The first violinist and conductor of L'Orchestre Parisienne Philharmonique, one Guy Lombarre d'Eaux (*le "pun" mal) watched his musicians set up their music stands, and open their instrument cases. He knew that all pandaemonium was breaking out up and down the length of the train, but a paying gig was a paying gig, and he was damned well going through with this one. They would get off in Budapest, catch the night train home, and be back in time for next Friday's concert at the "Chateau de la Lumiere Rouge" (*total dive).

He ambled over to the cart where the instrument cases were. There were two violin cases left. One his, and the other one he had never seen before. "Quelle une chose!" (*Gor blimey!) he said under his breath. Inconspicuously, he picked up both, and retreated to his spot behind the music stand and the knee-high faux wall segments (*I know there's a name for these things but I can't remember it). He opened the strange case, and found it was stuffed with what appeared to be scientific papers. He deftly lifted the papers out of the case, searched for subcompartments and found a chunk of rosin and a curious coin, both of which he pocketed. He stuffed the papers behind his music in his music folder, closed the violin case, and quietly returned it to the cart.

Soon the orchestra was beginning "It Don't Mean A Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)," and the passengers in the club car, still somewhat shell-shocked by the happenings of the last hour, started to relax. Some even started tapping their toes.

Meanwhile, in the luggage car, Father Popovich was snoring loudly when a loud "Thud!" woke him up with a start. He looked up and found that the smoke from the incense had cleared, and furthermore that the once-empty car was filled with luggage, boxes, and other assorted cartage. And directly at his feet, in a dried pool of blood, was the body of Dr Villanueve.

"Rimsky Korsakov!" (*hell's bells) the priest swore. He struggled to his feet, and began arranging the body for burial, as he had done countless times before with countless parishioners whom he had ushered in to the Beyond.

But before he could finish, the door burst open, and in strode Napoleon Duchamps. "What are you doing here?" he bellowed.

"I am arranging the body for burial, friend," said the burly priest.

"Oh, Father Popich, is it?" said the inspecteur.

"Popovich, oui," said the Russian.

"Well, I am not a religious man, Father," said the inspector as he bent to kiss the priest's hand, crossed himself several times, and genuflected slightly. "But I can't say how glad I am to see you."