The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  It’ll make a man of you, his father had said. Books are fine when you have a grand library to put them in. But a gun, now that will teach you about life, about the hard facts.

  ‘So how about taking a walk?’ Werthen said, catching Franzl off guard.

  ‘I’ve got the afternoon rounds coming up, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure we can put them off for an hour or so. After all, it’s not every day a chap turns eleven.’

  Outside, the afternoon had turned chill – it was still several days until the first of spring. Franzl had almost to run in order to keep up with Werthen as the lawyer strode purposefully toward the Graben. Once there, they went to mid-block and Franzl followed him through the doors to Pichler’s, an art supply store that had been, as the engraving on its windows announced, in service to the crown for over a century. Werthen could not imagine any of the Habsburgs delighting in a fine set of charcoals or expertly mixed oils, but such products had been available at Pichler’s, one assumed, if anyone from the court should desire them.

  Franzl’s face lit up like a Christmas tree as he surveyed the myriad of mahogany racks containing art supplies, from sketching pencils to canvases.

  Werthen came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the shop. ‘So, birthday boy, what will it be?’

  ‘Sir?’ Franzl was confused.

  ‘It’s your day, so your choice. A set of charcoals if you please, or—’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right. Like I was tricking you or something. Complaining just to make you feel sorry for me.’

  Werthen was about to reply that as a lawyer, he was seldom tricked. Then he remembered how Vogelsang had bamboozled him this very day. Yet there was another realization: the tension from that trial was beginning to dissipate. He smiled at the boy.

  ‘Franzl, I do appreciate your sentiment, and even more so the depth of thought and self-reflection that prompts such a statement. However, I assure you I do not feel manipulated. So, no more arguments. I am your employer and as such I order you to find yourself a fine set of charcoals.’

  ‘Sir—’ Franzl began, but a mock-stern expression from Werthen stilled him.

  Werthen pulled the pocket watch out from his vest pocket. ‘You have ten minutes, young man. Look lively.’

  Franzl was off like a rabbit, a broad smile on his face.

  Meanwhile, Werthen focused his mind, trying to keep evil thoughts regarding Vogelsang at bay. So concentrated was he in this effort that he did not even notice that Franzl had already returned clutching a small wooden box of charcoals.

  ‘Is that what you want, then?’

  ‘It’s a wonderful one.’

  ‘Not very many charcoals.’

  ‘I’m just a beginner, sir.’

  ‘That’s not what your teacher tells me.’

  ‘Frau Blau is just being polite.’

  ‘Even the archduke complimented your horse drawings at the Christmas exhibition.’

  Franzl blushed at this, but nodded as well. ‘He did like them, didn’t he?’

  Werthen paid for the charcoals.

  As they made their way along the windy streets, Werthen suddenly said, ‘I think it is high time I get another case.’

  ‘Another legal brief, sir?’

  ‘No. I mean a real case. An investigative case.’

  ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea, sir.’

  ‘And you know what else I feel like now?’ Werthen asked.

  But he did not wait for a reply.

  ‘A fine mélange for me and a large cup of chocolate smothered in schlagobers are in order for you, I believe.’

  Franzl’s eyes grew as large as half-crown pieces as Werthen led their way to the Café Frauenhuber.

  TWO

  No Herr Otto today, Werthen noticed as they entered the soothing, serene precincts of the Frauenhuber, his own personal ‘third place,’ as the Viennese liked to refer to their café. Home, work, café. In that order. But Fritz, another waiter, recognized him and led him and Franzl to a window table. Werthen ordered for them.

  Franzl was looking about him in amazement, taking in the sight of all the affluent customers seated in Thonet chairs at their marble-topped tables, at the bustle of servers holding silver-plated trays full of cups and water glasses over their heads; experiencing the hum of low conversation going on all around them, the slap of Tarock cards at one table, the sizzle and snap of newspaper pages being turned.

  ‘I’ve never been in one of these places,’ Franzl said, as if he were forbidden the very use of the word ‘café.’ ‘They usually shoo me away from the doors if I get close.’

  ‘Well, no shooing here. You’re gainfully employed, now, Franzl. A regular citizen. Now tell me. What fine drawing are you going to do with your new charcoals?’

  The boy brightened. ‘Frau Blau wants me to do more figure work. There’s this old fellow with a long beard and deep-sunk eyes who she pays to model for us. That’ll be a treat. Did you ever want any art stuff when you were my age?’

  ‘Books were more my thing,’ Werthen said as Fritz arrived with the coffee and hot chocolate.

  They were sipping their respective brews when the jingling of the bell over the main door caught Werthen’s attention. Herr Otto, attired all in black, entered, his cheeks red from the cold. It was odd to see the head waiter entering the front of the café. But Herr Otto seemed preoccupied, in some sort of distress.

  The man quickly made his way through the main hall, nodding at familiar customers. When he saw Werthen he made special eye contact, lifted a fisted hand with forefinger an inch from the outstretched thumb to indicate ‘just a moment,’ and then disappeared behind swinging kitchen doors. In a moment, as promised, he reappeared, top coat and hat removed, now dressed in the full tuxedoed regalia of the Herr Ober. He made his way quickly to Werthen’s table.

  ‘I am so pleased to see you, Advokat Werthen.’

  ‘I missed you when we first arrived,’ Werthen replied. He and Herr Otto had a long history, beginning with Werthen aiding him in a false accusation of theft from his former position as head waiter at the Café Landtmann. Since that time, they had been allies, and Herr Otto had always managed to find Werthen a quiet table at the Frauenhuber when needed, always made sure to save a fresh edition of Neue Freie Presse for his perusal.

  ‘If it is not a disturbance, Herr Advokat, might I request an appointment with you?’

  ‘Legal matters, Herr Otto? A will perhaps?’ Werthen smiled at him.

  ‘In your other capacity, Herr Advokat.’

  Werthen’s heart quickened. A case. As he had told Franzl, he was badly in need of one.

  He nodded at the black armband Herr Otto was wearing. ‘Does that have anything to do with it?’

  Herr Otto sighed. ‘I have just returned from the funeral. A colleague. From the Café Burg.’

  ‘Herr Karl?’ Werthen had read about the unfortunate death of the man, slipping on an icy patch between the twin museums and cracking his head on a cement pillar at the base of the Maria Theresa monument. Herr Karl was something of a legend, known even to Werthen, who seldom visited the Café Burg. The ‘little general,’ his regulars had dubbed him, both for the man’s love of military lore and for the way in which he ran things at the Burg.

  ‘It was an accident. What is there to investigate?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘If I could talk to you at your office …’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Perhaps later this afternoon, then, Herr Advokat. I have only come in to check on the books. Say in an hour, then?’

  ‘I look forward to it,’ Werthen said. ‘And I am sorry for your loss.’

  Herr Otto smiled at this, nodded to Franzl and was on his way.

  Werthen looked at his young companion. ‘Don’t let it get cold. Better drink up.’

  ‘You think somebody killed this Herr Karl fellow?’ His eyes once again grew large at this possibility. ‘You were hoping for a case. Maybe this is it, Herr Werthen.’
>
  ‘Maybe,’ Werthen allowed. ‘Maybe.’

  An hour later Werthen was seated in his office on the Habsburgergasse trying to concentrate on the file in front of him – a draft for the will of one Herr Schminkel, who could not decide to whom he wished to leave his most prized possession, his stamp collection. Werthen had created his own nickname for this client, the Flatulent Philatelist. Of an advanced age, Herr Schminkel did not seem to be fully in control of his bodily discharges. Werthen always made sure to apply a bit of 4711 Kölnisch Wasser to his pocket handkerchief in advance of any meeting with the man.

  A gentle rap at his door and his secretary, Fräulein Metzinger, poked her head in. ‘Herr Swoboda and Herr Falk to see you, Herr Werthen.’

  This took him aback; he was eager to speak with Herr Otto and now two new clients had arrived to interrupt that interview.

  ‘Are they scheduled?’ he asked, irritation in his voice.

  ‘Herr Swoboda said that a meeting had been arranged,’ the secretary explained, keeping her voice low so the visitors would not overhear.

  Werthen was at a loss to remember any such arrangement, but finally relented.

  ‘Send them in, then. The other gentleman I mentioned should be coming shortly.’

  Fräulein Metzinger nodded curtly and withdrew, presently followed by Herr Otto and another younger man in tow.

  Werthen felt an idiot. He had always known the waiter by the soubriquet Herr Otto, never even wondering about the man’s surname. Now the problem is, Werthen decided, which one was he, Swoboda or Falk?

  He rose from his desk. ‘Come in, come in. Please be seated,’ he said effusively, waving his hand at a pair of leather armchairs on their side of the desk.

  Fräulein Metzinger had already relieved them of their hats and coats in the other office; Herr Otto sat with prim dignity, perching almost on the front of the cushion, hands in his lap, while his younger companion let himself fall back into his chair, legs akimbo and hands gripping the arms of the chair. There was a frosting of dandruff on the shoulders of the young man’s dark suit.

  ‘So, Herr Otto. How may I be of service to you?’

  Herr Otto glanced momentarily at the young man next to him before speaking. ‘Well, as you earlier learned, it is in regard to the death of Karl Andric. You see, Herr Advokat, his death was not an accident. It was murder.’

  Werthen allowed the word to soak in for an instant before proceeding.

  ‘You suspect this because …?’

  Herr Otto shook his head adamantly. ‘Not a suspicion. A fact.’ He looked at the young man next to him.

  The young man’s hands gripped the arms of his chair even more tightly now, white showing at his knuckles. Herr Otto broke the silence. ‘This is my wife’s nephew, Herr Werthen. Rudolph Falk. I was instrumental in getting him a position at the Café Burg. He has something to share with you.’

  The young man seemed at a loss for words.

  ‘Tell him, Rudi,’ Herr Otto prompted.

  Finally the young man sighed. ‘I saw it all,’ he said. ‘That night, I saw it.’

  ‘Saw what?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘Herr Karl, he was walking home. It was late and cold and he went off the Ring and into the park between the museums.’

  ‘And you just happened to be there at this same time?’ Werthen said.

  To which comment Rudi Falk reddened violently.

  ‘Tell him all of it,’ Herr Otto said.

  ‘It was like this,’ the young man said. ‘Herr Karl and me, we had words that day, last Monday. He was always at me how to serve and how to look. Never a kind word; always carping at me.’

  ‘He was only trying to make a better waiter out of you, Rudi,’ Herr Otto said.

  ‘It didn’t feel like that to me, did it? Felt like persecution, like he had it out for me for some reason.’

  ‘And so you were following him that night,’ Werthen said, ‘to talk to him or threaten him?’

  Rudi Falk sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘See?’ he said to Herr Otto. ‘I told you they would start accusing me. That’s why I didn’t go to the police.’

  ‘Relax, Herr Falk,’ Werthen said. ‘I was only trying to get to the bottom of this more quickly. So you followed Herr Karl from the café after he closed that night. Correct?’

  Falk nodded sullenly.

  ‘And he went into the small park between the museums. Then what?’

  ‘Well, he was walking by that big monument with the woman up there—’

  ‘The Empress Maria Theresa,’ Herr Otto told him with the voice of a disappointed school master.

  ‘Right, some famous woman, and Herr Karl – this was sort of funny – he made to salute her like he was a loyal soldier, but he never got closer to the army than his collection of toy soldiers, they say.’

  ‘And then what happened?’ Werthen prodded.

  ‘Then suddenly this other figure appeared from behind one of the stone pillars right in back of Herr Karl. He wore a long coat and hat and Herr Karl never even knew what hit him. The man swung something a few feet long and round like a pipe and crushed the back of Herr Karl’s head. He folded like a dead weight. Then the man, he pulls Herr Karl’s body close to one of the pillars and cracks the back of his head against it. Made a sickening sound. He left the body there by the pillar, slipped the pipe up the sleeve of his coat and off he went.’

  ‘And where were you all this time?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘When Herr Karl stopped to salute, I jumped behind a bush. Almost came out though, figuring this was as good a place as any to talk with him. And then this figure suddenly appeared and I stayed put. There was no time to warn him – it all happened so fast.’

  ‘And when the assailant left the scene?’

  ‘I went to Herr Karl, naturally. I could see right off that he was dead. And then I panicked. I mean, if I went to the police, I figured they’d suspect me. Like you asked, what was I doing following my boss? And everybody at the Burg knew we didn’t get along.’

  ‘But you did finally tell your uncle.’

  ‘It was just too much for me today at the funeral,’ Falk said. ‘I had to tell somebody.’

  ‘Did you see the assailant clearly?’

  He shook his head. ‘It was dark. Too dark.’

  Werthen pictured the scene; the nearest street lamp was on the Ring. The young man was right. Too dark for identification.

  ‘You said it was a “he.” Could you actually tell if it was a man or woman that attacked Herr Karl?’

  Falk shrugged. ‘What woman’s going to kill him?’

  Werthen ignored this. ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just figured it was a man who would kill like that.’

  ‘A large figure or small figure?’

  Another confused shake of the head. ‘Medium. About the size of Herr Karl, but he was not a big man, either.’

  ‘Can you help us, Herr Werthen?’ Herr Otto finally asked.

  ‘I assume you mean can I investigate and not involve the police?’

  ‘It could put an end to Rudi’s career. We can pay. I have spoken with the head of our Waiters’ Association. We have a fund. Herr Karl was one of ours.’

  Werthen held his head in his hand and tapped a reflective forefinger against his cheek. It would mean withholding evidence from the police, but it was not as if he had not done so before.

  ‘I’ll need a list of names of associates, friends – anyone connected with Herr Karl,’ Werthen said by way of answer.

  THREE

  ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ Berthe said as they stood in front of a woodcut by Emil Orlik at the Galerie Pisko later that evening. They were having a rare evening out with Frau Blatschky taking care of their young daughter, Frieda.

  ‘It will take your mind off the Vogelsang affair,’ she added. ‘Though I really do believe you should get that man hanged before you attempt any other cases. I never could abide his arrogant, preening rooster attitude on the court.’

&n
bsp; Werthen said nothing for a moment. He understood his wife’s flippancy. She was attempting to be charmingly insouciant but he knew she was put off by the Herr Karl commission. It would involve investigating a bloody, violent murder committed by someone who – having so carefully staged the killing as an accident – would not take kindly to Werthen digging and prying into the death. Added to that, Werthen would be doing it behind the back, as it were, of the police.

  ‘It’s very Japanese,’ he said, eager to change the subject.

  ‘Not at all,’ Berthe insisted, misunderstanding his referent. ‘From what I have read of the Japanese, they are a most humble people. Quite modest, especially in public.’

  ‘The woodcut, not Vogelsang. It’s got a Japanese feel to it. Like a Hiroshige woodblock print.’

  Orlik, he knew, had only recently returned from a prolonged sojourn in Japan.

  ‘It is quite lovely,’ she allowed, turning to him and suddenly taking his hand in hers.

  They ended the evening at the Café Imperial, near the Galerie Pisko. It was not Werthen’s sort of place, but the evening had turned wet and proximity was more important than atmosphere. Entering the low-lit room, they were surprised to find Karl Kraus occupying a window table. He brightened when he saw them and gestured for them to join him.

  Kraus was the uncrowned king and champion of rectitude in the written word and the avenger and scourge of hypocrisy in his journal, The Torch. Tidy, gnome-like, misshapen and bespectacled, Kraus dressed like a banker and thought like an anarchist. Best of all, he had his ear to the ground, was privy to the secrets of Vienna and occasionally shared these with Werthen.

  It was, however, a surprise to see him here at the somewhat stodgy Café Imperial, home to musicians perhaps, but not known for its writers. The Café Central was his usual haunt.

  ‘Good to see you, Kraus,’ Werthen said, pumping the small man’s delicate hand with eagerness. Kraus winced – not so much at the pressure but at the physical contact. ‘What draws you out of the hallowed halls of the Central?’