Portmanteau

© 2002 Joseph Nathaniel Baron
All rights reserved.

"I tell you this: Never in my thirty-five years as porter on this train has there been an incident like this one," Dimitri said, puzzled by the appearance, apparently from nowhere, of a particularly well-made old-fashioned leather case; a kind of case no longer fashionable or even made, as far as he or any of the baggage staff knew. It bore obvious signs of craftsmanship rarely seen in the late 20th century and the gold-leaf initials "GEV," with an unfamiliar royal insignia, also in gold intaglio.

It was in pristine condition, with no signs of the wear and tear customary on even so privileged a carrier as the Orient Express.

The chief of porters was not the only one flummoxed by this anachronism—so, too, was the maintenance crew, charged with refurbishing the baggage car that had been originally built in 1900 to such quality specifications that only now, after some 90 years in service, was overhaul warranted.

How could it be that not a soul had, during so long a time, come across it or claimed it? Service records revealed that the car had been regularly serviced and cleaned at one-year intervals. No, some sort of hoax was afoot, perhaps even subtle psychological terrorism. The bag was x-rayed for explosives or incendiary booby traps of any kind. At last the private services of a discreet veteran of detectives was brought in, a certain Renee M'Ordant, of the Surete, inasmuch as the curious bag had been discovered while the train had been stationed for scheduled layover at Paris.

She made inquiries with all the makers of fine luggage to the royal houses of Europe, and narrowed the search to two London houses, one now defunct and one French maker: Vuitton. As the bag bore the seal of the Romanovs, even the Soviets were contacted, but showed tepid interest. They were certain that it was a fake, due to its condition and the fact that all Romanov property had long since been disposed of or accounted for.

But carbon dating gave the age of the bag as 150 years, before these firms had come into being. Thus, more than a hint of the death- —and time-?—defying talents of the Slavic "mad monk" percolated up through her subconscious.

The case's contents only heightened the confusion: a velvetine monk's habit and a Russian Orthodox crucifix, elaborately bejeweled and appraised by the Tudor royal jewelers in London at the phenomenal value of a million pounds, the gold showing exceptional purity and craftsmanship, as well as the rubies and sapphires that encrusted the object.

M'Ordant decided upon a bold plan to flush out any claimants legitimate and otherwise. She would give the find maximum publicity, the railroad officials having agreed that, overall, it was of net advantage to so publicly exhibit their find via Sotheby's venerable auction house. It was to be advertised as "Possible Property of A Czar," for maximum effect. To their chagrin, the new Russian government, which had been averse to seeming too capitalistic in its interest, became now privately and frantically assertive.

One thing became apparent to M'Ordant in light of the Russians' behavior: someone close to the Kremlin archives and vaults had knowledge of and access to this "nonexistent" Romanov artifact. And in fact, that person's mutilated body was found by the railroad detectives under her supervision,. It had been ostensibly thrown from the train by some force, some thing, or someone of enormous strength. The man's face was unrecognizable and he was bereft of genitalia. They had become somehow lodged in his esophageal passage.

The auction date arrived with the grisly discovery having been effectively kept secret. No telephone bids were allowed, as the M'Ordant team wished to set eyes upon all bidders. No surrogate agents were allowed, either.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know, this is a set-piece affair, concerning but one item for bids; reserve has been set at one million sterling. There will be opportunity for examination for the next 40 minutes, after which time you, the twelve eligible bidders, will be asked to compete for the entire set piece, without parceling out of its individual items, for historical purposes.

"The Russian government has been invited to inspect and attend, a privilege it has declined inasmuch as it holds that these items are fraudulent. It should be noted, however, that our panel of distinguished scholars and experts have unanimously concluded that they are indeed genuine and that documentation will accompany the item to the successful bidder."

Renee M‚Ordant was stationed behind the stage area curtain, scanning the bidders' body language for clues to whom they truly were. Thus far, she had observed nothing untoward, and she was puzzled.

"I have the sum of one million, two hundred thousand ... are they any other bids? ... going once, going twice..." As the auctioneer neared gaveling the sale to closure, the lights dimmed and began flickering wildly. The light fixtures began overheating, and several bulbs burst, causing consternation.

"Your attention, please. Due to this freakish occurrence, we shall restart bids, in fairness to all, at the previous level of one million." For several moments, silence filled the hall, and three disconcerted bidders departed.

"One million, three hundred thousand," came the bid from a man in ornate formal dress, old-fashioned with his finely tailored long coat and ornately waxed mustache.

He had won. No other bidders attempted to vie for the objects; during the brief interruption, a rumor of unknown origin had circulated that the items were cursed, perhaps belonging to the Mad Monk himself—Rasputin.

The successful bidder was said to have been an eccentric collector, well-known in London, with Eastern European royal connections of some sort, never ascertainable; nevertheless, his wealth was vast, according to M'Ordant's inquiries. As he departed, entrusting the prized objet d'art to his manservant, a strapping man with a downturned visage well advanced in age, he was followed by M'Ordant's agents.

Renee M'Ordant returned to the railway offices to complete her review of the other bidders and read a report just received from the coroner concerning the apparently murdered thief. She was shocked by what she read: "The deceased is of unknown ethnicity, most certainly not Russian or Slavic. A careful autopsy of his remaining corpus reveals that he was 120 years, approximately, of age. On his right arm appears an elaborate tattoo determined to have been the emblematic seal of the Knights Templar, Eastern Order. Research reveals that this insignia was abandoned in the early sixteenth century."

Her reflection was interrupted by a knock at the door. The agents sent after the bidder and his servant had been found brutally strangled; the strangler's bare hands had left their full imprint upon their necks.

"You realize, do you not, the full implications of this?" she asked. She received no reply.

"Rasputin's body was never found. No grave or marker exists, so far as we know; the Russians have always been quite obtuse about this. Given the extreme age of the apparent thief, I am forced to postulate that the Mad Monk lives, having somehow relieved the Templars of their precious relic."

M'Ordant made for her cloak and the door. As she did, the lights dimmed, and a door slammed one floor below. Rushing to the window overlooking the street, she saw a huge, shadowy figure that turned on its heels, eyes glaring like beacons up at her, and then, in a flash, moved away.

Inspection of the bidder's house one hour later showed that the townhouse was vacant, its furnishings covered with sheeting. The hunt was on.

Back to top of page