Infinisomnia

Episode 1

Tear of the Desert

V1.4.1 published on 2024-07-13
First publication on 2024-04-29

https://infinisomnia.de

Infinisomnia are free and open-source short stories

License:

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/

© Richard "Shred" Körber
Translated by: Richard "Shred" Körber

Cover image description: An open display case, containing a large aquamarine and a fox-red right velvet glove.

Online version of this eBook:

https://infinisomnia.de/en/story/001-wuestentraene/

Tear of the Desert

Isn't our brain fantastic? In the evening, we lie down in bed and read a few lines until fatigue overwhelms us, and we can no longer follow the text. But as soon as we close our eyes and fall asleep, we become the main characters in a movie that our brain has conceived just for us. We dive into a world that doesn't exist. Sometimes it is beautiful, sometimes frightening. And every night, it is new.

It had been a long day in the workshop where I started working as a mechanic a few weeks ago. When it was finally time to leave, and I was about to say goodbye, my boss called me over.

“Dian, you've been working long and hard these past few days. Don't you have a family, a wife and kids?”

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

He laughed out loud. “You look tired, Dian. The weekend is around the corner. Take a proper rest. I don't want to see you in the workshop before 10 AM on Monday!”

I gratefully accepted the offer. It had indeed been a long week, and I was looking forward to nothing more than a huge kebab, a hot bath, some TV, and finally falling into bed. The plan almost worked, but saturated from the kebab and relaxed from the hot bath, I didn't fall asleep in my bed but rather in front of the TV.

A pungent smell woke me from my slumber. The smell of old urine and burnt wood. The room swayed gently to the sound of a steady clattering. The whistle of a steam locomotive howled.

Groggily, I opened my eyes and found myself sitting on a toilet. Daylight streamed through a frosted window into the narrow, plain cabin where I found myself. The furnishings were completely out of time. The walls were wood-paneled. Opposite the window, a simple, stained mirror hung on the wall. Below it was a small, enameled sink. A white-painted pipe led from the ceiling past the mirror and ended at a small faucet. Hanging on a hook on the door was the white jacket of a uniform along with the matching cap.

“This must be a dream,” I muttered. However, it didn't feel like one. My mind was clear, and I could see, hear, feel, and unfortunately even smell my surroundings.

Someone pounded loudly on the door. “Lacombe, what's going on? Did you fell asleep in there?” called an energetic male voice from outside. “We have guests waiting for you!”

“You must be mistaking me,” I replied.

“Don't get cheeky, Lacombe!” the voice snapped back. “I can hear it's you.”

The man didn't sound like he wanted to have a rational discussion with me about how I got here or why he was calling me Lacombe. He rattled the door handle. Fortunately, it was locked from the inside. He then pounded even harder. The lock was cracking and about to give way. So, I decided to play along.

“Alright, I'll be right out!” I called hastily. The man on the other side of the door calmed down and muttered a few unintelligible words before leaving.

I stood up, pulled up my pants, and flushed the toilet. Some water gurgled from the tank above and flowed through the bowl. At the sink, I washed my hands and looked in the mirror. The man in the reflection was unmistakably me with my brown hair, styled into a full side part, my hazel eyes, and my well-groomed three-day beard. However, the perfectly pressed and starched white shirt on my body couldn't possibly be mine.

I took the jacket off the hook and examined it. It was also white and had a row of gold buttons. The cut was not modern, but the clothing was new and of good quality. A small brass nameplate with my false name was pinned to the lapel. I put on the jacket and donned the cap, which bore the words “Wagon Restaurant” in shiny letters.

Cautiously, I opened the door. Behind it was the entryway, leading me to the next carriage. There, an older, corpulent man in a dark blue uniform was already waiting for me. His nameplate revealed that his name was Monsieur Moreau. A double row of buttons and the shape of his peaked cap indicated that he held a higher rank than I did. His choleric face was red with anger.

“There you are at last, Lacombe!” he thundered. “Guests are waiting for your service at the table. Hurry up!”

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

At one of the tables sat a couple. He wore a classic suit, she a white blouse and a hat that was elegant but old-fashioned. When the man saw me, he waved me over impatiently and ordered two coffees and the daily newspaper.

Fortunately, during my apprenticeship as a mechanic, I had taken a summer job as a waiter in a café to boost my bank account. So, I quickly found my way into my new role. I went to the kitchen, ordered the requested coffee from the cook, and asked for the daily newspaper.

“We'll get them on board in Belgrade,” he told me as he placed two coffee cups on a tray and poured the desired beverage from a large pot.

“And when will we arrive there?”

“Around half past four.”

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

“That's in just five minutes!” I noted.

The cook looked at his watch in surprise and then laughed. “Lacombe, your watch is still set to Eastern European Time. You should have set it back an hour when we left Sofia.”

I carried the tray to the table, served the coffee, and informed the gentleman that he would have to wait a good hour for his newspaper. He grunted briefly and, under the stern gaze of his wife, handed me a small coin as a tip.

The sun was already setting when the train pulled into Belgrade. We had a ten-minute stop there. Passengers got off and on, baggage and freight were loaded, and the locomotive was coupled to the other end of the train to pull us back out of the terminus.

As we continued our journey, preparations for dinner were already in full swing in the kitchen. I was serving aperitifs to a group of travelers when two gentlemen in plain clothes approached me and took me aside. They introduced themselves as Inspector Reynaud from the French Sûreté and Lieutenant Barnes from Scotland Yard and asked me to take them to the Chef de Brigade. I brought them to the kitchen where Moreau was discussing with the cook.

When he saw me with the two gentlemen, he puffed up in front of me. “Passengers have no business here, Lacombe!”

“These two gentlemen are from the police and wish to see the Chef de Brigade,” I explained. “Where can I find him?”

Moreau took a deep breath and struggled for words. “Lacombe,” he finally shouted, “who do you think is standing in front of you?”

Inspector Reynaud stepped forward, showed Moreau his badge, and introduced himself and his colleague. “We suspect that there is a thief on this train who stole a valuable aquamarine in Constantinople.”

I laughed out loud. “Constantinople? You mean Istanbul!”

The others fell silent and stared at me in confusion. Then Moreau grabbed my arm tightly and dragged me aside. “I don't know what's gotten into you today, Lacombe. But one more foolishness from you, and I will personally ensure that this is your last ride for the Compagnie.”

Reynaud cleared his throat and continued his speech. “Unfortunately, it is not known what the thief looks like. We ask the staff to report anything suspicious immediately and discreetly. The thief may be armed, so be careful and don't try to play the hero!”

Moreau promised to inform the rest of the staff. Reynaud thanked him, and I led the two policemen to a free table in the restaurant, where they could easily oversee the carriage.

My arm still hurt from Moreau's personal address. I initially found this dream amusing, but it had now lasted for hours, and Moreau's meanness was becoming increasingly unbearable. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't wake up. I seemed to be a prisoner of this strange reality.

A man in the railway company's uniform approached me. His nameplate revealed that he was Monsieur Charpentier, and his cap indicated that he was the Conducteur. His face was gaunt and deeply lined, and his broad gray mustache was carefully groomed. He looked at me seriously, and it almost seemed to me that this was his only facial expression.

“Lacombe,” he spoke slowly, “in the rear baggage car are the newspapers we received in Belgrade. Please distribute them to the passengers in the compartments and the restaurant.”

I nodded and immediately set to work.

The train consisted of a steam locomotive and five carriages, as I found out. My journey began in the baggage car, which was coupled to the locomotive in Belgrade and thus became the front carriage. It was followed by the restaurant car and two sleeping cars before the train ended with the rear baggage car. There, I indeed found a stack of newspapers carefully tied into a bundle. I removed the band, took the newspapers, and made my way to the compartments.

Most passengers were not interested or did not respond to my knocking. In compartment 10, I encountered the couple from this afternoon again.

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

“Darling,” his wife admonished him, “the serveur can't be blamed if the newspaper doesn't reach the train until Belgrade.”

He gave me a grim look, nodded briefly, and slammed the compartment door in my face.

I finally reached the other sleeping car and knocked on the door of compartment 3. A young woman opened it. She wore a simple yet elegantly embroidered blue blouse with long sleeves that accentuated her figure and transitioned into a wide, floor-length skirt. The small hat on her head matched the style of her outfit. However, her outfit looked like a theater costume to me, as her silvery-gray hair with light blue streaks and her short, cheeky pixie cut didn't fit with it. She was traveling alone, and I couldn't help but wonder what had brought her to this part of the world.

She looked at me expectantly. I realized I was staring at her and cleared my throat awkwardly. “Would you like the Daily Telegraph?”

“Is the newspaper from today?”

“That's a good question! What date is it?”

“It's March 16,” she replied, puzzled.

I looked for the date on the newspaper. It was from March 15, so from yesterday.

Next to it, I found the year. In black letters, still shining with fresh printer's ink, was the number 1909.

My legs suddenly went weak and shaky. I would have collapsed, but the woman caught me just in time before I sank to the floor. She supported me with unexpected strength and led me to the seat in her compartment.

“What happened?” she asked worriedly. “You look like you've seen a ghost!”

“The year,” I stammered, “this train… None of this makes any sense!”

She looked at me with wide eyes. No doubt she must have thought I was crazy. I quickly apologized and tried to get up and leave the compartment, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back onto the seat.

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

It was a strange request, but what wasn't strange about this dream? I rolled up my sleeve and presented my forearm to her. She reached for my wristwatch and removed it. Underneath were two parallel lines tattooed on my wrist. I don't really wear tattoos, but this one looked as if it had always been there.

“What does this mean?” I asked her, bewildered, as I unsuccessfully tried to rub it off.

“You think this is a dream you can't wake up from, don't you?”

“How do you know that?”

She rolled up her left sleeve. The same lines were tattooed on her wrist.

“It's nice not to be alone this time,” she said with relief. “My name is Miray. And you? I assume Lacombe is not your real name.”

“Dian,” I introduced myself. “What do you mean by 'this time'? Have you had dreams like this before?”

“Yes, a few. It started a few months ago. But so far, I've always been traveling alone.”

“How did you manage to wake up?”

“Oh, that only became possible after I solved a task.”

“A task? What kind of task?”

“It was different each time. The clues were hidden in the dreams. I had to find and piece them together.”

I looked at my wrist. Two lines and two dreaming people, there had to be a connection.

“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.”

I looked out the window. We were passing through a barren, Mediterranean landscape, alternating between fields, meadows, and small groves. The sun had already set behind a mountain range on the horizon, casting the clouds in the sky in a rich pink sunset glow.

“Where are we, anyway?” I asked my new companion.

“We are on a train of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, better known as the Orient Express, on the way from Constantinople to Paris. The last station was Zimony, before that we stopped in Belgrade. So, we must be traveling through the Kingdom of Serbia right now.”

I was amazed. She was obviously a good observer.

When I asked how she knew the date, she opened her handbag and handed me a small piece of paper. It was a ticket from the Compagnie, valid for a journey from Sofia to Paris and stamped on March 16, 1909.

She smirked. “Do you think I'm traveling without a ticket?”

“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 took a Daily Telegraph from the stack and began skimming the headlines. Then she held an article up to my face.

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

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

“A thief on the run, undercover policemen on the train, there we have our adventure! Do the policemen have a photo or description of him?”

“Unfortunately not. They said no one knows what he looks like.”

She sighed. “This won't be easy. The thief won't just reveal himself to us.”

We stared out the window together for a while. If we didn't want to be stuck here forever, we needed an idea, but I couldn't think of anything.

“I can't think on an empty stomach,” I growled.

“Same here,” she agreed. “Sooner or later the thief will get hungry too. We could wait in the dining car until someone suspicious shows up!”

The plan sounded good. My suggestion was for us to prepare for it. Then I took the newspapers and left the compartment.

It was around eight o'clock when the Express left the station in Subotica and shortly afterward crossed the border into Hungary. Our next stop would be Budapest, which we would reach in just over three hours. There was nothing for the passengers to do, so they enjoyed the luxury on board. The few travelers who had boarded at the last stop settled into their compartments, while others enjoyed an apéritif in the dining car salon or went to dinner.

Miray had dressed up for the evening and had taken a seat in a corner at a table for two.

I was tasked with discreetly escorting gentlemen who were traveling alone and could potentially be the thief to sit with her. Miray would then try to learn more about them through small talk. As it turned out, the gentlemen needed no excuse to keep her company. One even took me aside and discreetly stuffed a bill into my lapel pocket so I would bring him to her table.

I continued my work, taking orders and serving food and drinks. I almost forgot the strange situation I was in. Instead, I noticed a great advantage of my role. Most guests ignored the service staff and continued talking freely while I stood by their table, pretending not to listen.

After serving coffee to the two policemen, I remained at a discreet distance and eavesdropped on their conversation. They discussed the heist. The thief had taken advantage of construction work in the palace. He had bribed one of the guards to get in unnoticed. He did set off an alarm when he stole the gemstone, but when the guards arrived, they found nothing more than a smashed display case containing a fox-red right velvet glove instead of the stone. It was the trademark of the notorious English master thief Velvet Fox, who was already up to mischief in several major European cities and now seemed to be expanding his radius to the Orient. Scotland Yard had been trying to catch him for a long time, so far without success.

Two older ladies approached me and asked me to bring sandwiches to their compartment. I served the requested snack. On my way back to the dining car, I ran into Miray in the corridor. She looked tired.

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

She sighed. “Not well. The first was a banker. He stinks 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 on business in Belgrade and told me all about his patented camshafts. I don't think he's interested in anything else.”

“And the third?”

“He expects me to join him for an intimate tête-à-tête in his compartment later. It looks like he's already planning our wedding.”

“Well, congratulations,” I remarked sarcastically.

She smirked cheekily. “I can introduce him to you if you like! Maybe he has a sister who is just as ugly as he is.”

With that, she left me standing there.

Around ten o'clock, an older but athletic man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a mustache entered the restaurant. He was huge and had to tilt his head slightly to fit through the door. I greeted him and wanted to bring him to Miray's table, but he insisted on sitting alone. So, I led him to a single table and handed him the evening menu. He briefly glanced at it and nodded wordlessly.

I served him a consommé as the first course. As I was about to leave, I stepped on an object on the floor. It was a compartment key.

I picked it up and showed it to the guest. “Is this your key, Monsieur?”

He thanked me with a silent nod, took the key, and pocketed it. Then he looked at me. “Is there anything else?” he growled quietly. I shook my head, apologized, and wished him a good appetite.

On my way back to the kitchen, I stopped briefly at my companion's table.

“What a rude guy,” I complained in a hushed voice, while pretending to take her order.

She discreetly scanned the other tables. “The man at the other end of the car?”

“Yes. He's irritable and not very talkative. Also, his glasses bother me. They look like he's trying to hide his face behind them.”

Miray took a longer look at the man. “That could indeed be our thief! We should take the opportunity to look into his compartment while he's eating. Can you find out the number?”

I grinned. “It's compartment 14. He dropped his key at the table.”

She looked at me excitedly and held out her hand.

“Of course, I returned it to him.”

“Too bad! And you don't have access to the compartments?”

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

I quietly left the restaurant. At the entrance to the rear sleeping car, I waited for Miray, who followed a few seconds later. I pointed to Charpentier, who was sitting on a folding seat at the other end of the corridor, staring out the window in boredom.

“Charpentier is the conducteur of the train,” I whispered to her. “He can unlock all the compartments.”

“But he'll hardly do it without a good reason,” she whispered back.

“Let me handle this,” I said and motioned for Miray to wait here. Then I approached Charpentier. When he noticed me, he sat up straight and adjusted his cap.

“What do you want, Lacombe?” he asked me annoyed.

“The Monsieur from number 14 left his wallet in the compartment and asked me to fetch it for him. Can you open the door for me?”

Charpentier took a small notebook from his pocket and looked inside. “That's Monsieur Martens' compartment,” he noted. “Didn't he give you his key?”

“No. And Monsieur Martens is not in a good mood. I don't want to return empty-handed and have to ask for it.”

Charpentier groaned and got up from his seat. He unlocked the compartment and let me in, but stayed at the door. I looked around. A trench coat was hanging on a coat hook and there was a small briefcase on the couch. There was nothing more to be found at first glance, but with the conducteur next to me, I couldn't search the compartment more thoroughly.

“How much longer will you need, Lacombe?” he urged.

“Strange! The Monsieur said his wallet would be on the table, but it's not.”

“Then he probably has it with him after all. Now come along!”

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

Suddenly, Miray appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me,” she addressed Charpentier, “could you check the toilet at the back? The light isn't working.”

“This will have to wait,” he tried to dismiss her.

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

“You see that I'm busy!”

Miray shrugged her shoulders. “Well, then I'll have to bother the Chef de Brigade with this little mishap.”

Charpentier sighed. “Close the door when you're done, Lacombe,” he said annoyed and raised his index finger in warning before leaving.

She watched him as he walked down the corridor. When he disappeared at the other end, she jumped into the compartment with me and quickly closed the door.

“He'll be back any moment,” I urged nervously.

Miray grinned. “I don't think so.” She took a handkerchief from her handbag and showed me a light bulb wrapped in it. “Hopefully, it will keep him busy for a while to find a replacement. Still, we should hurry.”

While she searched the pockets of his coat, I took Martens' baggage. He had a small brown leather suitcase with three buckles. The outer ones were easy to open, but the middle lock was firmly secured.

“Strange,” I heard my companion say, “there was nothing in his coat except a single glove in the inner pocket.”

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

“How did you know that?” she asked, astonished, and handed me the find.

“Gotcha!” I exclaimed triumphantly. “That's his calling card! The policemen said the other glove of the Velvet Fox was found in the display case.”

“So, Martens is indeed our thief!” Miray rejoiced. “The aquamarine might be in his suitcase. Can you open it?”

“Unfortunately not. It's locked, and the lock is very sturdy.”

“We'll need help,” she said in frustration. “Please bring the two policemen. I'll continue searching the compartment in the meantime.”

When I returned to the dining car, Martens was still sitting at his place, eating unsuspectingly. I went to the table of the two policemen. “We've found the thief,” I whispered proudly to them and pointed inconspicuously at the passenger. “It's that man over there.”

Lieutenant Barnes laughed dismissively. “How do you know that?”

I took the evidence from my pocket and placed it on the table. Inspector Reynaud picked it up and looked at it with wide eyes. “How do you know about the velvet glove? This information wasn't released to the press!”

“I overheard you at the table earlier when you were discussing the case,” I admitted, embarrassed.

Reynaud and Barnes looked at each other. Then Barnes took over. “To the kitchen,” he commanded, “now!”

The policemen stood up and escorted me to the rear of the dining car. Moreau was already waiting for me there. “Where have you been, Lacombe?” he barked at me. “Have you forgotten that guests are waiting for you?”

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

I had expected more gratitude and realized at that moment that the conversation was about to take an unpleasant turn. I swallowed.

“The man seemed suspicious to us. So, we gained access to his compartment and searched his belongings.”

Moreau slammed his fist on the sink, making the dishes clatter. His face had taken on an unhealthy, purplish hue. “What did you do, Lacombe? You broke into his compartment?” he roared at the top of his lungs. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Reynaud tried to calm Moreau. “We'll deal with this transgression later,” he suggested. “But why do you say ‘we’? Who are you working with?”

“With the woman from compartment 3.”

“A passenger?” Reynaud marveled. “How do you know the Madame?”

“We met on the train today,” I answered truthfully. It was only at that moment that I realized how naive and reckless my story must have sounded.

“You'll have to explain that to me in detail later,” Reynaud announced. “The glove is indeed a strong piece of evidence. We should follow the trail and search the compartment.”

Together, we made our way, but when we entered the dining car, Martens was no longer at his place. His food was still there, and it looked like he had left the table in a hurry.

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

We rushed to the rear sleeping car, where Charpentier was standing in front of compartment 14, waving us over excitedly as he saw us coming.

“The door was open, and a suitcase is missing. That must have been that Mademoiselle who lured me away after I had to unlock Monsieur Martens' compartment for Lacombe,” he speculated.

Moreau used the policemen's distraction to grab me by my collar and pull me to him. “You helped a stranger break into this compartment, and now a suitcase is missing?” he roared at me, and I was surprised that he could still increase his volume. “That's enough, Lacombe! You've caused enough trouble; it's over. You're fired! Pack your things, you'll leave the train in Budapest. I don't want to see you again.”

Inspector Reynaud took Moreau aside. “We must find his accomplice first! She must still be on the train, so she'll have fled to the rear baggage car. Otherwise we would have met her.”

“Also, the suspect is missing,” added Lieutenant Barnes, “he's probably with her.”

Moreau nodded reluctantly and let go of me.

“When will we reach Budapest?” Barnes asked.

Moreau looked at his watch. “In about 30 minutes.”

“We must catch them by then! If they get off there, we'll lose their trail.”

Barnes twisted my arm painfully behind my back and forced me to come along. We were just crossing over to the rear baggage car when the train passed a switch and threw us to the side. A moment later, we heard a shot.

“Miray!” I shouted in horror.

Reynaud immediately drew his service weapon and stormed into the baggage car. I broke free from Barnes and ran after him, the others following us. In the baggage compartment, Martens lay unconscious on the floor, holding a small revolver in his right hand. His glasses were lying next to him, instead a gash on his left temple was bleeding profusely. My companion stood about two meters away from him, clutching his suitcase.

When Reynaud saw that she posed no threat, he lowered his gun. Then he took the opportunity, while the suspect was unconscious on the floor, to take his weapon.

“What happened here?” Barnes asked Miray.

“I asked Dian, I mean Lacombe, to call you for help,” she explained. “Then I saw Martens in the corridor, so I grabbed the suitcase and ran. He pulled his gun and chased me. Here, he intended to get rid of me. Luckily, the train made a sudden movement. He stumbled and hit his head on a crate, causing the gun to fire.”

“She's lying,” Martens groaned, dazed. He sat up, rubbed the wound on his head, and stared at the blood on his hand. “I ran after her because she stole my suitcase. She ambushed me behind the door and knocked me out.”

Reynaud looked around. “With what did Mademoiselle knock you out?” he finally asked. “I don't see anything suitable.”

“I don't know,” Martens replied sullenly as he sat on the crate and retied his high-heeled black leather shoes. Then he stood up and brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Maybe with the suitcase or her fists.”

Barnes looked at Miray. Then he looked at the man, who was clearly larger and had a strong build. “The Miss doesn't exactly look like a prizefighter to me,” he noted and laughed out loud.

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

“Sûreté,” Reynaud replied briefly, showing his badge. Then he took out the velvet glove and turned to Miray. “Is it true that you found the glove, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, it was in his coat pocket,” she explained.

“I have never seen this glove before,” Martens protested vehemently. “The lady is trying to frame me!”

Lieutenant Barnes turned to me. “Can you confirm that the glove was in his coat?”

I looked at Miray in horror. I was busy with the suitcase when she searched the trench coat. Suddenly she was holding the evidence in her hand. I assumed she had found it there, but I hadn't seen it.

“No,” I admitted, “it's also possible that it belongs to her.”

Miray wasn't deterred. “The aquamarine is in the suitcase, right?”

“That's easy to check,” said Reynaud. “Would you be so kind as to open it, Monsieur Martens?”

The man groaned in annoyance. He took a small key from his pocket, unlocked the suitcase, and handed it to Reynaud. The inspector placed the baggage on the crate and searched it, but found nothing but clothes, a toiletry bag with travel utensils, and an old newspaper. There was no secret compartment or false bottom. Nothing suitable for hiding a large diamond.

Barnes had meanwhile searched the man's pockets, but there was no stolen goods to be found there either.

“I think that settles the matter,” Martens declared, glaring at Miray before taking his suitcase. “May I also have my weapon back?”

Reynaud shook his head. “You can collect the weapon from me once you leave the train. Just as a precaution.”

“Very well. Gentlemen, Madam,” Martens bid farewell in annoyance and left the baggage car.

Inspector Reynaud looked at us silently for a long time before quietly consulting with his colleague. He then announced his verdict. “Mademoiselle Miray, Monsieur Lacombe, we don't know what roles you play in this matter, but your behavior seems very 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.”

It would be pointless to resist armed policemen, so we let them escort us to the compartment, where Reynaud took the key and locked the door from the outside.

As soon as we were alone, Miray roughly pushed me onto the seat, leaned over me, and looked at me angrily. “You really stabbed me in the back there! Do you honestly believe I'm a thief?”

“I don't know what to believe,” I admitted awkwardly. “Barnes unsettled me. I didn't actually see if you found the glove in the coat pocket or brought it yourself.”

“Why, you're a loyal companion to me. I hope it will be a dog next time. A dog wouldn't let me down.”

“I just want to finally wake up from this damn dream and be home again,” I burst out. “You can keep this whole adventure. I'm so done with it.”

We sat sulking next to each other and stared out of the window. I really couldn't tell which side Miray was on. Did she want to catch the Velvet Fox, or was she trying to divert attention from herself? Did her journey really start in Sofia, or was she just covering her tracks? I didn't know.

But I did know that she had the same strange tattoo. Also, she was the one who recognized me as a dream traveler. She undoubtedly didn't belong in this place any more than I did.

“Miray,” I spoke cautiously, “I realize that we can only make it out of this dream together. Let's be friends again and work as a team.”

She nodded, still hurt. For a while, she stared at the air thoughtfully. Then she said, “I don't get it. It must be Martens, but we searched his things thoroughly and found no aquamarine.”

“Maybe he hid the stone somewhere on the train?”

“I don't think so. If I were the thief, I would always carry the gem with me. There's too much risk that someone will find it, or that you won't be able to get to it unnoticed later.”

She got up and paced excitedly. “We must unmask Martens before we reach Paris. Otherwise, he'll be gone, and we'll be in real trouble. Instead, we're stuck in this cursed compartment.”

It was almost midnight when we stopped at Budapest West Station. During our stay, Lieutenant Barnes positioned himself on the platform in front of our window to ensure we didn't escape. Right on time at one o'clock, we continued our journey. According to the schedule, the next stop was Bratislava, where we would arrive at five thirty-nine. We had a long, uneventful night ahead.

“I can't keep my eyes open,” I told my companion. “I'll get some sleep. We can't do anything anyway.”

“If you hope to fall asleep here and wake up at home,” she guessed my thoughts, “I must disappoint you. That won't happen.”

Grumbling, I took off my shoes and lay down on my couch. “This feels good,” I moaned silently. “These old-fashioned leather shoes are really uncomfortable.”

“That's it!” Miray suddenly exclaimed, jumping up. “Dian, we must get out of this compartment! Come on, pretend to be unconscious!”

I closed my eyes and lay my head to the side, motionless.

“Good, don't move!” she said and began pounding loudly on the door. After a while, Charpentier responded from the other side, asking what was going on.

“Come quickly,” she shouted, “Lacombe is unwell!”

“I'd better get one of the policemen,” he replied through the door.

“Then it'll be too late! Come on, you must help him!”

Several seconds passed before Charpentier unlocked the door and entered. He came to me and shook me.

At that moment, the trap snapped shut. Miray closed the compartment door, fixed the gaunt old man from behind, and covered his mouth. He had no chance against her.

“If you don't resist, nothing will happen to you,” she whispered to him. “But unfortunately, we need to catch a thief before we reach Paris, and we can't waste any time.”

She asked me to take the curtain cords from the window. We tied his arms and legs with the strings. Then she gagged him with a handkerchief from her handbag and took his key ring.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she finally said, taking the light bulb from her bag and placing it on the table in front of Charpentier's eyes. “I think this is yours.”

After making sure no one was in the corridor, we sneaked to Martens' compartment.

“What are you planning?” I asked Miray.

“Stealing his shoes,” she replied curtly.

She took Charpentier's key ring. The first key didn't fit into the lock. The second key did, though. She quietly unlocked the door and opened it carefully.

In the compartment, Martens was sleeping on his couch, which had been converted into a bed. He had taken off his shoes and placed them near the window. Miray knelt on the floor, crawled on all fours to the shoes, and took them. As she made her way back, Martens suddenly sprang up, knocked her over, and pressed her neck to the floor with his strong hands.

“There they are!” I heard Charpentier's voice at that moment. He had freed himself and was running towards us with Inspector Reynaud and Lieutenant Barnes.

“This is enough!” Barnes shouted angrily. “You've just gotten yourself into a lot of trouble.” He grabbed me roughly and pinned me against the wall.

“How much more do I have to put up with these lunatics?” Martens protested loudly. He pressed Miray to the floor with his knee on her back, trying to take his shoes from her. But she lay on them and clutched them tightly.

“Let her stand up,” Reynaud instructed the man. “We'll take care of her.”

“Good,” he shouted, “but this time, do your job properly!” He then released her. She jumped to her feet, holding his shoes in her hands, and looked at him threateningly.

“Give me back my shoes,” Martens ordered.

“You'll have to come and get them,” she challenged, “but this time, you won't catch me off guard.”

“What is this nonsense?” Reynaud asked, annoyed.

She turned the shoes upside down. “Isn't it strange that a giant like Monsieur Martens wears high heels?”

Reynaud's eyes widened. Then he took the shoes and examined them. Indeed, he found a small, hidden latch on the right sole. When he flipped it, the heel slid aside.

The inspector reached inside in astonishment, pulled out a blue gemstone, and held it up to the light. It was undoubtedly the Tear of the Desert.

“Arrest Monsieur Martens, Lieutenant!” he instructed his colleague.

“With pleasure, Inspector!” he replied.

While Barnes took the captured suspect away, Reynaud thanked us profusely. “The Velvet Fox's journey will end in Paris, and the stone will find its way back to the palace. A handsome reward awaits you.”

Miray waved it off. “What would I do with it?” she asked the bewildered inspector. We left him standing and returned to her compartment.

“That was brave of you to confront Martens,” I remarked.

She shrugged. “Do you think so? That had little to do with courage.”

I was about to ask what she meant by that, but she pointed to her wrist. A green circle enclosed the two lines.

I took off my wristwatch and found a circle beneath it as well.

“Does that mean we can finally wake up?” I asked.

She nodded. “It does. Provided you're ready to part with your exciting job as a service staff.”

“That is passé. Moreau fired me.”

“He doesn't appreciate heroes,” she remarked dryly. “Maybe you'd have more success as a porter at the Gare de l'Est.”

“I like my actual job as a mechanic,” I waved off. Then I held out a handful of coins to her. “At least I collected plenty of tips. These could be worth a fortune as collectibles back home.”

“This is a dream,” Miray reminded me. “I'm afraid you won't be able to take anything material with you.”

She was right, and that explained why she had so generously refused the reward.

Sadly, I put my collection back in my pocket and asked, “Do you think we'll meet again?”

“I don't know. This is the first time I've had the company of another dream traveler.”

I felt a lump in my throat. I wasn't sad about finally being able to leave this dream. But I would miss my smart and confident companion. “Take care, Miray,” I bid her farewell.

I stretched out my arms. She hesitated for a moment, then we hugged each other goodbye.

“Are you ready?” she asked. I nodded.

She placed her hand on her tattoo. Nothing happened.

“It looks like we need to do this together,” she instructed me.

I looked at her one last time before placing my hand on my tattoo. At the same moment, everything around me went black, and I fell into an endless void before losing consciousness.

The sound of machine guns startled me. Was I still dreaming? I opened my eyes wide. A tank rolled through the image on my TV. I was lying on the couch, covered in a pile of potato chips from an overturned bag.

I quickly turned off the TV, freed myself from the chips, and made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and spend the rest of the night in my bed.

Was it really just a dream that I had experienced? It seemed so, but I could remember it as vividly as a journey from which I had recently returned. I still heard the clattering of the train in my ears, and the smell of the locomotive seemed to linger in my living room.

Was it all a product of my brain, an illusion? Or was there somewhere else in the world a woman who had just woken up from a strange dream that also wouldn't end?