Finally the woman dismissed them with a rather exasperated shrug and returned to her compartment, clutching the dog and firmly closing the door.
Aware of Dieter's long-suffering sigh, Faro knew there was nothing more he could do. The guard appeared and he asked for a timetable to Heidelberg. 'I do not have one, sir, but we will be arriving in Stuttgart shortly.'
Why should he care what had happened to Helga? He would never know anyway, since this journey on the fabulous Orient Express was almost over for him, something of a wasted experience, since he realised he would remember little but his own frustrations.
Ten minutes later they were approaching Stuttgart, gathering together their luggage, as they prepared to wait on the branch line where the Luxorian train would collect them.
A tap on the door announced the ‘chef de train’. 'Sirs, I have bad news,' he said, handing Dieter a piece of paper which he read, his face expressionless.
'What is it?' demanded Faro anxiously.
Dieter sighed. 'The storm we have come though has done widespread damage. There has been a landslide. The royal train will be delayed for a few hours until the line can be cleared.'
'I have a suggestion, sir,' said the ‘chef de train’, eager to be helpful.
'In English, if you please,' said Faro, determined not to miss any of this vital information.
'Yes, sir. About ten kilometres distant there is an alternative route. The old railway line to the Luxorian border which was closed as unnecessary when the Orient Express took over. It is now used only for freight trains.'
'And?' said Dieter.
'We pass by, a mere half kilometre from the old station. It would be possible to halt there and for you to disembark. It is just a short distance to walk over to the siding, which you will be able to see from the train.'
Dieter frowned, clearly put out by this new suggestion, and Faro decided that knowing even less about the terrain he had better keep his thoughts to himself. Dieter was leader of the party, decisions were in his hands.
'What sort of station facilities are there?' he asked.
'Unfortunately none, sir. It is no longer in use for passengers. They need to keep the line open as the freight trains move a lot slower than our express train. There is a waiting-room, and a porter in attendance. It will be for only a very short time,' he added encouragingly.
As he was speaking, the great train came to a halt. 'Over there, sir, you can see the siding.'
There had been a fall of snow and the black-and-white world, with a wood and a slight hill, was a very unappealing sight.
'It looks like the middle of nowhere,' whispered George.
It did indeed.
The siding had long since ceased to be dignified as a railway station. The Orient Express would have passed it by without being aware of its existence. The recent heavy snowfall did nothing to soften the bleak dreariness and isolation of a tiny hut alongside the platform, the waiting-room a somewhat extravagant description.
Steps were provided to set them down on the track.
The ‘chef de train’ was full of apologies. He was very polite but, to anyone carefully observing his expression, hardly able to conceal his impatience to get his train safely under way again. And not only for the delays to his scheduled timetable. There was another much more important reason: safety.
And that was uppermost in his mind at this moment as he looked anxiously down the track at the lovely gleaming length of his train. He did not know the identity of the two boys, but guessed that the party must be important Luxorian nationals to be able to afford such a journey. He did not want trouble from some irate official in London, so he would make ample provision that they did not go hungry while they waited.
Beside their luggage, a large picnic hamper appeared. ‘This with our compliments, sir. We hope it will make your waiting more pleasant.'
What the Luxorian nationals did not know, and the ‘chef de train’ did not care to impart or brood upon, was that this was a notorious area with greater dangers to life and limb than a heavy snowfall and going hungry for a few hours. There were brigands, notorious killers who would have shot a man for considerably less than the picnic hamper and a few pieces of luggage.
He was already looking over his shoulder as he talked, praying that this wild and apparently empty countryside would not suddenly erupt with whooping gun-firing horsemen, tempted to descend on his precious Orient Express by the prospect of so many treasures within their grasp. In this dangerous territory the freight trains carried guns and the guards went armed. On his train, so civilised and fashionable, there was nothing so vulgar as an armed guard, no soldiers with a gun-carriage at the ready. The thought of his passengers made him want to weep. The ladies, such wealth, such jewels. Such pickings.
Already conscious of illustrious countenances bearing irate looks staring out of windows and standing on the train's steps, demanding to know what the delay was all about, he realised he had lingered too long already. He looked at the little group with their luggage and the picnic basket. Two young boys, he thought sadly. Then he remembered he had daughters that age. Not privileged girls, but ones who would need good dowries.
Should he warn the two men of the possible dangers that lay ahead, just out of sight perhaps? If anything happened to his train he thought of all those other illustrious passengers who would not hesitate to bring an action against La Compagnie Internationale. He shuddered, thinking of the tears and tirades of his wife, the miseries of his children should he be held responsible, brought before a company tribunal, downgraded or worse, dismissed.
No. He must not linger. And bowing quickly, he boarded the train and left their fate in God's hands. He hoped.
