Tear of the Desert

Maybe it was just a dream. Maybe not. But it was incredible enough that I had to write it down.

My adventure began on a Friday evening. I took one last look around the car dealership’s workshop before grabbing my bag and turning off the lights.

In the parking lot, my boss caught up with me and waved me over.

“Dian, my boy! I’ve noticed you’ve been working late the past few days. Don’t you have a family waiting for you at home?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m single. Why, are you interested?”

He laughed loudly and wiggled the ring on his finger. “Sorry, I’m already off the market. But seriously, you look exhausted. Get some rest. I don’t want to see you in the shop before ten on Monday!”

I gratefully accepted the offer. It had indeed been a tough week. Now I was looking forward to nothing more than a huge döner kebab, a hot bath, a bit of TV, then falling into bed and sleeping in.

The plan almost worked. But stuffed from the kebab and relaxed from the hot bath, I fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV.

A biting smell woke me from my slumber. A smell of old urine and burnt wood. The room gently swayed under the sound of a steady rattling. A steam locomotive’s whistle howled.

Sleepily, I opened my eyes and found myself sitting on a toilet seat. Daylight filtered through a frosted window into the narrow and plain cabin I was in. The furnishings were completely outdated. The walls were wood-paneled. Opposite the window hung a simple, stain-speckled mirror on the wall. Below it was a small, enameled sink. A white-painted pipe ran from the ceiling past the mirror and ended at a small faucet. On a hook on the door hung the white jacket of a uniform along with the matching cap.

In disbelief, I shook my head. “This must be a dream,” I muttered.

But it didn’t feel like a dream. My mind was wide awake, my surroundings real. I could see, hear, feel, and unfortunately, even smell everything.

A loud banging on the door. “Lacombe, what’s going on, did you fall asleep in there?” called an energetic male voice. “We have guests waiting for you!”

Lacombe? Why Lacombe?

“You must have me confused with someone else,” I replied.

The answer came promptly.

“Don’t get cheeky, Lacombe! I can hear it’s you.”

The man rattled the doorknob, but the door was locked from the inside. He banged even harder. The lock cracked loudly, and one of the screws fell out.

I figured it was better to play along. In here, I was clearly at a disadvantage.

“Alright, I’ll be right out!” I called back indignantly.

The man stopped banging. He muttered a few unintelligible words, then walked away.

I took a deep breath. The danger was averted. For now. I quickly pulled up my pants and flushed. A bit of water gurgled sluggishly from the tank on the ceiling and ran through the bowl.

Then I washed my hands. The man looking back at me from the other side of the mirror was unmistakably me, with my brown hair styled into a full side part, my hazel eyes, and my well-groomed stubble. The white shirt on my body, carefully ironed and starched, couldn’t possibly belong to me, though.

I looked at the jacket on the hook. It was also white and had a row of gold buttons. The cut wasn’t modern, but the clothing looked brand new and was of good quality. A small brass name tag pinned to the lapel bore the name that wasn’t mine.

I put on the jacket; it fit me perfectly. So did the cap, which bore the words “Wagon Restaurant” in shiny letters.

Cautiously, I unlocked the door and opened it a crack. Beyond was the entryway of a train car.

Carefully, I moved to the next car. There, waiting for me, was an older and portly gentleman in a dark blue uniform. His name tag identified him as Monsieur Moreau. A double row of buttons and the shape of his cap indicated that he held a higher rank than I did. It must have been the man I had the dubious pleasure of encountering earlier, as his choleric red face revealed.

When he noticed me, he puffed up like a pufferfish. “Did you finally conclude your session, Lacombe?” he thundered. “Guests are waiting for your service at the table. Get moving!”

With his enormous hands, he ushered me into a narrow corridor paneled with fine teak wood. I walked through it and reached a dining area, furnished as old-fashioned as seemingly everything else in this train. Crimson curtains hung at the windows, in front of which tables were set with white tablecloths, folded napkins, and small vases with colorful flowers. Heavy chairs covered in beige leather awaited guests.

At one table sat a couple. He wore a classic suit, she a white blouse and a hat that, while elegant, seemed completely outdated. When the man saw me, he waved me over impatiently. He ordered two coffees and the daily newspaper.

During my training as a mechanic, I had a summer job as a waiter in a café to boost my bank account. That experience now helped me quickly find my way in this peculiar role. I went to the kitchen, ordered the desired coffee from the cook, and asked about the daily newspaper.

“The newspapers will be brought on board in Belgrade,” he explained as he placed two cups on a tray, took a huge pot from a stove, and poured the coffee.

I raised an eyebrow. Belgrade wasn’t exactly close to where I had been earlier, lounging in front of the TV with my hand in a bag of chips.

He noticed my look. “We’ll arrive there around half past four,” he added.

On my wrist, I found an old-fashioned, simple wristwatch showing four twenty-five.

“Oh, that’s in just five minutes!” I realized.

The cook looked startled at his own watch. Then he started to laugh. “Lacombe, you forgot to set your watch back an hour after leaving Sofia.”

I took the tray and carried it to the table. While serving the coffee, I told the man that he would have to wait a good hour for his newspaper. He grumbled briefly, then handed me a small coin as a tip – under the stern gaze of his wife.

As our train pulled into Belgrade, the sun was already setting behind the horizon. Passengers disembarked and boarded, luggage and cargo were loaded, while the locomotive was coupled to the other end of the train.

Exactly ten minutes later, our train rolled out of the terminal station again. In the kitchen, preparations for the dîner were in full swing.

I was just about to serve a group of travelers their apéritifs when two gentlemen intercepted and pulled me aside. At first glance, they looked like ordinary passengers until they discreetly showed me their badges and introduced themselves as Inspector Reynaud from the Sûreté and Lieutenant Barnes from Scotland Yard.

Reynaud asked me to take them to the Chef de Brigade. I nodded and brought them to the kitchen, where Moreau was just roasting the cook.

When he noticed me with the two gentlemen, he loomed over me. “Passengers have no business here, Lacombe!”

I shook my head. “These two gentlemen are from the police and want to see the Chef de Brigade,” I justified myself. “Can you tell me where to find him?”

For a moment, Moreau’s face looked as if he had swallowed a cork. Then he thundered, “Lacombe! Who the hell do you think is standing in front of you?”

Inspector Reynaud stepped forward, showed Moreau his badge, and introduced himself and his colleague. Then he explained the reason for their visit.

“We suspect that a thief is on this train, who stole a valuable aquamarine in Constantinople.”

I had to chuckle. “Constantinople? You mean Istanbul!”

Suddenly, everyone fell silent and looked at me as if I had just claimed that turtles could fly.

Then Moreau grabbed my arm and dragged me aside. “I don’t know what’s suddenly gotten into you, Lacombe. But one more foolishness, and I will ensure that this is your last trip for the Compagnie.”

Reynaud cleared his throat and looked at us sternly before continuing his speech. “Unfortunately, the thief’s appearance is unknown. We ask the staff to report anything suspicious immediately and discreetly. The thief may be armed, so be cautious and don’t play the hero!”

Moreau promised to inform the rest of the staff. Reynaud thanked him. Then I led the two policemen to a free table in the restaurant, from which they had a good view of the car.

I retreated to a secluded corner and risked a glance back into the restaurant to ensure Moreau couldn’t see me here. At first, I found this dream rather amusing, an interesting change from the usual nightly visions. But it had been dragging on for over an hour now, and Moreau’s nastiness was becoming unbearable. I rubbed my arm, still sore from his last tirade. As much as I wanted to wake up, I couldn’t. I seemed to be a prisoner of this strange world.

A man in a railway company uniform approached me. His badge told me his name was Monsieur Charpentier, and his cap identified him as Conducteur. His face was gaunt and deeply lined. Above his thin lips, he sported a broad gray mustache, which he groomed meticulously. He looked at me seriously, and it seemed to me that was his only expression.

“Lacombe,” he spoke slowly, “in the rear luggage car are the newspapers we picked up in Belgrade. Please distribute them to the passengers in the compartments and the dining car.”

I nodded and immediately got to work.

The train consisted of a steam locomotive and six cars, as I noted. My journey had begun in the luggage car, the one that had been coupled to the locomotive in Belgrade, making it the front of the train. It was followed by the dining car and three sleeping cars, before the train concluded with another luggage car. There, I indeed found a stack of newspapers, carefully bound into a package. I removed the band, took the newspapers, and began knocking on the compartment doors one by one.

Most passengers were uninterested or didn’t even open the door. When I reached compartment 10, I once again faced the man from this afternoon.

“It’s about time!” he growled, snatching a copy of the Daily Telegraph from my hand.

“Darling,” I heard his wife from the background, “the Serveur can’t help that the newspaper only reached the train in Belgrade.”

He glared at me, nodded briefly, and slammed the compartment door in my face.

I sighed and moved on. Eventually, I knocked on the door of compartment 3. A young woman opened the door. She wore a simple, elegantly embroidered blue blouse with long sleeves that accentuated her figure and flowed into a wide, floor-length skirt. The small hat on her head matched the style of her clothing. Still, her outfit looked like a costume from a play, as her light blonde hair, styled into a cheeky pixie cut with blue streaks, seemed oddly out of place.

She was alone in the compartment, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had brought her to this part of the world.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to say something, or do I need to insert a coin first?”

I realized that I had been staring at her the whole time like an idiot. Embarrassed, I cleared my throat.

“Would you like the Daily Telegraph?”

“That depends… Is it today’s paper?”

“It’s definitely fresh off the press!” I said, annoyed, looking at my fingers stained with ink. “What’s today’s date?”

Now she raised the other eyebrow as well. “It’s March 16th, isn’t it?”

I found the date on the newspaper. It read March 15th, so it was from yesterday.

Then I read further. And read it again. I couldn’t believe what was printed there in black and white.

My stomach tightened. I felt dizzy. The newspapers slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. I looked into the woman’s face, it seemed miles away. I wanted to speak, but my lungs were cramping up.

Before I could collapse, she caught me and, with surprising strength, pulled me onto the seat of her compartment.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”

“The year,” I stammered, pointing to the newspapers. “It says it’s 1909! None of this makes any sense!”

She widened her eyes. I couldn’t blame her. After this embarrassing display, she must have thought I’d completely lost my marbles.

I took a deep breath and tried to regain my composure. I quickly apologized and attempted to stand up, but she pulled me back onto the seat.

“Please show me your left wrist!” she requested.

It was an odd request, but what wasn’t odd about this dream? Hesitantly, I pushed up my sleeve and presented her with my forearm. She reached for my wristwatch and removed it.

Two parallel black lines tattooed on my wrist were revealed.

“What is this?” I asked, horrified. “Where did this tattoo come from?”

I tried to wipe away the marks, but without success. They looked as if they’d always been there and would accompany me for the rest of my life.

The woman cast a quick glance down the corridor, then hurriedly gathered the newspapers from the floor and closed the compartment door.

She looked at me, and for a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then she asked, “You think this is something like a dream, don’t you? But everything seems so real, and you can’t wake up.”

I widened my eyes. “How do you know that?”

She pushed up her left sleeve. On her wrist was the same symbol.

“It’s nice to finally meet a fellow traveler,” she said, grinning broadly. “My name is Miray. And you are Lacombe?”

She pointed to my name tag.

I shook my head. “No, actually, my name is Dian. Have you had dreams like this before?”

Miray pursed her lips. “A few! They started a few months ago.”

“How did you manage to wake up again?”

“I only succeeded after solving a task.”

I paused. “A task? What kind of task?”

“Different every time. The clues are hidden in the dreams. I had to find them and piece them together.”

I looked at my wrist. Two marks and two dreaming people, that surely had to be connected.

“Maybe your task was to find me?”

Miray shook her head and pointed to her tattoo. “When the task is completed, a green circle appears. Only then can I wake up.”

Thoughtfully, I looked out the window. Outside, a barren Mediterranean landscape passed by, with fields, pastures, and groves alternating. The sun had long since disappeared behind a mountain range on the horizon, casting the clouds in the sky in a deep pink sunset.

“Where are we, anyway?” I asked.

“The last station was Zimony, before that Belgrade. If I paid attention in school, we’re traveling through the Kingdom of Serbia.”

“And what kind of train is this?”

“A train of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, on its way from Constantinople to Paris.”

I squinted my eyes. “Compagnie Internationale…”

“…des Wagons-Lits, better known as the Orient Express.”

“People always liked sitting next to you during exams, didn’t they? But how did you know what day it is today?”

Miray opened a small handbag, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to me. It was a ticket from the Compagnie, valid for a journey from Sofia to Paris and stamped on March 16, 1909.

She smirked. “Did you think I was traveling without a ticket?”

Embarrassed, I rubbed the back of my head. “And now?” I asked. “How do we find out what task we need to complete?”

“I was hoping to find a clue in the newspaper.”

Miray picked up a Daily Telegraph from the pile and began skimming the headlines. It didn’t take long before she held an article under my nose.

“Famous Aquamarine Stolen!” I read aloud. “In a spectacular heist last Sunday in Constantinople, the legendary aquamarine Tear of the Desert was stolen from the heavily secured Topkapı Palace. The thief is on the run to London, and an international manhunt is already underway. All routes out of the city are being monitored by the police.”

I nodded. “Right, in Belgrade, two plainclothes officers boarded, looking for the thief.”

Miray clapped her hands with excitement. “A thief on the run, undercover officers on the train, we’ve got our adventure! Do the officers have a photo or description of him?”

“Unfortunately, no. They said no one knows what he looks like.”

The smile vanished from her face. “This won’t be easy. The thief isn’t exactly going to introduce himself to us.”

Pondering, we stared out the window. If we didn’t want to be stuck here forever, we needed an idea of how to unmask the thief. But I couldn’t think of anything.

Miray pointed at my uniform cap. “So, what exactly is your job?”

“You mean, besides making my boss’s life miserable?” I gave a sheepish smile. “I’m a serveur – a waiter in the dining car.”

“That gives me an idea!” Miray said, grinning widely.

Outside, it was already dark when the express left the station of the Serbian town of Subotica and made its way to the Hungarian border. The schedule indicated that we wouldn’t reach our next station, Budapest, for another three hours. For the passengers, there was nothing to do but enjoy the luxury on board. The few travelers who had boarded at the last stop were still settling into their compartments, while others were having an aperitif or dinner in the dining car’s salon.

Miray had dressed up for the evening. I brought her to a table for two in a corner from where she could oversee everything.

Our plan was to guide solitary gentlemen who seemed suspicious to us to their table. Miray would then try to learn more about them through small talk. As it turned out, the gentlemen needed no excuse to be allowed to keep her company. One even took me aside and discreetly stuffed a bill into my lapel pocket to bring him to her table.

Meanwhile, I continued with my work, taking orders and serving food and drinks. I almost forgot the peculiar situation I was in. Instead, I noticed a great advantage of my role. Most guests paid no attention to me and chatted while I stood next to them at the table, pretending not to listen.

Inspector Reynaud and Lieutenant Barnes had also discreetly taken a seat at one of the tables. I served them coffee and then used the opportunity to wait within earshot and eavesdrop on their conversation.

They were discussing the burglary. The thief apparently took advantage of the construction work taking place in the palace. He had lured one of the guards away to enter the building unnoticed. When he stole the gemstone, he triggered an alarm, but when the guards arrived, they found nothing but a smashed display case, in which a fox-red right velvet glove lay instead of the stone.

This glove, Barnes explained to his colleague, was the trademark of the notorious English master thief Velvet Fox. He had already caused trouble in several European cities. Now he was expanding his radius to the Orient. Scotland Yard had been trying to catch him for a long time, but so far without success.

A young woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to bring her sandwiches with salmon and capers to her compartment. Quite an exotic choice, I thought, but the cook nodded completely unimpressed and quickly put it together. After I delivered the snack to her and was on my way back to the dining car, I encountered Miray in the corridor. She looked tired.

“How did it go with your three gentlemen so far?” I asked curiously.

She sighed. “Not well. The first was a banker. He reeks of money and expensive cigars, and certainly doesn’t need to steal gemstones. Then I had a representative for machine parts at my table, who was in Belgrade on business and told me all about his patented camshafts. I don’t think he’s interested in anything else.”

“And the third?”

“He’s expecting me later for an intimate Tête-à-Tête in his compartment. It seems he’s already planning our wedding.”

“Well, congratulations,” I remarked sarcastically.

She smirked mischievously. “I can introduce you to him! Maybe he has a sister who’s just as annoying as he is.”

With that, she left me standing. I watched her walk down the corridor and turn at the end. Then I shook my head and couldn’t help but grin broadly. Her cheeky manner tickled something in me.

Around ten p.m., the restaurant emptied out. A young couple was still sitting at one of the tables. They looked at each other lovingly and whispered to each other while picking at their dessert. From another table came loud laughter. Four businessmen were presumably celebrating a good deal and were in the process of emptying the fifth bottle of champagne.

The door to the restaurant opened, and an older but athletic-looking man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a mustache entered. He was so tall that he had to tilt his head slightly to avoid hitting the door frame.

“You can take a seat at the table over there with the Mademoiselle,” I greeted him and pointed to Miray’s table.

He glanced around briefly and sat wordlessly at an empty table right by the door.

“As you wish, Monsieur,” I remarked dryly and handed him the evening’s menu. He glanced over it briefly and just nodded.

As a first course, I served him a consommé. I wished him a good appetite and was about to leave when I stepped on something. It was a compartment key.

I picked it up.

“Is this your key, Monsieur?”

He just nodded, took the key, and pocketed it. Then he looked at me.

“Anything else?” he growled quietly.

I hastily shook my head, muttered an apology, and made my way back to the kitchen.

At Miray’s table, I stopped and pretended to take her order.

“What an unfriendly guy,” I whispered to her.

She discreetly looked in the direction I came from.

“The big guy at the other end of the car?”

“Exactly. He’s irritable and not very talkative. Also… Look at his glasses! It’s like he’s hiding his face behind them.”

Miray scrutinized him for a moment, but she hesitated.

“He didn’t want to sit with you either,” I added.

“That’s really quite suspicious!” She giggled softly. “But something’s definitely off about him. We should take the opportunity to search his compartment while he’s here. Can you find out the number?”

I grinned.

“Already done. It’s compartment 26. He lost his key at the table earlier.”

She looked at me excitedly and held out her hand.

“I, of course, returned it.”

Miray sighed theatrically. “Of all times, you have to try to become Employee of the Month now. You don’t have a key to the compartments yourself?”

“I’m just a simple serveur, Mademoiselle,” I played, feigning indignation. “But I know who can let us in. Let’s meet at the rear sleeping car!”

I discreetly left the restaurant. At the entrance to the rear sleeping car, I stopped and waited for Miray, who followed a few moments later.

I pointed to Charpentier, who was sitting at the other end of the corridor on a folding seat, staring out the window, bored.

“Charpentier is the conducteur of the train,” I whispered to her. “He surely has a master key and could unlock the compartment for us.”

“But he won’t do it without a good reason,” she whispered back.

“Let me handle this,” I said, signaling Miray to stay put. Then I set off. I had an idea, but no clue if Charpentier would play along.

When he noticed me, he sat up straight and adjusted his cap.

“What do you want, Lacombe?” he asked with an annoyed tone.

“The gentleman from compartment 26 forgot his wallet and asked me to get it for him. Could you open the door for me?”

Charpentier pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through it briefly. “That’s Monsieur Martens’ compartment,” he noted. “Didn’t he give you his key?”

“No. And Monsieur Martens is not in a particularly good mood. I’d rather not return empty-handed and ask him for it.”

Charpentier groaned, got up heavily from his seat, and unlocked the compartment. He let me in but remained standing in the doorway, watching me suspiciously.

I glanced around briefly. A trench coat hung on a coat hook, and a small suitcase lay on the couch. There wasn’t much else to see at first glance, but with the conducteur at my back, I couldn’t search more thoroughly.

“How much longer do you need, Lacombe?” he pressed.

“Strange! The Monsieur said his wallet was on the table, but it’s not here.”

“Then he might have it with him after all. Now come on!”

I had to find a way to get rid of my watchdog, but I couldn’t think of anything.

Then Miray suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“Pardon,” she addressed Charpentier, “could you check the lavatory at the back? The light isn’t working.”

“That’ll have to wait,” he grumbled, trying to dismiss her.

“It can’t wait,” she protested indignantly.

“You can see I’m busy!”

Miray shrugged her shoulders. “Well, then I’ll have to bother the chef de brigade with this little problem.”

Charpentier groaned in annoyance, adjusted his jacket, and raised a warning finger. “Close the door when you’re done, Lacombe!”

Miray watched him as he shuffled down the corridor. As soon as he disappeared at the other end, she jumped into the compartment and quickly closed the door behind her.

“He’ll be back any moment,” I urged excitedly.

Miray grinned. “I don’t think so.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and showed me a light bulb wrapped in it.

“Hopefully, it’ll take him a while to find a new one. Still, we should hurry.”

“You’ve got some nerve!” I groaned, and turned my attention to Martens’ luggage, a small brown leather suitcase. I could easily open the two outer clasps, but the middle lock was tightly secured.

“Strange,” I heard Miray say. “In his coat, I found nothing but a single glove in the inside pocket.”

I perked up. “Is it a fox-red velvet glove? Perhaps even a left one?”

Astonished, she held the item out to me. “How did you know?”

“Bullseye!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s the calling card of the Velvet Fox! The police said the other glove was found in the museum’s display case.”

“Then Martens is indeed our thief!” Miray cheered. “The aquamarine could be in his suitcase. Can you get it open?”

“Unfortunately not. It’s locked, and the lock looks very sturdy.”

Miray slapped her fist into her other hand. “Damn! We won’t get any further without help. Can you get the two police officers, Dian? I’ll keep looking around in the meantime.”

I nodded and left the compartment.

My heart was pounding as I hurried back to the dining car. Had we actually cracked the case before the police? In my pocket, I felt the velvet glove, an unmistakable piece of evidence!

In the restaurant, I still found Martens at his place. Unaware, he cut a piece of steak and pushed it through a brown sauce with his fork. Further back sat Inspector Reynaud and Lieutenant Barnes, sipping their coffee bored. Surely their mood would soon improve.

I approached them and whispered proudly, “We found the thief.”

I discreetly pointed at Martens.

Lieutenant Barnes scoffed. “And what makes you so sure?”

Without drawing attention, I pulled the piece of evidence from my pocket and placed it on the table. Inspector Reynaud quickly took it and examined it with wide eyes.

“How do you know about the velvet glove?” he asked quietly. “That information wasn’t released!”

I cleared my throat awkwardly. “I overheard you at the table earlier, discussing the case.”

Reynaud and Barnes stared at each other in disbelief. Then Barnes took command. “To the kitchen,” he ordered, “now!”

They stood up and escorted me to the back. In the kitchen, Moreau was already waiting for me. He immediately went for me. “Nice of you to finally show up, Lacombe,” he snapped. “I was about to send someone to find you.”

The police ignored him. They had more pressing questions. “How the hell did you get this glove?” Barnes barked.

Gratitude looked different. Instead, the mood now turned against me. Was it my fault they preferred drinking coffee over searching for the thief themselves?

I took a deep breath. “We found the glove in his jacket when we searched his compartment.”

Moreau slammed his fist on the counter, making the dishes clatter. “What have you done, Lacombe? You searched a passenger’s compartment?” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Reynaud raised his hands to calm things down. “We’ll deal with that violation later. But why do you say ‘we’? Who are you working with?”

“The woman from compartment 3.”

“Another passenger?” Reynaud asked, surprised. “How do you know the Madame?”

“We met on the train today,” I replied truthfully. Only at that moment did I realize how naive and reckless that must have sounded.

Reynaud rubbed his forehead. “You’ll have to explain that to me in detail later.”

Then he nodded to his colleague. “The glove is a strong piece of evidence. We should follow the lead!”

When we returned to the restaurant, I gasped.

Martens’ chair was empty. His meal was still there, with a piece of meat on the fork, the knife half-submerged in the sauce. He must have jumped up and rushed out.

“He’s gone!” I shouted in panic. “Miray is waiting in his compartment for us. He’ll surprise her there!”

We rushed to the rear sleeping car. There, Charpentier stood in front of the open door to compartment 26, staring helplessly inside. When he saw us coming, he waved us over excitedly.

“The door was open, and a suitcase is missing!” he blurted out. “It must have been that Mademoiselle who distracted me after I unlocked for Lacombe.”

He looked at me accusingly, as if it were all my fault.

Moreau seized the moment to grab me by the collar and shake me.

“You helped a stranger break into this compartment, and now a suitcase has been stolen?” he yelled at me.

I was amazed that he could still raise his volume even further.

“That’s enough, Lacombe! I’ve had it with you. You’re fired! Pack your things; you’ll leave the train in Budapest. I don’t want to see you again.”

Inspector Reynaud stepped in and took Moreau aside.

“We need to find the accomplice first,” he said calmly. “She must still be on the train. We didn’t come across her on our way here, so she can only have escaped in the other direction.”

“Besides, the suspect is gone,” added Lieutenant Barnes, “he’s probably with her.”

Moreau reluctantly nodded and let go of me.

“When will we reach Budapest?” Barnes asked.

Moreau glanced at his watch. “In about thirty minutes.”

“We need to catch them before then! If they disembark there, we’ll lose their trail.”

Barnes grabbed me and twisted my arm behind my back. Then he pushed me forward. We were just passing the transition to the rear luggage car when the train went over a switch, throwing us to the side.

A moment later, we heard a gunshot.

“Miray!” I shouted in horror.

Reynaud immediately drew his service weapon and stormed into the luggage car. I broke free from Barnes and ran after him, the others following us.

We reached the luggage room. There, Martens lay on the floor next to a wooden crate, unconscious, with a small revolver in his right hand. His glasses lay next to him, and instead, a bleeding gash gaped on his left temple.

Two meters away from him, Miray stood in a corner, clutching the suitcase tightly.

Reynaud lowered his pistol, bent down, and took the revolver from Martens.

“What happened here?” Barnes asked, bewildered.

Miray cleared her throat.

“I was waiting for you in Martens’ compartment. Instead, he came. When he saw me, he drew his weapon. I grabbed the suitcase and ran, with him chasing me. He tried to get rid of me here. Luckily, the train made a turn. Martens stumbled and hit his head on the crate. That’s when a shot went off from his weapon.”

“She’s lying,” Martens muttered, dazed. He sat up, rubbed his temple, and stared at the blood on his hand. “I caught the thief trying to steal my suitcase. She ran off, I chased her. She lured me into an ambush here and knocked me out.”

Reynaud looked around. “What did Mademoiselle use to knock you out?” he finally asked. “I don’t see anything suitable.”

“How should I know?” Martens grumbled as he sat on the crate. He adjusted his high-heeled, black leather shoes and retied them before standing up and brushing the dust off his clothes. “Maybe with the suitcase. Or her fists.”

Barnes scrutinized Miray, then Martens, who was clearly taller and stronger than her. “The young lady doesn’t exactly look like a prizefighter to me,” he observed and laughed loudly.

Martens looked at the policemen and growled, “Who are you anyway?”

“Sûreté,” Reynaud replied curtly, showing his badge.

Then he produced the piece of evidence.

“Is it true that you found the glove, Mademoiselle?”

She nodded. “Yes, it was in his coat pocket.”

“I’ve never seen that glove before,” Martens protested sharply. “She’s trying to frame me!”

Lieutenant Barnes turned to me.

“You were there. Can you confirm that the glove was in his coat?”

My knees went weak. I stared at Miray in horror. Could I have really been so blind?

I remembered being busy with the suitcase while she searched the trench coat. Suddenly, she had the glove in her hand.

Back then, it seemed right.

But had I really seen her pull it out of his coat?

No, I hadn’t.

I shook my head. “It’s also possible that it’s her glove.”

Miray remained undeterred. “The aquamarine is in the suitcase, isn’t it?”

Reynaud nodded. “That can be easily verified. If you would be so kind as to open it, Monsieur Martens?”

The man groaned in exasperation, pulled a small key from his pocket, and opened the suitcase. The inspector placed it on the crate and searched the contents, but found nothing except clothes, a toiletry kit, and an old newspaper. No secret compartment, no false bottom. Nowhere to hide a large gemstone.

Barnes, meanwhile, had searched the man’s pockets. Also without success.

“I think that settles the matter,” Martens declared sharply. He gave Miray a reproachful look, grabbed his suitcase, and turned to the policemen.

“May I have my weapon back?”

Reynaud shook his head. “You can pick it up from me when you leave the train. Just for safety.”

Martens grumbled. “As you wish! Gentlemen, madam…” he bid farewell irritably and left the luggage car.

Inspector Reynaud looked at us silently for a long time before whispering with his colleague.

Then he announced the verdict.

“Mademoiselle Miray, Monsieur Lacombe, we don’t know what role you play in this matter, but your behavior is suspicious to us. We will lock you in the Mademoiselle’s compartment until we reach Paris. There, I will take you to the Sûreté for questioning.”

I knew that resistance was pointless. The police officers were armed. Struggling or fleeing would have been far too dangerous.

So we let ourselves be led to Miray’s compartment. Reynaud took the key from her. The door clicked shut and was locked from the outside.

Once we were alone, Miray pushed me roughly onto the seat and leaned over me. The look in her eyes told me I should have fled while I had the chance.

“That was a real stab in the back, Dian! Do you really think I’m a thief?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t even know what to believe anymore,” I replied awkwardly. “Barnes made me doubt. I really didn’t see whether you found the glove in his trench coat or brought it yourself.”

Miray looked away and snorted briefly. Then she looked at me again. “If loyalty were measured in Scoville, you’d be a chunk of cold tofu!”

“I’ve had enough of this whole mess!” I burst out. “I just want to wake up from this damn dream and be back home. You can keep your adventure.”

Miray slumped into the seat next to me. Pouting, we sat side by side, staring out the window into the darkness.

I really couldn’t tell whose side Miray was on. Did she really want to catch the Velvet Fox? Or was she the one – and I was just a useful distraction? Did her journey really begin in Sofia, or was she just trying to cover her tracks?

I didn’t know.

However, I did know that she wore the same strange tattoo as I did. And she was the one who recognized me as a dream traveler. She definitely didn’t belong here any more than I did.

“Miray,” I began cautiously, “I realize that we can only wake up from this dream if we work together. Let’s be friends again and team up.”

She nodded, still offended. Then she closed her eyes, tapped her nose thoughtfully, and said, “I don’t understand this. It can only be Martens! But we’ve searched his belongings thoroughly and found no aquamarine.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he hid the stone somewhere on the train?”

“I don’t think so.” She waved her index finger. “If I were the thief, I’d carry the bling with me. The risk would be too great that someone discovers the hiding place, or I can’t access it anymore.”

She stood up and paced like a tiger in a zoo enclosure in front of the door.

“We have to expose Martens before we reach Paris. Otherwise, he’s gone, and we’re in real trouble.”

She rattled the doorknob, then kicked the door in frustration.

“Instead, we’re stuck in this damn compartment.”

I sighed, reached for the Daily Telegraph that was still on the table, and flipped through it listlessly.

Around midnight, the train pulled into Budapest’s Western Station. I pushed the window open, leaned out, and looked at the platform.

Lieutenant Barnes was standing there. He nodded a greeting to me, pushed his coat aside a bit, and with a broad grin pointed to the holster of his weapon.

I returned the greeting and watched the activity on the platform for a while before closing the window again.

Promptly at one o’clock, the locomotive’s whistle blew. Shortly thereafter, the train continued its journey. The next stop was Bratislava at five thirty-nine. We had a long, uneventful night ahead of us.

“My eyes are falling shut,” I murmured. “I’m going to get some sleep. There’s nothing we can do anyway.”

Miray grinned wryly.

“If you’re hoping to fall asleep here and wake up back home…,” she guessed my thoughts, “then I have to disappoint you. That’s not going to happen.”

Grumbling, I took off my shoes and lay down on the couch. “That feels good,” I groaned. “I miss my sneakers. These leather shoes are real torture.”

Miray stared at me with wide eyes. Then she jumped up.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed. “Dian, we need to get out of here right now!”

She rattled the door handle, but the door was solid and firmly locked.

“Can you pick locks?” she asked me.

I shook my head. But I had another idea. Silently, I pointed to a radiator under the window. Miray looked where I was pointing.

“The heater?”

I nodded.

“Yes! We could let off steam and then call for help.”

“That might actually work,” Miray murmured. “But how?”

I pulled a thin coin from my pocket. “Let me handle this,” I said, grinning. “I’m a mechanic. I know how to break things.”

With the edge of the coin, I managed to open the air vent on the radiator. It hissed immediately, and within seconds, the escaping steam clouded the view and turned our compartment into a steam bath.

Miray pounded on the door and called for help.

“What’s going on?” Charpentier’s voice came from the other side.

“The heater’s burst!” Miray shouted in a panic. “It’s full of steam in here! You have to help us! Quickly!”

Several seconds passed before Charpentier finally unlocked the door and entered. He stared open-mouthed at the wall of mist, then lunged forward to the radiator.

At that moment, the trap snapped shut. Miray closed the door, then grabbed the gaunt, old man from behind and covered his mouth. He didn’t stand a chance against her.

“If you don’t resist, nothing will happen to you,” she whispered in his ear. “But we have to catch a thief before we reach Paris. We can’t waste any more time.”

I turned the valve back off, ending the magic trick. Then I tore the curtain cord from the window. We used it to tie Charpentier’s arms and legs. Miray took a handkerchief from her purse and gagged him before taking his key ring.

“Oh right,” she finally said, taking the light bulb from her bag and placing it on the table in front of Charpentier’s eyes. “I don’t need this anymore.”

There was no one in the corridor. We snuck off and hurried to Martens’ compartment. When we reached his door, we heard a faint snoring from inside.

“What are you planning to do?” I whispered to Miray.

“Steal his shoes,” she replied curtly.

She took Charpentier’s key ring.

“Which key is it, Dian?”

I shrugged.

She sighed softly. Then she tried the first key, but it didn’t fit the lock. The second key slid in smoothly. Carefully, she turned it and pushed the door open.

Martens lay on the couch, snuggled under a blanket. His clothes hung neatly on the coat rack, and he had placed his shoes by the window.

Miray signaled me to be quiet. Then she crawled on all fours into the compartment, reached for the shoes, and pulled them toward her.

On the way back, she bumped into the suitcase placed by the table. With a dull thud, it toppled over.

Martens jolted awake, saw Miray, and leapt from his bed. With his strong hands, he pressed her down by her neck.

Paralyzed, I stared into the compartment. I wanted to help Miray – but how?

At the same moment, I heard hurried footsteps from the other end of the corridor.

“There they are!” Charpentier shouted. Apparently, he had managed to free himself and get help. He came rushing toward me with Inspector Reynaud and Lieutenant Barnes.

“That’s enough!” Barnes shouted angrily. “You’ve just gotten yourself into trouble, Mister. A lot of trouble!”

When he reached me, he grabbed me brutally and pushed me against the wall.

“How much do I have to put up with from these two lunatics?” Martens protested indignantly.

He had his knee pressed into Miray’s back and was trying to wrest the shoes from her. But she had curled up on the floor and wrapped herself tightly around her loot.

“Let her stand up,” Reynaud instructed him sharply. “We’ll handle this.”

Martens snorted disdainfully. “Fine! But do your job properly for once! If I am harassed again, you’ll regret it.”

As soon as he removed his knee, Miray jumped up and stood facing him threateningly.

“Give me back my shoes!” Martens demanded.

“You’ll have to come and get them,” Miray growled. “But this time, I’m prepared.”

Reynaud lost his patience. “What’s with this drama?” he snapped at her. “What do you want with his shoes?”

Without taking her eyes off Martens, she moved toward the inspector. “Don’t you find it strange that such a giant wears high heels?”

With wide eyes, he stared at Miray. Then he took the shoes from her and examined them.

Indeed, they had unusually high heels. He inspected the sole, discovered a tiny latch, and flipped it. Then he turned the heel to the side, reached inside, and pulled out a blue gemstone.

Even in the dim light of the corridor, its deep blue color shone, and its facets sparkled.

“Sapristi!” Reynaud exclaimed. “That’s the Tear of the Desert. No doubt about it!”

He cleared his throat, stood at attention, and nodded to his colleague.

“Go ahead, Lieutenant Barnes, arrest Monsieur Martens!”

Barnes grinned broadly. “With the greatest pleasure, Inspector!”

I glanced at Miray, who was still standing in the compartment watching Barnes as he handcuffed the caught thief. She had actually done it!

She looked at me, and in her gaze, there was no triumph, no pride. Just a quiet: “Well, didn’t I tell you?”

Reynaud cleared his throat awkwardly. “I think I owe you thanks, even though you were very reckless. In Paris, the journey for the Velvet Fox will end, and the gemstone will find its way back to the palace. A substantial reward should be in order for you.”

“How much…” I began, but Miray interrupted me.

“What do we need a reward for?” she asked.

We left the bewildered inspector standing there.

“Mademoiselle,” he called after us, “just one more thing… How did Monsieur Martens end up with a cut on his left temple, when the crate was standing to his right?”

Miray didn’t respond. She just kept walking silently until we reached her compartment and let ourselves fall into the seats.

“Why did you turn down the reward?” I asked Miray, frustrated.

“We caught the thief. What more do you want?”

“If you don’t want the money, that’s your business. But I could’ve really used it.”

I pulled a few coins from my pocket and weighed them in my hand.

“Well, at least I was able to collect a few tips. These coins should be worth a small fortune back home.”

“This is a dream,” Miray reminded me. “You can’t take anything material with you. No coins, no reward. Just the memory.”

She was right. I took one last look at my collection of tips before letting them disappear back into my pocket.

“And now?” I asked.

She pointed at her wrist. A green circle enclosed the two lines.

“We did it!” she remarked.

I took off my watch and looked at my tattoo. It looked exactly the same.

“Does that mean we can wake up now?”

“It does.” She nodded. “Provided you’re ready to part with your exciting job as a waiter.”

“That’s passé. Moreau fired me because you stole the suitcase.”

Miray shook her head. “He doesn’t appreciate heroes,” she remarked dryly. “But maybe you’d have more success as a porter at Gare de l’Est?”

I waved it off. “I actually like my job as a mechanic.”

Then I looked at her, getting lost for a moment in her ice-blue eyes.

“What do you think, Miray, will we see each other again?”

She shrugged. “No idea! It’s the first time I’ve been accompanied by another dream traveler.”

I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn’t sad about leaving this dream world. But I would miss my smart companion and her cheeky manner.

“Then take care, Miray,” I said goodbye.

I stretched out my arms. She hesitated for a moment, seemed to consider. Then she accepted my gesture, and we hugged.

“Are you ready?” she asked. I nodded.

She placed her hand on her tattoo. Nothing happened.

“Hmm…” she said, “looks like we have to do it together.”

I looked at her one last time before I placed my hand on my tattoo as well.

Instantly, everything around me went black. I fell backward into an endless void before losing consciousness.

The rattle of a machine gun jolted me.

Was I still dreaming?

I opened my eyes wide. A tank rolled across the screen of my TV. I was lying on my couch, in my apartment, covered in a pile of potato chips from an overturned bag.

Quickly, I turned off the TV, freed myself from the chips, and headed to the bathroom.

While brushing my teeth, I thought about what I had just experienced. Was it really just a dream?

It seemed so.

And yet I could remember it as vividly as a journey from which one had recently returned. I could still hear the clatter of the train in my ears, and the smell of burnt wood, grease, and wood polish seemed to linger in my living room.

Was it all a product of my brain, an illusion? Or was a woman somewhere else in the world waking up from a strange dream that also refused to end?