Note- This is an alternative history tale featuring Christie as a thirty-year-old Flapper in the roaring twenties who becomes much sought after as a private investigator thanks to the success of her first, and only, novel. Embracing the free age, she also believes in free love for women. Kudos to Christie, one of the most revered English crime authors of all time.
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Chapter Six.
Cunning Linguists on the Orient Express.
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After a full day of rail travel, Agatha Christie still hadn't gotten used to the loud clacking sound of the wheels on the rails. As the railway train rocked noisily along steel tracks, the low-light electric lamps with shades threw some light on her surroundings. She had boarded the train in Vienna after a short visit to the Austrian Capital City and she was to spend one night in a sleeper berth before arriving in Paris. A short-haired brunette in a beret and cocktail dress smiled at her as she waltzed down the passage from the rear of the coach.
"Darling Agatha. There you are."
Agatha felt the heat of the train and the stuffy air and she waved her hand in front of her face like a fan. Dressed in a slinky evening dress with a jagged hem, she looked ravishing in her heeled metallic silver and ivory turban strap shoes. The dress was tight at the waist and together with the cascading centre neckline, her unfettered breasts were suitably thrust out.
"Frankie!"
The renowned author of The Mysterious Affair At Styles had met Lady Frances Derwent at various parties throughout the year and considered her one of her few friends. They were much alike, embracing the Jazz Age and enjoying life as any man might do.
The young English woman, known to her friends as Frankie, was a whip-smart socialite whom Agatha described as a clever, unflappable woman with a flair for fun and gaiety. She was the daughter of Lord and Lady Marcham who resided in Derwent Castle in Marchbolt, Wales. Frankie also had a London residence in Brook Street Mayfair. She had holidayed in Istanbul and was en route to Paris.
She was tall, slim, and dark. Twenty-eight years of age, she had an air of cool efficiency, much like Christie herself. She was the kind of young woman who could care for herself perfectly wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency and was very attractive. Her eyes sparkled and her burnished short hair had neat waves under her beret. The train took a curve and Christie clung to a high-backed chair and felt a strong hand hold her up.
"Careful Miss, it takes a while to get used to being aboard the Orient Express, we're going at nearly 60 miles an hour!"
The scarlet uniformed aide with the French accent smiled and walked away happily. He carried a silver tray with three wine glasses in his white-gloved hand. The redheaded Flapper peered after him as he headed to the next coach where she could hear loud chatter. She took Frankie by the elbow and they both tottered off along the narrow aisle.
"Come on. Let's have a drink."
The train rolled and rocked and they used the chair backs as handrails to steady themselves. The fast-moving engine was able to cover the distance from Paris to Constantinople in only 67 hours.
As she was lost in the wonder of it all a tall square-jawed man brushed her bare arm and made her jump. She locked eyes with his brooding dark brown eyes as he ran a hand through his thick black hair. He said nothing and Agatha felt her heart leap in her chest as she watched the mystery man turn and walk away. He filled out his black tuxedo with broad shoulders and strong biceps.
"He looks scrumptious!" cooed Frankie as she watched him vanish into the neighbouring car.
"And how is Bobby?" Agatha asked as she took a healthy swig of Moët & Chandon.
Frankie shot her a look and then smiled.
"Bobby? He's history, darling. Utterly boring and no fun. He only gets hard when Jack Hobbs scores a six for England. No, we are no longer a couple."
The willowy brunette crossed her long pins and settled back in the plush chair.
"No, I'm up for fun, frolics, and the other F word."
Agatha spread her hands in feigned bemusement.
"Fishing?"
"No dear. Fucking!"
"Frankie! You're positively decadent."
"Don't pretend, darling. You're just as outrageous as I am. A little bird told me of your excursion to the 43 Club. You cheeky witch. Why didn't you ask me to tag along?"
"It wasn't all that."
"So you say. Oh, yes. I just want to dance, drink, and shag until dawn."
"Quite. Let's eat."
Ever curious about others, Agatha looked to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, she thought. And stinking rich.
Beyond her was a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed and was obviously English. Though only the back of his head was visible to Christie, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man and well-made. He turned his head suddenly and the crime writer saw his profile. A surprisingly handsome man of thirty-odd with a big fair moustache.
The woman opposite him was younger by far. Twenty at a guess. She wore a tight-fitting dress in black, with a small chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. She had a beautiful face, white skin, large blue eyes, and jet-black hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails.
She pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two leaving the carriage with her older partner. A buff-looking Englishman also got up and followed them. Gathering up her belongings, the Swedish woman followed suit, closely tailed by another older lady who spoke briefly in German. The restaurant car was thus empty save for Agatha and Lady Frances.
"I think I'll turn in, darling. Catch you on the flip-flop."
"I'll be right behind you."
Before she could rise from her chair, the seat beside her was unexpectedly filled.
"Can you oblige me with a light?"
It was the same man from earlier who had brushed by her so brusquely. His voice was soft and had a European accent.
"My name is Count Rudolph Andrenyi."
Agatha slipped her hand into her purse and produced a matchbox which she handed to the other man. He took it but did not strike a light.
"I think," he went on. "That I have the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Agatha Christie. Is that so?"
"You have been correctly informed, Your Excellency."
The writer was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing her up before the other spoke again.
"I am from Hungary we come to the point quickly, Madam. I want to take you to bed."
Agatha raised a brow. The man was intensely exotic with slightly olive-toned skin.
"That's a rather bold statement. Who are you?"
"Forgive me. I am a Hungarian nobleman and diplomat. Recently I have spent a year doing business in London and Paris. I am widowed and live alone. I read your splendid novel and thought it wonderful. Little did I know that the author was so fetching.
