A Gamble on the Snail Shell Express

If you know Brosnia, even if only by reputation, then you will know that it is a country with many virtues. The scenery for instance is beautiful[1] and its people charming. If you are a regular reader of these adventures, you will also know that its galgomai pudding is a delicacy that once tasted will cause you to cast aside lesser puddings with a sneering look and a dismissive ‘Pah!’

What is perhaps less remarked upon – no doubt because it is not in any way pudding – is the Brosnian rail service, which stands equally tall amongst its peers in the train and track world. It is lovingly maintained, well-appointed, comfortable and – if not especially quick – inarguably reliable. It trundles past lush, green scenery that has been known to cause painters to weep and lawnmowers to declare their retirement. It is staffed by kind, gentle, folk who wish nothing more than to ensure you have a safe journey, and are not at all put out that your baby has just been sick on them for the second time.

‘Isn’t he a darling,’ they are heard to say as they freshen your tea and pull back the foil on your individual pot of galgomai pudding.

Even the facilities, should you need to make use of them, are deceptively large and spotlessly clean.

It’s very nearly perfect.

And because of this, it is consistently under threat of closure. It is a long-established fact that most people do not want nice things; they simply want to complain about not having them.

This is not to say that those in charge of the Railway have accepted their lot. They have – and long may they continue – done everything within their power to entice new customers both at home and abroad to ride the rails in their company.

Their advertising (as if you expected otherwise) is equally wholesome and often ruthlessly honest. For instance...

Brosnia is beautiful.

Why not look at all of it?

Twice.

Ride the Snail-Express, and get there when you get there.

We’re slow but we’re steady. Like a tortoise but, well... you know... a train.[2]

These slogans and many others are plastered on billboards all around the capital city of Massovina, which is where Agaton Sax was on holiday when this story began.

The great Swedish detective had been there for a week, visiting his good friend Andreas Kark who – along with his right-footed steel shoe – has played a role in at least one of Agaton’s previous adventures.[3]

The visit had been exceedingly pleasant; the two men had discussed crime and criminals long into the evenings, reminiscing about their own adventures. They had exchanged theories and told stories of their more recent run-ins with various ruffians and ne’er-do-wells.

Now, sadly, it was time for Agaton to return home, and he had been persuaded by his friend to forgo the convenience of his private helicopter Hercules IV, to instead take a trip on the Snail-Express. This explains, to a certain extent, why we’ve spent so much time talking about it.

However, it was not purely to experience its wonders that Agaton had decided to take the train. In fact, when Andreas had suggested the idea, it had been in a rather extraordinary manner.

At the end of their final evening together, Andreas had abruptly stood up from the small table at which they sat, and moved to the record player that had been providing them with soothing classical music, turning it up to an ear-splitting volume.

As the detective winced, his friend had returned to his side and whispered in his ear, ‘Take my advice and go by Snail-Express.’

Over the pounding sound of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, to Agaton this had sounded more like, ‘If you want to eat mice, then Moe will buy your dress,’ – but his deservedly renowned brain had soon worked out the true message.

‘Why?’ he’d whispered back.

‘There will be two international crooks on the 20:00 train from Massovina Central this evening.’[4]

Agaton had stroked his moustache then gestured for Andreas to turn down the music. Hesitantly, his friend had done so.

‘I appreciate the normal protection from prying ears,’ the detective had acknowledged, pulling out a small, electronic device from his pocket that looked like a pencil but was jet black and a had a blinking light where its eraser should be, ‘but since our last adventure, I have taken the precaution of carrying a jamming device with me at all times. Had anyone been listening in, all they’d have heard would’ve been two old friends discussing their love of fishing.’

‘You astound me as always, my friend.’

Agaton had smiled softly and inclined his head in thanks.

‘Now, tell me more about these criminals.’

Andreas’ gaze had dropped to his well-polished steel shoe.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much more. I received a secret message from an unknown source only half an hour ago, and I thought I ought to pass it on to you.’

‘I wondered to where you had disappeared after we had finished the cheese course,’ Agaton had smiled. Admittedly, he had guessed the reason for his friend’s disappearance from the table, but had not wanted to pry. Or rather... he had wanted to pry but was far too polite. He had therefore been rather grateful that Andreas had chosen to share.

Agaton had then stood and clapped his companion on the back.

‘Thank you, my dear Andreas,’ he’d said warmly. ‘I shall certainly take your advice. Nothing would round off my trip more perfectly than the chance to interrupt the dastardly deeds of a pair of crooks. I’ll ask the Chief of Police[5] to arrange for my helicopter to be flown home.’

***

A few hours after all of this, Agaton boarded the Snail-Express, having purchased a first-class ticket to the frontier station where he would catch a connecting flight to Sweden.

He had chosen – given the circumstances of his trip – to wear a disguise. He was well-known amongst criminals of all types and therefore wished to observe without distraction. He had waxed his moustache to within an inch of its life, donned a pair of dark glasses and a battered deerstalker hat,[6] then topped these off with a pair of old-fashioned plus fours[7] and a tweed jacket.

It was such an eye-catching outfit that barely anyone looked at him at all for fear of being caught staring, which was exactly the effect Agaton Sax had been going for.

He got into the first carriage – next to the guard’s van – and moved slowly down the train’s long corridor, his eyes darting into every row he passed, seeking out his quarry. With no description to work with, he had to rely on his detective instincts to identify the two crooks.

Could they be, for instance, the two Brosnian clergymen tucking into the contents of a small picnic basket with gusto? Or maybe the two farmers, between whom sat a bored-looking hen?

Or perhaps it was the mountaineers, still decked out in full climbing gear, thus completing filling the compartment in which they sat. Perhaps they hoped, as Agaton had, that their disguise would prove too extravagant to be questioned and the crowded conditions would keep them from being troubled for the length of their journey.

They seemed the most likely, Agaton pondered. But he wasn’t hearing that ringing bell inside his head that told him that he, once again, had cracked a case.

It was then that he found himself jostled by a pair of men he hadn’t seen before. Without a word of apology, they shoved past him, flung open the door of the last remaining compartment, threw their suitcases onto the rack and slumped into the hard seats nearest the window.

Now the bell began to toll softly in Agaton’s mind. He followed them into the compartment, and casually took one of the remaining seats. They wouldn’t escape his watchful eye.

They were a curious pair, one extremely large and the other equally small. You could have fit three of the second man inside the first and still have room for half of a fourth. Both were well-dressed (as far as size allowed) but had an air of untrustworthiness about them; you wouldn’t have left your wallet unattended in their presence.

A few minutes after they’d settled, the larger man stood, reached up to the luggage rack and removed a pack of cards. Sitting down again, he began to shuffle them.

Agaton tipped his hat over his eyes, as if about to sleep, then watched the game from beneath its brim. It was a Brosnian game known as Racketeer, the sort of game an unwary tourist might be tricked into playing before finding themselves short several thousand kronsk[8] and missing their gold teeth.

Each of the men produced a bundle of banknotes from their jacket pockets, and placed them on the little window table between them.

‘170,000 kronsk,’ said the larger of the two.

His companion nodded.

‘I raise you 275,000.’

‘I see your 275,000 and raise you 275,000.’

Beneath his hat, Agaton’s expression was one of intense interest. Even with the exchange rates, the two men were playing for large sums of money. Especially for what seemed to be a casual game to pass the time.

‘I see your raise and double it.’

Then each man drew a card from the deck and showed them to each other. The larger man gave a triumphant laugh and swept all of the banknotes over to his side of the table.

If the loss was a blow to his partner, he didn’t show it. He simply shrugged and began to shuffle the cards again.

Agaton Sax’s mind was whirring. He was more and more convinced that these two were up to no good. He had heard rumours of a gang of bank robbers operating along the border towards which the train was now creeping. Perhaps he, thanks to Andreas Kark, had stumbled on two of their number.

A small current of excitement ran up his spine – he was never happier than when he had criminals in his sights. He let out a small snore, the better to convince the men that he was nothing more than a weary commuter, hopefully causing them to further lower their guard.

Unfortunately, this ruse seemed to work rather too well; the larger of the two men stood, stretched and removed a small round object from the overhead rack. Slumping back into his seat, he cut it into two halves with a pocketknife, and split it between himself and his companion.

Both began to chomp at the raw garlic with obvious relish.[9]

Agaton began to feel dizzy. The smell was aggressive – almost solid – as though it had woken from the garlic and immediately picked a fight with the rest of the air.

The rest of the air was losing.

Clearly, the likely bank robbers had built up some sort of immunity. They sat and munched and chatted as though each held the sweetest apple in their hand.

Agaton Sax was doing his best not to choke. He had intended to remain incognito, but it was becoming clear to him that he would have to change tack if he was also going to remain conscious.

He lifted his hat from over his eyes, slipped his best pipe from his pocket and filled it with a special blend of tobacco known as Kompost. It had been a parting gift from Andreas Kark.

Agaton had been far too polite at the time to inform his friend that it smelt as if an elephant had run a marathon and then discovered his shower to be out of order, but he was now deeply grateful for its unique olfactory qualities.

He lit a match and dropped it into the bowl of the pipe.

Within a few moments, the smoke had filled the compartment to the point that the two men were now little more than shadowy shapes. Two shadowy, coughing, cursing shapes.

It seemed that the Kompost had done its job and put them right off their garlicky feast.

‘Ghall sun lochry Brosnioundha!’ the smaller man muttered, meaningfully.

Agaton gave a start.

The man had spoken in the near extinct language of Cryptic, a tongue of which Agaton Sax himself was one of few remaining speakers. He was, in fact, considered a scholar on the subject.

These were clearly no ordinary criminals.

Of course, of more immediate concern was what had actually been said in that forgotten language.

It was ‘I say we throw this Brosnian idiot and his pipe out of the window!’

1 Its highest peak Mount Jassapollakilki is regularly voted one of the top ten places from which to stare moodily into the distance

2 The original Brosnian is, it has to be said, far more elegant.

3 See Agaton Sax and the League of Silent Exploders. Not now, though... Finish this one first, as it’s only polite.

4 Or, possibly, ‘There will be two reprehensible cooks pondering twenty thundering grains…’

5 Agaton Sax, as you are surely aware, has shared adventures with more than one Chief of the Brosnian Secret Police. In fact, he has shared adventures with two.

6 In tribute to his favourite literary detective, Sir Henry Deerstalker.

7 Ask someone who plays golf.

8 The currency of Brosnia, as immortalised in the popular expression ‘120 kronsk for your thoughts’.

9 Not with actual relish, however. They were inconsiderate, but not completely insane.