage, like our sleeping car, is on bogeys, did you know that, Mr Faro?'
Faro shook his head. The only bogeys he knew anything about were of the supernatural variety beloved of Celtic myths.
'Bogeys make travel much safer as they allow the wheels to swivel independently of the carriage and this gives a smoother ride round bends,' was the knowledgeable explanation.
Faro smiled, amazed. 'You know a lot about trains.'
George
