The Intuition: Part 9, Breakfast in Budapest
A Horror Story
Navigation Page
Sunrise washed over Will, asleep on the divan in his sitting room. He had clutched the end of the unfurled roll of blades to his chest, and it lolled across his abdomen, the buckles at the ends of its leather straps jingling with the motion of the train. The cobwebs of dream clung with pernicious tenacity, and he rose into consciousness followed by the phantom of Algood’s maniacal laughter. Will cast a bleary gaze toward the pale dawn illuminating his windows in delicate shades of pink and silver, then ran a hand over his face as he sat up and stared down at the knives. Their honed and wicked grins mocked him in the morning light, all their flirtatiousness of the evening given way to sly knowing. Yes, they knew him and that about him that might ice the blood of the coldest villain.
He hid them once more in their tidy roll and stowed the precious package in his valise before making his hasty ablutions at the washbasin. His tongue felt thick and bitter. The empty wine bottle lay on its side on the dining table, and he eyed it with distaste as he brushed his coat and neatened his cravat. A rap at his door caused his lip to twist in an ill-humored snarl. It would no doubt be Tom, red-eyed and surly after his own evening of excess.
Will was taken aback to see Borja on the other side of the door. The man looked as though he’d had little sleep, his dark eyes glimmering from the bottom of inky wells of shadow, his sharp face set in joyless stoicism.
“I wish you good morning, Lord Dovedale. We are now entering Budapest. The train will stop at Keleti Station to take on coal and water. Will you join me and take the air on the platform? Our stop will be one of some length.”
Borja had the air of a man who had endured much and would endure more without breaking, but Will thought he detected more than an impersonal invitation in his demeanor. The Romanian had something to tell. After Will’s meeting with Madame Elisabeta, he was eager to hear anything that might throw light on what had become a disquieting venture. The train had slowed, and the grand edifice of the station dominated the view from the windows. Will turned back to snatch his hat from a hook beside the door and his pistol from the table.
“It will be my pleasure, Monsieur Borja,” he said, noting the other man’s quick glance at his coat pocket. It pleased him that Borja knew he was armed and ready to make use of the revolver. He smiled at the bearded scowl. “Shall we disembark and find a café? A pot of hot coffee would not be amiss.”
The crowd on the train platform surged in noisy exuberance. Late October air acted as a stimulant upon those who had alighted; they stretched their legs and breathed in the autumn crispness with alacrity. Baggage carts and porters bustled up and down the line of carriages, station masters shouted directives, and beneath all this tumult lay the hiss of water filling the reservoir in the locomotive’s tender and the scrape and rattle of coal shoveled into its bunker.
Will took it all in, a point of still awareness in the din, relegating Borja to a wooden-faced satellite of little interest. He saw Falke descend from the train and turn to assist a dark-spectacled Elke. So, the doctor yet lived. Will’s eyes narrowed as he watched the pair make a slow promenade along the platform, the girl’s gloved hand threaded through Falke’s bent arm. They did not speak, and the doctor patted the hand with rhythmic constancy, as though soothing a nervous horse. Behind them shuffled a weary-looking Marcu.
“My lord,” Borja regained Will’s focus by pointing at the arcade of shops. “There is a café just there, if you please.”
The smell of strong coffee and rich pastries gusted from the shop as Borja opened the door. Once seated, Will waved forward a harried waiter and ordered a pot of coffee and plates of sausages, cheese, and buttered toast with plum jam.
“Fill your stomach, Borja,” he said, pouring a steaming cup, “and empty your secretive soul. Tell me the truth of this hunt for which you’ve hired me. Your antiquarian, if that is what she is, has sprung a murder plot on me while shedding little light upon the prize. I am no assassin, nor did you allude to your need for one. I demand a candid account, or I go no further.”
Borja chewed a bite of sausage with savage concentration, then lay his fork and knife upon his plate. He glanced about the café, only his eyes moving.
“I am afraid, Lord Dovedale, that it is too late for you to consider withdrawing.” He raised a finger, stilling Will’s angry response before it began. His gaze fastened on Will’s and held it. “Allow me to warn you. Madame Elisabeta is a … powerful woman. In her way, she is more powerful than even Prince Grigore, and it is she who has chosen you for this role. She will know everything about you, every flaw and attribute, and she is ruthless in using those in her employ.”
Borja pressed a splayed hand to his chest. “I am not privy to her knowledge of you, my lord. Yet, I have taken your measure, as one man of the world does of another, and I have seen in you no fear of death, neither dealing it nor meeting it. My prince has dire need of such a man. It is not, I regret, so simple as a game of treasure hunting. The relics, of great significance to Madame, are not what Prince Grigore seeks.”
“Indeed,” Will drawled, his brows descending over his turbulent eyes like angry thunderheads. “So, he and Elisabeta differ in their goals. Who is this woman? From what you say, one might almost imagine a struggle between them.”
Borja nodded slowly. “One might. It is an evil knot that binds us. I cannot tell more; you would neither understand nor believe me.” His roving gaze marked a slight figure hesitating in the café’s doorway, and he made a brief chopping motion with his hand. “Stay, my lord, please be silent …”
Elisabeta’s maid threaded her way to their table. Her pale skin had become translucent, her empty eyes like sunken jewels in pits of tender mauve. She nodded at Will, and he fancied her eyes were like windows that something else looked through. The sensation raised the hair on the back of his neck. She turned her attention to Borja.
“Madame wishes your presence.”
Borja wiped his lips and dropped his napkin by his plate. His expression had returned to its former cool neutrality.
“My thanks for breakfast, Lord Dovedale,” he said, with an inclination of his head. Standing, he followed the maid out onto the crowded platform where they were soon swallowed in the press.
“He couldn’t bolt fast enough,” remarked a man at the next table in a jovial voice. Tom materialized from behind a newspaper and slipped into Borja’s vacant seat. Fresh and chipper in tweed jacket and breeches, a flat cap upon his head, he picked up Borja’s abandoned fork and speared a chunk of sausage.
“Barely touched his grub,” he said. “Bloody wasteful, that is. I’ll just fix it for him.”
Will stared at his friend with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “When did you skulk in? I thought to find you laid low as a boiled owl, and here you are bright-eyed as a parson on Sunday morning.”
Tom swept the cap from his head and laid it upon the table as he set to devouring the remains of Borja’s breakfast. His hair was damp and combed, the chestnut curls trimmed and tidy. His face was shaved smooth as a choirboy’s. Sniffing, Will thought he detected a whiff of Bay Rum.
“Had me a clip and shave at the barber’s next door. I saw you and Sir Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-me-mouth come in here, so I thought ole Tom oughtta keep close.” He popped a bit of cheese in his mouth and chewed with relish. “He’s a dodgy cove, that one. Got a face to curdle the milk. What was he telling you, Billy? You looked fit to batty-fang ‘im.”
“He was trying to tell me something unpleasant without saying it aloud.” Will pushed his plate from him. “We must be on our guard, Tom, for everything about this job reeks. Not the least of it is the involvement of our mysterious antiquarian. She is much more than she seems, and none of it to our advantage, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s scarper, then. Plenty of pigeons for the plucking in this town.”
“It won’t be so easy as that, Tom. It seems our nursemaid has come to collect us.” Will nodded toward the café window.
Tom swiveled to look, and his gaze met that of an impassive Marcu. To either side of the broad-shouldered attendant stood one of the liveried porters they had seen at the Vienna station.
“Blimey,” breathed Tom. “What bag ‘o nails have you got us in, boy-o?”
Will stood, his face a study in dangerous calm. “The question, Thomas, is how shall I get us out of it?”
Bag o’ nails indeed,
So dark. The vivid descriptions of location and characters allows the suspense to close in. Enjoying very much.