The fog in Father Popovich's brain started to break up after the third shot of vodka. Stolichnaya. Nothing but the best on the Orient Express. Two vodkas later the sun finally broke through and he was once again in full command of his facilities, such as they were.

He ordered a large mineral water ("Vodka always makes me thirsty," he explained once), and set about exploring this strange new violin case. He now remembered where it came from -- that sleeping man who most assuredly did not belong on the floor of his sleeper compartment. He was certain that the man would no longer be there, were he to go back and look for him. "He might even be in this car!" the priest thought with a jolt. He stopped himself even as he was about to draw the violin case out of his suitcase and inspect it.

"'Ere ees your meenairal wataire, Fahzaire," the bartender Marcel said in a friendly voice. "Peetay about the Doctaire, ees eet not?"

"The Doctor?" Father Popovich asked. "What doctor? Je ne comprends pas." (*huh?)

"Oh, so you haff not haird? Doctaire Villeneuve, ze famous Pheezaceest, was keeled on ze train. Everyboday ees talking about eet."

"Dostrovno Vladivostok!" (*Well I'll be!")

The voluminous Russian looked out over the club car. He caught snatches of conversations from several tables. Indeed, all of the conversations he could hear were in fact about the death of Dr. Villeneuve. Except one man, over in the corner, who was asleep and mumbling about boys in swimsuits, and one woman who was speaking in a country French accent about the death of her -- accordion?

"Clearly I need another vodka," thought Fr. Basil. Aloud, he said, "Yes, that is a horrible thing. Has the man been prepared for burial? Have they said the rites over him?"

"Zair ees no Catholic Priest on ze train," said the bartender. "Pairheps?"

"Where is the body?" The tall Russian stood up a little unsteadily and caasually tossed a fifty-franc bill to the barkeep. "Even if he was not a son of the Russian Church, duty demands that I see to it he is prepared for Christian burial."

"Ze boday ees een ze baggage car, Fahzair."

"Keep the change, Marcel." The priest strode off in the direction of the baggage car, lurching and bumping into walls, people, tables, etc. as he went.

"Change? 'Ee steefed me twenty francs!" mumbled Marcel, gathering the empty glasses and wiping down the bar with a damp cloth.