The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  How one could have a ‘soiree’ in the middle of the afternoon was a mystery to Berthe, but that was what Princess Dumbroski chose to call this little gathering. Granted, with the brocade curtains closed in the drawing room of her Ringstrasse apartment, it did seem like nighttime. The medium needed the darkness; it was explained to the assembled guests.

  Among these was Rosa Mayreder, who invited Berthe to accompany her at the last moment. And with Karl’s parents in town and eager to spend time with Frieda, Berthe felt no compunctions about accepting. The room was quite full of other guests, as well, several of whom Berthe recognized and others whom Frau Mayreder needed to identify for her. In the former category was the journalist, Herr Sonnenthal, suitor of Karl’s secretary, Erika Metzinger. He was in earnest conversation with the artist whose work they’d viewed last night, Emile Orlik, and he in turn was accompanied by the artist Gustav Klimt, who had once been a client of theirs. Dressed in a long, flowing caftan, he winked a hello to Berthe. At his side, and fairly towering over the stumpy, burly artist, was his mistress and muse, the designer, Emilie Flöge, also attired in one of her caftan creations, in bold, flowing patterns. The two of them were like exotic flowers amid the somberly attired remaining guests.

  Among the other assorted people gathered at Princess Dumbroski’s was a young and rather handsome man in proper frock coat, whose rosy cheeks made him look as though he were still studying at the gymnasium.

  ‘Baron Anton Kiss,’ Frau Mayreder informed her when Berthe pointed him out. ‘Son of the gnädige Frau.’

  The ‘dear lady’ in question was, as all Vienna knew, Katharina Schratt, Burgtheater actress and special friend of the emperor for over twenty years.

  Guests helped themselves to a sideboard with sherry and Madeira in cut-glass carafes and canapés from Demel’s. Princess Dumbroski fashioned herself a cosmopolitan, flitting from one property to the next in London, Paris and Vienna, where she had made her home for the past year. No one knew the definitive story of the mysterious princess who had so suddenly appeared on the international social scene. Some said that she was of Ruthenian aristocracy; others that she was heiress to a rail fortune, and still others that she had been the most highly paid courtesan in Petersburg. The one thing that was clear was that Princess Dumbroski was very wealthy and could well afford such extravagance.

  Truth be told, Berthe decided to attend the soiree not for the promised seance but to see the notorious dueling princess up close. She had scandalized all of Vienna upon her arrival, fighting a duel with a minor countess over the flower arrangements for a musical event. The two women had fought topless with swords, it was reported, and all the seconds as well as medical attendants had been women. Needless to say, Princess Dumbroski had won the duel, injuring the countess in the arm after having herself sustaining a cut to her face, a scar she proudly bore now as a badge of honor.

  Just then, the princess swept into the room, accompanied by a tall, handsome woman with a placid expression on her face.

  ‘Mes cher amis,’ the princess began, her voice carrying to every corner of the room. The buzz of conversation abruptly ended; eyes turned toward the hostess.

  ‘I am so pleased you could all come today, for we are in for a treat, I promise. I am sure our illustrious guest, Madame Hélène Smith, needs no introduction. She has channeled messages from Mars, allowed us to communicate with Victor Hugo and other greats on the other side. And today she has agreed to channel a voice from beyond for one of us. So, without further ceremony, I give you Madame Hélène Smith.’

  There was a polite but subdued round of applause. Berthe wondered if the guests had been aware that they might become more than curious observers to this performance. The medium nodded her head slightly at this applause, but said nothing. She sat at a small table placed in front of a wall of books in leather bindings and began taking deep breaths. A servant turned down the gas lamps in the room until the medium was barely visible. A nervous cough as though at a musical performance, then those gathered also became quiet. All eyes fixed on Hélène Smith, who continued to take deep breaths.

  Suddenly her head slumped forward as if she had been violently struck. Someone let out a gasp. Her head lolled like that for a moment, then began to move in small circles. A thumping sound startled Berthe. Smith must have kicked one of the table legs, but it was too dark to see clearly.

  A hoarse, gruff male voice emitted from the woman’s mouth: ‘Ki vagy te?’

  Frau Mayreder and Berthe exchanged glances. ‘Hungarian?’ Frau Mayreder whispered.

  ‘Ki vagy te?’ Said more imploringly this time. ‘Honnan való vagy?’

  Guests standing nearby stirred nervously at the otherworldly sound of this voice.

  Then it was as if Smith split in two, for her somnolent self straightened, turning her head to the right, eyes closed. ‘I am a friend,’ she said in heavily accented German. ‘Barát vagyok.’ After a moment’s pause: ‘Beszélsz német?’

  Berthe, from a trip to Budapest, knew this phrase. It meant, ‘Do you speak German?’

  Smith turned her head to the left as if replying to her own question: ‘Igen,’ the raspy voice replied. ‘Yes. Why have you awoken me?’

  The medium turned her head to the right. ‘There is someone in this room who wants to communicate with you. I feel the energy, I sense the need.’

  ‘Bosszú,’ the angry voice said. ‘Revenge me. They may take my life for fighting for my country, but not the family estates. Revenge me.’

  And then, out of the gloom a glowing presence appeared, seemingly from nowhere. There was a startled intake of breath from more than one guest as the apparition came close to Princess Dumbroski, who appeared to take no notice of it. Berthe could discern that the figure appeared to be that of a stooped elderly man, wearing a felt Magyar hat and boots.

  ‘Fraud!’ It was a strangled shout from someone among the guests. A man brushed past Berthe, still cursing under his breath. It was the young baron that Frau Mayreder had earlier identified for her. He stomped out of the room, slamming the double doors in back of him.

  Everyone’s attention had been drawn to the dramatic departure of the young man, and when they looked back to where the apparition had been, it too was gone.

  The medium appeared to slowly awaken from her trance.

  ‘All is well?’ she asked meekly.

  Princess Dumbroski rushed to her side, patting her shoulder. ‘Yes, my dear. Everything is fine.’ Then to her servant: ‘Turn the lights up, please.’

  Speaking to the guests, Princess Dumbroski said, ‘It would appear to be an unwelcome ancestor. One of those fusty gents you try to avoid at family reunions.’

  There was a round of relieved laughter at this followed by an instant hum of excited conversation. Herr Sonnenthal came to join Berthe and Frau Mayreder. As usual, he seemed to know all, a trait that made him an excellent journalist.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a fan of the metaphysical arts, Herr Sonnenthal,’ Berthe said.

  ‘Nor I of you,’ he replied with a smile. ‘It should make an interesting column for the Arbeiter Zeitung: what the first society gets up to of a Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘So, we’re first society now,’ Frau Mayreder said. ‘How nice to hear.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ Berthe asked.

  Sonnenthal raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Baron Anton Kiss de Ittebe et Elemér, to give him his full name, is the great grandson of a Hungarian general who fought for Hungarian independence in the 1848 uprising. He was executed for his efforts and his property confiscated by the emperor. I believe the execution order came from Franz Josef personally – one of his first orders as the young emperor.’

  ‘Rather an awkward seance, then, for the young man,’ Frau Mayreder said. ‘His mother the mistress of the man who gave the order.’

  Sonnenthal raised his eyes at this and nodded. ‘Good copy, though.’

  Berthe felt sorry for the young man. He had looked pained as he left the roo
m. A man aggrieved. ‘And the glowing figure was supposed to be this great grandfather, one assumes. It gave me a fright.’

  ‘Staged, of course,’ Sonnenthal added. ‘Clothes impregnated with phosphorus obviously. Perhaps he’s still hiding under the table.’

  Glancing at the table, there was no cloth on it for concealment. But Sonnenthal was unconcerned. ‘Sleight of hand, surely. Perhaps even a secret door in that wall of books. And it was easy enough for the princess to slip our friendly medium the guest list. Time enough for her to do some research on the ancestors of those present. Baron Kiss was prominent on the list, one imagines.’

  ‘But she spoke Hungarian,’ Berthe said.

  ‘Madame Smith is actually Catherine-Elise Müller. She may have been born in France, but her father was a Hungarian merchant. That is probably the reason she picked on the poor young fellow.’

  ‘Seems cruel,’ Frau Mayreder added.

  ‘What do you expect from a duelist?’

  ‘You think the princess put her up to it?’ Berthe looked over to where Princess Dumbroski was guiding Smith to various guests, landing now at Klimt and Flöge, who seemed to be full of questions.

  ‘Really, Berthe,’ Frau Mayreder patted her hand. ‘You are a sweet innocent.’

  ‘But why?’

  Frau Mayreder shrugged. ‘Because she can. Because she feels in competition with Frau Schratt as the most renowned hostess in Vienna. Perhaps it was a broadside shot, a declaration of war between them. So many possibilities.’

  Berthe looked again at their hostess. There was a cruel hardness to the woman’s features, a calculating look to her eyes. And suddenly she understood why people like Frau Mayreder, Herr Sonnenthal and even Klimt had been invited. These were the sort of people that would make the incident known, in print and in the rounds of gossip.

  Berthe decided she would not want Princess Dumbroski for an enemy.

  FIVE

  Werthen arrived at the Rathaus punctually at eight in the morning the following Monday and made his way to the Viennese City and Provincial Archive on the third floor. The attendant at the front desk, in white duster, was the punctilious sort, and Werthen had to display his legal credentials in order to search the files. Herr Bachman, he told the attendant, had come into a legacy and it was his task to contact the man.

  ‘With one “n?”’ the man asked with a sigh.

  Why are civil servants never civil? Werthen asked himself for the hundredth time.

  ‘Yes. One “n.” Wolfram is the first name.’

  At least there was something to make the search easier: how many Wolfram Bachmans with one ‘n’ could there be in the city? Werthen had spoken with Herr Otto on Sunday and managed to discover Bachman’s full name. When blackballing the man from all respectable cafés in Vienna, Herr Karl had presented the Waiters’ Association with the full name, and Herr Otto had made a note of it.

  Ten minutes later the attendant returned with a bulky file box of Meldezettl – registration forms. Each time a person changed residences in Vienna, a new registration form must be filed; one deregistered from the former address and registered the new one, providing date, address, name, occupation, birthplace, religion and marital and family status. Some overly conscientious Viennese even went through this process when going on holiday.

  The attendant nodded at a table in the corner of the office. Werthen took the file and began the search, hoping that whoever organized the forms had a proper sense of alphabetization. Opening the file, he was greeted with a cloud of dust that set him sneezing violently. Glancing toward the main desk, Werthen saw the attendant making no effort to suppress a smile.

  Looking at the top form, he saw that it began with ‘Bachman,’ first name, ‘Berthold.’ He pulled out the bottom registration form, and saw it was already to ‘Bachman, Arnuf.’ He fanned through the mass of files until he got to first names beginning with a ‘T.’ From there he thumbed through the Ulrichs and Viktors until he finally came to ‘W.’ There was a Werner, Willibald, even a Wojtek. Finally he had it: Wolfram Bachman. He scanned down the information: an address on Florianigasse, only a few blocks from Werthen’s apartment building on Josefstädterstrasse. It seemed Herr Bachman was prolific in one respect: he was married with five children. Not exactly the profile one expected from a card sharp. Even more perplexing was his listed occupation: pastor.

  Werthen stared at the paper a moment longer, then flipped to the next form. Yes, he told himself. More like it. A second Wolfram Bachman. He turned to the next form: Xavier Bachman. He went back to the previous one. At least he now knew how many Wolfram Bachmans there could be in Vienna. This one lived in the Second District, on Asperngasse, just off the Prater- strasse. By the date of the form it appeared he had taken up residence there just a month earlier, moving from a more prestigious address in the First District. The date tallied with when Herr Karl had caught the man cheating at cards and banned him, thus depriving him of a livelihood. Bachman listed his profession as entertainment artist.

  Well, Werthen would soon see how entertaining the man was.

  It was a fair day, though blustery, and Werthen decided to walk, making his way through the First District and crossing over the Danube Canal at Ferdinandsbrücke to reach the Second District. Putting the investigation of Herr Karl’s death out of his mind for the time being, Werthen instead focused on the past pleasant weekend. Not that long ago, Werthen would hardly have used the word ‘pleasant’ to describe his parents’ visits, but the birth of Frieda had made a real difference, turning often interfering parents into doting grandparents. On Saturday evening Berthe had entertained the table with her description of the seance she’d attended. And then yesterday they had made a trip to the woods to see the progress of his parents’ new home. With winter all but passed, construction had begun again at the site, and it was beginning to take shape. It was less than a mile from Werthen’s own country house in Laab im Walde. At first this had rankled, but even that feeling of annoyance at being hemmed in had disappeared, and he was happy for their proximity.

  I must be getting old, he thought as he proceeded down the busy Praterstrasse to the first street on the right. He consulted the address he had written down at the archive: Asperngasse 12/3. It almost took him back to the canal.

  The street door was unlocked, so he did not bother to ring for the portier. It was an old and shabby baroque building, three stories high, but there were no stairs for him to climb, as apartment three was at the back of the ground floor, little more than a tram-sized slice of the building by the looks of it, with a grimy window on the gloomy courtyard. Werthen turned the mechanical bell on the door several times but no one responded. He went out to the courtyard and peered in the window.

  ‘He’ll be at the Wurstelprater,’ said a squeak of a voice from behind him.

  Turning, he saw a thin little woman wearing the long white canvas housecoat of the Viennese portier. She stared at him with rheumy eyes.

  ‘Is this Herr Bachman’s apartment?’

  She snorted at this. ‘Glorified clothespress, more like. But it’s all he can afford. So if you are another one of those debt collectors, I advise you to look for better pickings.’

  ‘No,’ Werthen said. ‘Actually, I have come with good news for Herr Bachman. He is the recipient of a legacy from a recently deceased uncle.’

  This made her sallow face light up. ‘My. Herr Bachman an heir. Who would’ve thought? Maybe he can pay last month’s rent now.’

  ‘So he still lives here?’

  She nodded but said nothing.

  ‘You mentioned the Prater,’ he said.

  ‘No. The Wurstelprater. But how do I know you aren’t a bill collector? He has to pay me first, you know.’

  Werthen handed her his business card with ‘Wills and Trusts’ displayed more prominently than ‘Criminal Law and Private Inquiries’, and that did the trick.

  ‘He’s at the old Hanswurst puppet theater next to the Kino Lux. Unless he’s taking time out for
a game or two in the taverns.’

  She made a wiggling motion with her hand around an imaginary glass to indicate Herr Bachman enjoyed his wine.

  Werthen returned to Praterstrasse and made his way along the street past the Carl theater and the Admiral Tegethoff monument to the Praterstern, the star-like confluence of six main avenues and the entrance to the former hunting grounds of the Prater. To his right was the Haupt Allee, leading to the noble Prater, where the first society liked to drive their equipages of an afternoon to see and be seen. Straight ahead was the entrance to the people’s Prater, or Wurstelprater, named after the Hanswurst puppet shows once so popular. Werthen’s first case as a private inquiries agent came to a climax in this precinct; he still remembered the shame and terror he’d felt for having put Berthe, then his fiancée, into the gravest danger. He passed the giant Ferris wheel, built for the 1898 Jubilee celebrations of Franz Josef’s fiftieth year on the throne. Just beyond that was the amusement park of Venice in Vienna – Werthen felt a special twinge at remembering the events of his earlier case – and then came the Kino Lux. Beyond that began a scattering of smaller wooden booths offering everything from pretzels to off-tune singers warbling about the Vienna Woods.

  Werthen quickly found the small puppet theater amid these. Bachman – he assumed the man behind the makeshift stage was the person he sought – was in the midst of shuffling cards with a good deal of artistry, making them flow as a waterfall from one hand to the next. A nursemaid with her charge asleep in a pram was staring wide-eyed at the cards and the dexterity with which Bachman maneuvered them. She had the fresh looks of a country girl. Werthen doubted that her employers – most likely residents of the more fashionable Praterstrasse – intended her to take their child on a stroll in the rowdy Wurstelprater. She was on a lark and meant to enjoy herself.

  Bachman suddenly stopped shuffling, slapping the cards onto the small waist-high stage, making a staccato beat as he spoke. ‘Aces,’ he said. ‘Where are you my charming aces, the noblest of cards? I shall find you, I know.’