The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  They sat at his table and Kraus nodded politely at Berthe, then said to Werthen, ‘The noise. The infernal, eternal chattering, clacking of chess pieces, slapping of newspaper pages being turned. I ask you, how can one read a newspaper so aggressively?’

  ‘It is quieter here,’ Berthe allowed, scanning the spacious coffeehouse located in the elegant Hotel Imperial, former palace of the Duke of Württemberg. There was a hushed mumble of voices from the well-dressed and middle-aged clientele; none of the sudden outbursts of laughter or argument as could be heard at the Central. The waiter arrived at their table and Werthen ordered a cup of gold each for him and his wife, a melange with added milk – it was too late at night for full-strength coffee.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Kraus replied. ‘I am contemplating moving here altogether. Herr Viktor indicates a regular’s table could be made available for me.’ Saying this, Kraus nodded a greeting to the head waiter standing tall and proud near the front door. ‘He has hopes I will attract the literary crowd once I am settled in.’

  Werthen was dubious of that, knowing the herd instinct of writers. But he did not want to disabuse Kraus of the level of his magnetism. They spoke for a time of new stories that Kraus was covering for his magazine, and of Werthen’s disillusionment in court this morning. Soon Kraus had also learned the nature of his most recent case.

  ‘Ah, Herr Karl. A most robust Herr Ober, I do admit. But the poor man fell, no?’

  Werthen was honor-bound not to divulge the particulars of Herr Falk’s eyewitness account. He merely smiled knowingly at Kraus.

  ‘Ah, I see. Murder most foul but you cannot share the details.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Werthen said.

  ‘It sounds like you knew the man, Herr Kraus,’ Berthe said, suddenly taking an interest in the case and putting concerns for safety aside. ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  Kraus snorted at this. ‘Does the despot spawn usurpers?’

  Werthen ignored this seeming non sequitur. ‘Which means he did have enemies?’

  ‘Don’t we all? But a Herr Ober has a special set of possible foes. Customers, for one. Of the disgruntled variety.’

  ‘Enough to kill him?’ Berthe asked skeptically.

  ‘A man’s café is his home away from home,’ Kraus pronounced. ‘We must never forget that. Deny him such comfort, and a man may take desperate measures. I recall hearing of one such instance. A Herr Bachman, I believe, who was forbidden service after it was discovered his Tarock games were played for high stakes and with a deck of cards not altogether as it should have been.’

  Werthen pulled out his leather notebook and pencil from his breast pocket and began taking notes. ‘Bachman, you say. Profession?’

  ‘Café habitué, what else? I am sure someone at the Café Burg could enlighten you further as to the man’s full name. And there is also the question of spite or ambition. I am not old enough to recall personally that Herr Karl was preceded by the imperious Herr Siegfried, but I have heard the tale from other café historians.’

  ‘There is such a profession?’ Bertha asked.

  ‘Of the amateur variety. But there are several here in Vienna who would enjoy the chance of contributing to a Kaffeeklatsch column in my journal were I to institute one. They do have tales to tell.’

  ‘Herr Karl’s predecessor?’ Werthen nudged.

  ‘Yes,’ Kraus said, picking up the thread of his former conversation. ‘When Herr Siegfried died, Herr Karl was promoted to Herr Ober and made a clean sweep of any remnants of his predecessor, getting rid of any reminders of the man. Are there relatives, perhaps, who took unkindly to such a posthumous slighting? After all, the position of Herr Ober is a keenly sought one. Which brings me to the converse of this proposition—’

  ‘Who stands to benefit from Herr Karl’s death?’ Berthe said.

  Kraus nodded at her, for him a startling sign of approval. ‘Yes. Who might be promoted to new Herr Ober at the Café Burg now that Herr Karl is no longer with us?’

  Werthen scratched a penciled name next to Bachman: ‘Herr Falk?’

  But then why would the young man come forward with a tale that could possibly incriminate him? Or was he being clever? Werthen wondered, assuming people would think exactly that way.

  ‘It could also be a matter of professional jealousy,’ Kraus said. ‘Jockeying for power in their Waiters’ Association. Seeking pride of place in the Viennese folklore enshrining notables in the trade … No, nothing to smile at, Frau Meisner. This is all quite serious. It’s a man’s career, after all. Who knows what lengths he will go to in order to secure prominence? The list grows long and we have yet to examine Herr Karl’s heritage or his promotion of the arts.’

  Werthen and Berthe both looked blankly at Kraus, waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming.

  Finally Berthe all but pleaded, ‘Not so sibylline, please, Herr Kraus.’

  ‘Yes.’ He held up a forefinger dramatically. ‘There is also the modern sibyl to discuss. The psychic, Hélène Smith, is in town and offering a seance at Princess Dumbroski’s salon this weekend. To be a fly on the wall at that performance!’

  Neither Werthen nor Berthe responded to this, waiting for Kraus to wander back to his original point.

  ‘Sorry.’ He tapped a forefinger to his right temple. ‘It’s filled with information of all sorts. Sometimes it’s as if I pull out the wrong file drawer. I was adding further to your list, Advokat. Do you know Herr Karl’s last name?’

  Werthen had to shake his head at this.

  ‘I thought not. Though supreme in his leadership at the café, the Herr Ober has no surname. He is simply Herr Karl or Herr Viktor.’ Kraus made a dramatic pause, then, ‘Andric. His name was Karl Jakov Andric.’

  ‘Sounds Serbian,’ Berthe said.

  ‘And it is, dear lady. Bosnian Serb, actually. Herr Karl’s family arrived in Vienna not long after Franz Josef became emperor, escaping Ottoman rule. They were Christians, and only too happy to finally make it to a Christian land. Ironic, however, Herr Karl’s choice of trade, don’t you think?’

  ‘You mean the Turkish connection?’ Werthen said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Kraus said, looking at Werthen as a pleased headmaster might gaze at a bright pupil. ‘The family flees Turkish Ottoman rule only to have the son take up a trade created by the Turks. It is a pleasing story for schoolchildren. The loyal Polish trader Kolschitzky rewarded for his spying services during the Turkish siege of Vienna by making off with bags of coffee beans found in the camp of the vanquished Turks. Beans which only he knew what to do with. And like most children’s tales, it is mostly myth. The Armenians preceded Kolschitzky, but then who cares for the truth when fable is so much more alluring?’

  ‘But what could Herr Karl’s ancestry have to do with his death?’ Berthe said, growing exasperated at Kraus’s asides.

  ‘This is hearsay, Advokat,’ Kraus said, directing conversation at Werthen in silent rebuke to Berthe – a woman daring to continually badger the greatest intellect of Vienna. ‘So do not quote me, but from my unofficial café historians I have heard that Herr Karl’s father was something of a revolutionary while in Bosnia; eager, though a Serb, to keep that region independent of greater Serbia. It is said that perhaps his emigration was not stirred so much by dislike for the Ottomans but by fear of retribution from Serbian nationalists. Perhaps they took out revenge on his son at long last. There are rumors, after all, of a secret organization formed by the Serbian military last year. The Black Hand. Quite dramatic, don’t you think? The purpose of said secret society is assassination.’

  Werthen did not bother to write down anything more than Herr Karl’s full name. This avenue of investigation seemed too incredible to warrant exploration.

  ‘And now we come to your comment about Herr Karl’s promotion of the arts being a possible motive,’ Werthen said.

  ‘This is rather more clear cut,’ Kraus said. ‘Herr Karl helped to turn the Café Burg into one of the more hospitable cafés for litera
ry gentlemen. Not the Jung Wien crowd, of course, but feuilletonists for the newspapers, minor journalists, a playwright here and there, even a novelist – who shall go unnamed – overly in thrall to symbolism. Well, whatever one’s taste in words, this seems a noble enough effort. I mean, those fellows should have some place to gather. That was not the thinking of Herr Moritz Fender, however. He wrote a scathing critique of café literati a year or two ago, swearing it was the death of Austrian literature, that it made for sheep mentality and for seditious ideas because of all the international newspapers available at such cafés. He made special mention of the Café Burg, as I recall. And of its Herr Ober, whose doing it was to turn the place into a minor literary haven.’

  ‘Perhaps we should warn Herr Viktor before he puts himself in harm’s way,’ Berthe quipped.

  ‘Interesting,’ Werthen said, closing his notebook and placing it back in his breast pocket. ‘As always, Herr Kraus, you have proved to be a fountain of information.’

  ‘And I do hope to hear from you with any results. My little write ups of your investigations have proven to be quite popular.’

  ‘We really should be going,’ Werthen said, looking at Berthe. ‘Our cook is sitting with Frieda. Mustn’t be too late.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the pleasures of domesticity. I fear I have only articles to proofread waiting for me at my humble abode.’

  They made farewell pleasantries, and as they were leaving Kraus smiled at both Werthen and Berthe. ‘This has been fun. You know, I might think of taking up detective work myself. Seems quite easy.’

  FOUR

  Frau Polnay had left the room as it was when Herr Karl was renting it.

  ‘Strange he never mentioned relations,’ she said again as Werthen entered the spacious cupola room overlooking a small park.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t have, would he?’ Werthen continued to improvise. ‘His cousins are in Bosnia. I gather he had no direct contact. Still, relations. They are curious to know of any legacies.’

  ‘Pahh. Legacies? Herr Karl? He spent every spare coin on these toy soldiers.’ She gestured to an immense table set right under the main windows. It displayed a miniature battlefield with brightly uniformed troops deployed over a vast created landscape of green rolling hills and woods, a river of glass cutting through it.

  ‘And Bosnian,’ the landlady said disparagingly in back of him. ‘Herr Karl?’

  With a name like Polnay, the woman must surely also stem from some far distant corner of the empire, but she was Viennese to the core – even in her prejudices.

  ‘I believe I can deal with things from here,’ Werthen said. ‘If you’ll just give me a bit of time to detail the belongings …’

  She shrugged at this, not taking the hint and not budging an inch, arms clasped over her massive bosom, her red nose a clarion call to arms. The lady clearly enjoyed her evening tipple.

  So be it, he decided. He pulled out his leather notebook and pencil, pretending to note down various possessions. Herr Karl had died intestate, as Werthen had already ascertained, but there were no relatives – Bosnian or otherwise – seeking inheritance rights.

  He first examined a small writing desk tucked into one corner of the room, hoping to find personal papers, a note, anything to provide a motive for the man’s death. The top of the desk was covered in a large, clean blotter; pen and ink stood next to this.

  ‘He liked to keep things tidy, did Herr Karl.’

  ‘So I see,’ Werthen said ruefully. The drawers displayed the same extreme order and tidiness. Two of them were filled with neatly filed, year-by-year records of his purchases of lead soldiers, numerous colors of paint for the uniforms and materials for designing and constructing various landscapes. Two other drawers contained well-worn volumes on war, from Herodotus on the Persian Wars to von Clausewitz.

  ‘Maybe you could push on then and get to the bottom of this list of possessions. I need to clean the room. New tenant coming in the first of the month.’

  Werthen did a quick survey of the large wardrobe in another corner of the room. A row of waiters’ uniforms to one side and casual clothes to the left. Casual for Herr Karl Andric meant three-piece worsted suits in various shades of brown.

  Frau Polnay moved to the table by the window and Werthen took the opportunity to feel the exterior of each suit for any contents in the pockets.

  Nothing there.

  ‘I hope they have children,’ she said.

  Feeling her eyes on him, he slipped the paper in his own pocket, unread, and turned to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The relatives in Moldova—’

  ‘Bosnia,’ he corrected.

  ‘Well, wherever. I hope they have children, so they can enjoy these.’ She gestured at the miniature clash of armies laid out on the table. ‘Never could understand a grown man being so involved in such things.’

  Werthen made no comment, moving on to the small alcove sleeping area off this main room: a single cot-like bed with a bedpan underneath. A night stand was placed at the head of the cot and atop it was a water bottle capped by a cloudy drinking glass turned upside down. There were bubbles in the stale water.

  Werthen was amazed and somewhat depressed by the sheer scarcity of the man’s life. Almost sixty, Herr Andric had made little more of a dent into the fabric of material life than a newborn. But there were his soldiers.

  ‘The undertaker did send this over,’ Frau Polnay said from the main room.

  Werthen returned to that room and saw her holding a small linen box.

  ‘What he had in the suit he was wearing when he … when he passed on.’

  She handed it to Werthen and he took a moment to go through the items. There was a small leather coin purse with two crowns and twenty heller in it; a handkerchief, still crisply pressed and a small pen knife with the initials K.A. engraved on it. A pocket-sized cardboard-covered notebook held lists of needed materials for the café: coffee, toilet paper, cream, cleaning liquid. These were written in a fine hand.

  Frau Polnay was looking over his shoulder. ‘Such wonderful penmanship he had.’ She sighed. ‘Quit school as a youngster, but he believed in self-improvement. Always reading. Always learning new words. He would try them out on me some evenings. Made me feel a right fool.’

  Under the notebook lay a slip of paper with a name written on it: Hermann Postling.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ he asked the frau, who was still peering into the box.

  ‘Can’t say as I do. Not Herr Karl’s writing, that’s for sure.’

  She was right: the half-printed, half-cursive letters had none of the flair of Herr Karl’s hand on the shopping list.

  The name meant nothing to Werthen, either, but it was a piece of detritus from a life that seemed to accumulate very little of it, and when Frau Polnay looked away he slipped it in the back flap of his leather notebook.

  Werthen handed the box of belongings back to Frau Polnay and moved to the table by the window. Here there was a world of material activity. As he stood over the table, he suddenly saw the world as Herr Andric had, in miniature and in the controlled chaos that is war.

  He looked at the hundreds of tiny infantrymen and cavalry, noting first that there appeared to be three different armies. One – he was certain by the blue jackets, white trousers, black leggings and black bicorn hats – had to be French. They were accompanied by cavalry troops wearing the tall bearskin hat and cloak, also of the French of Napoleon’s army. There were other infantrymen dressed in white coats and pants with black leggings and some with dun-colored coats. All of these wore tall visored helmets ornamented in brass with a brush of quills on top. Every Viennese schoolboy could recognize these as Austrian troops from the Napoleonic wars. He made a guess that the third army, dressed in white trousers and white leggings with dark blue jackets, white bandoliers and tall shako hats must be Russian.

  What he was looking at was a re-enactment of the 1805 Battle of Austerlitz, in which wily Napoleon destroyed the Third Coalition, taking
Austria out of the war and effectively putting an end to the Holy Roman Empire.

  Werthen smiled at himself, surprised that his schoolboy history lessons had stuck this long.

  ‘Herr Karl seems to have had a singular focus,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Yes, he did enjoy his little hobby. Spent hours with his “comrades” as he called his toy soldiers. If he were setting up a new order of battle, I might not see him for days.’

  ‘Did friends ever come to visit?’

  ‘Herr Andric had his clients at the café. He always said that was enough socializing for him. He would go to Association meetings, occasional dinners with the other head waiters. And there was the Oberstabelmeister, of course.’

  She dropped this bomb with smug aplomb.

  ‘The Master of the Staff,’ Werthen said, incredulously, ‘for the emperor?’

  She nodded importantly. ‘Yes, Oberstabelmeister Johann Czerny. The very one. He and Herr Andric were school chums, it turns out. Both went out in the world as young boys and made something of themselves. Well, one more than the other, but still …’

  ‘And there were no other friends? I mean, someone who might feel they have a claim in the estate?’

  She shook her head at this as if it were a fantastical proposition. ‘We would sit sometimes together of an evening. He was a sly one, Herr Andric. Seemed solemn as a corpse, but he could tell a tale or two of things his customers got up to. Made me laugh till my sides hurt sometimes. There was this one fellow he caught cheating at cards, if you can believe it. Made his living at Tarock. Had to ban the man from the café. Made quite a scene, Herr Andric said.’

  Werthen perked up at this mention, remembering Kraus’s list of possible suspects.

  ‘Did Herr Andric mention him again? Was the man causing any problems for him?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not that he mentioned.’ She tilted her head and squinted an eye at him. ‘Curious type, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s the curse of being a lawyer. Always wanting to get to the bottom of things.’

  Werthen quickly checked his notes from last night and found the name of the card sharp, Herr Bachman. He made a note, pushing him to the top of the list.