The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  The door opened just as Werthen was about to rap on it. They were confronted by a squat, scowling woman in a blue linen shirtwaist who had about her the appearance of a matron at a women’s penitentiary. One rather long hair sprouted from a mole on her left cheek. She squinted disapprovingly at Werthen as she noticed his eyes focusing on the mole. Undoubtedly the legendary Netty, long-time housekeeper to Frau Schratt, Werthen assumed, a woman so fiercely loyal that – as gossip had it – she had kept the First Lord Chamberlain himself waiting at the doorstep in the rain while King Ferdinand I of Bulgaria, an ardent admirer of Frau Schratt, was hustled out the back entrance.

  ‘I believe Frau Schratt is expecting us,’ Gross said. ‘We have come from Schönbrunn.’

  The woman merely grunted at this introduction, opening the door wide enough for them to enter past her.

  ‘You’ll find my lady in the conservatory.’ She set off down the entryway which led into a long interior hall. They passed a music room, a dining room, a small sitting room and finally there was quite literally light at the end of the tunnel, for they eventually entered a large glassed-in veranda and conservatory from which there were pleasant views of the snow-covered gardens to the rear of the villa. Werthen noted a number of cast-iron radiators along the walls of the vast conservatory; it was as warm as a hothouse in summer. Large potted palms dotted the expanse of tiled floor.

  The housekeeper led them through a virtual jungle of palms and ferns to a far corner of the conservatory where table and chairs were gathered in a neat Biedermeier ensemble. In one of these chairs sat a woman of middle age, somewhat portly yet stately in appearance, with a magnificent head of golden hair and piercing, intelligent blue eyes. A handsome woman for almost fifty, Werthen thought. As handsome off the stage as on, for Werthen had last seen her several years earlier in the Ferdinand Raimund play, The Spendthrift. She had retired a couple of years ago when her friendship with the emperor was at a low ebb, and she had traveled a good deal. Now back in Vienna, she had gone back to the stage intermittently.

  Frau Schratt nodded her head merely to note their arrival, sweeping a hand to two empty chairs.

  ‘It is an honor to meet you,’ Gross said, taking the lead.

  ‘And I you,’ Frau Schratt said. ‘The renowned criminologist.’ Then to Werthen: ‘And our local legal lion.’ Her smile made these meaningless puffs of flattery seem sincere. She had obviously done her homework, learning her lines like the consummate actress she was.

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Gross said, obviously feeling that he had come out the loser in these comments. ‘We have spoken with Prince Montenuovo.’

  She reacted to the name as if it were the scratch of a fork against a porcelain plate. ‘Yes, the prince would have been appraised. I was hoping the emperor would look after this himself, however.’

  It was public knowledge that Montenuovo and Frau Schratt were on less than friendly terms. The prince, like many at court, did not approve of the emperor’s intimacy with the actress, not for reasons of false morality but simply because she wielded power with Franz Joseph. Some called her the uncrowned empress, and she did have his ear on matters, not only pertaining to the Burgtheater but also to matters of state.

  ‘The missing letter,’ Gross prompted. ‘We have heard that it is of a rather personal nature, but is there anything else in its contents we should be concerned about?’

  She cast her eyes to the domed roof of the conservatory and took a deep breath. Then, fixing her gaze on Gross, she said, ‘If you mean that someone mentioned in the letter might benefit from possessing it, then no. That is not the case. There are matters of a rather personal nature in it, as you indicated. I kept it because it is the dearest love letter I have ever received.’

  ‘But?’ Gross said, sensing that something else was on offer.

  ‘Well, if you must know, there are also references to a personage that were better kept from the public eye.’

  Werthen and Gross said nothing, waiting for Frau Schratt to complete the thought.

  She sighed – a dramatic gesture Werthen had witnessed her perform on the stage, a gesture filled with both longing and regret.

  ‘The emperor makes a rather critical comment of the German Kaiser in the letter. Humorous, but if made public it could badly damage relations between our countries.’

  ‘We understand that you noticed only yesterday that the letter was missing,’ Werthen said.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Was there any sign that the drawer where it was kept was interfered with?’

  ‘No.’ Another monumental sigh from Frau Schratt. She knew where this was headed.

  ‘We need to examine all the outer doors,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Please do,’ she said. ‘But I doubt you will find anything. My son, Toni, examined the exterior doors closely yesterday and could find no sign of the locks being tampered with.’

  ‘Still …’ Werthen said.

  ‘Be my guest. I fear, however, that what we have is, as the Americans so charmingly say, an “inside job,” which pains me greatly. It means that someone on my staff is responsible for the theft. Someone I trust and treat almost as family.’

  ‘Let us examine things first before coming to that conclusion,’ Gross pronounced.

  They did so for the next hour, closely examining all outer doors and locks for any telltale signs of forced entry or the use of picks. The same was true for ground-floor windows, all inspected for any suspicious scratches at hinges or latches. They also paid close attention to the inlaid Louis XVI escritoire in question, a fine specimen, Werthen thought, in oak with a pear wood veneer and inlays in the drawers below. Not something the one buys on the stipend from the Burgtheater. They examined the bottom right-hand drawer where the letter had been kept, careful to use a piece of silk cloth Gross always carried with him.

  ‘We’ll need to brush this down, Werthen, for fingerprints. I must confess I was in such a hurry this morning that I left my traveling kit back at the hotel.’ He pulled out a small magnifying glass from an interior pocket, eyeballed the outside of the drawer and made an explosive sound of disgust. ‘Though I doubt we will come up with any discrete set of prints. One wonders about the general condition of the Villa Schratt if this drawer is any indication. It looks as if it has not been wiped down in months.’

  Later, examining the rest of the study where the escritoire was located, Gross quipped, ‘There is not even a chimney for the chap to drop down in.’

  A bad sign, Werthen thought, for it was neither funny nor practical. It indicated the criminologist had come to the same conclusion as Frau Schratt.

  ‘We need to talk to the staff individually,’ Gross quickly added.

  This took another three hours, twenty minutes of which were wasted in convincing Frau Schratt that her housekeeper, Netty, should be included in the list.

  ‘She will not be treated as a suspect,’ Gross finally argued, ‘but she is a most valuable witness with regards to the rest of the staff. She surely knows their little habits and quirks. Their weak points and strengths.’

  In the event, Netty proved less cooperative than hoped, bristling at their questions, insulted that she be included along with the other staff. They were finally able to ascertain that she, along with Frau Schratt, possessed a set of keys to the bureau in question, but that she had not used the set in months. Indeed, the house had been closed up until recently, when Frau Schratt returned to Vienna.

  ‘Then the staff is quite new,’ Werthen said.

  ‘No. Frau Schratt kept them all on retainer during her travels. Not what I advised, of course. Idle hands and all that. But she is a good and loyal employer. She hardly deserves such treachery.’

  Gross quickly pounced on this comment. ‘Then you believe it is one of the staff?’

  ‘I’m sure I could not say. You’re the famous detective. I leave it up to you.’

  ‘Do you always keep your keys on your person?’ Werthen asked.

  Netty cast him a
look as if he had just proposed an immoral act. ‘I most certainly do not. When not needed, they hang from the hook by the cupboard.’

  She pointed in back of them. Seated around the pine table in the kitchen, both Gross and Werthen turned to see the large ring of house keys hanging just where Netty indicated.

  Available to anyone who might want to use them.

  They proceeded to speak with the gardener, who did not live on the premises – one Herr Johann Pinkl, whose gnarled hands and lumbering demeanor was at odds with the image of someone rifling through papers in a bureau drawer. Gross handed him a recipe that was lying on the kitchen table for today’s dinner.

  ‘Looks like fine fare tonight,’ Gross said with bonhomie.

  Johann fiddled with the paper, turning it this way and then that, reddening as he did so. ‘I suppose so,’ he finally said. ‘I don’t go in much for fancy food.’

  ‘I hardly call boiled beef fancy,’ Gross replied.

  ‘Not something I care for,’ the gardener said with a scowl.

  Gross dismissed him after another desultory question about his duties.

  When he was gone, Gross turned to Werthen.

  ‘Not him. The man wouldn’t know one letter from another. He’s illiterate. Carp is on the menu for tonight, not boiled beef.’

  And so they continued, through the parlor maid, the upstairs maid, the cook and the coachman, none of whom seemed anything less than honest, loyal and a bit plodding.

  The kitchen assistant, Fräulein Anna, was a different matter, however. Twenty at most, she was a mousey little thing whose face went red at Gross’s first question and blazed on through his questioning about keys and proper etiquette for the staff – all of it oblique, for none of the staff aside from Netty knew of the missing letter. They had been told they were being interviewed by two gentlemen of the press for an article about their famous mistress. Anna squirmed and fidgeted through the entire affair, making Werthen, for one, most suspicious.

  But when she too finished the interview, Gross only commented, ‘Simple soul.’

  ‘You saw how nervous she was, Gross,’ Werthen said. ‘Definitely makes me wonder.’

  ‘The girl would fidget if you said good morning. A simple country child.’

  ‘From Floridsdorf,’ Werthen insisted. ‘Hardly the country.’

  ‘Well, then, let us search her room. Netty will have to manufacture some excuse to get her out of the house.’

  Once Anna was dispatched on an urgent trip to the market, Gross and Werthen went through her small room at the top of the house with the utmost care. Werthen was struck by the absence of anything of a personal nature – not even a Bible. And definitely no purloined letter from the emperor of all Austria.

  ‘As I said …’ Gross began.

  ‘She could have already passed it on to an accomplice.’

  ‘Accomplices now?’ Gross said. ‘Yes, I imagine there would have to be.’

  He sat on the spare metal cot the young serving girl slept on. ‘Time may be against us, but I am afraid that it is the only avenue we have.’

  ‘Would you care to include me in this conversation, Gross? What avenue?’

  ‘I believe we need to insert someone into the staff. Someone who will pose as one of them, who will be able to gain the trust of the others. Someone, in short, who will be our spy.’

  ‘You were right with your first statement. We don’t have the time for such a maneuver. This could hit the newspapers at any moment.’

  ‘Which we cannot stop at any rate if the letter has already been handed on to your accomplice.’

  ‘Not my accomplice, Gross. Merely my assumption.’

  ‘At least it is a course of action, Werthen. What do you propose – thumbscrews for Fräulein Anna?’

  Neither Frau Schratt nor Prince Montenuovo were enthusiastic about the plan, but finally agreed when Gross assured him that it would not be their sole means of investigation. He promised that he and Werthen would continue to look into the backgrounds of each of those on the staff and continue to collect any information from their associates – meaning connections Gross and Werthen had in the underworld who might have heard of someone trying to shop such a high-profile letter.

  They returned to Werthen’s law office in the afternoon and began going over plans to insert someone in the Schratt household. Young Franzl brought in the afternoon papers as usual and listened in on their conversation for a moment.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said brightly. ‘Sounds like fun and I wouldn’t be in the office all day long.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was so painful for you to be here,’ Werthen teased.

  The boy did not catch Werthen’s tone, however. ‘No, I didn’t mean it that way. I love being here. It’s just that this is a way I can really help out. Carry my own weight.’

  Werthen had a sudden flash of panic, remembering their other office boy, the street urchin, Heidrich Beer, who they had dubbed Huck. He too had become involved – quite by accident – in a case Werthen was investigating and had ended up under the wheels of a train.

  ‘I think it is a marvelous idea,’ Gross said, fixing Werthen with a stare that let the lawyer know that he, Gross, was aware of his thoughts. ‘Franzl here is an observant and outgoing young chap, and that is exactly what we need. Someone to make friends inside the Schratt household and to keep his eyes open.’

  ‘I can do it, I know,’ Franzl said earnestly.

  ‘It’s hardly a risky affair,’ Gross said. ‘We’re not investigating a crime of violence, after all.’

  Werthen thought about it a moment longer. ‘Well, if you really want to,’ he said to Franzl. ‘But let’s set some limits as to what you attempt to do.’

  For the next hour the three of them huddled in conference at Werthen’s desk, mapping out Franzl’s role in the household. They wanted him in particular to get close to the kitchen assistant, Fräulein Anna; they would have Frau Schratt insert him as scullery boy to aid the aging cook. By the looks of her legs wrapped in heavy gauze, it was apparent the woman was suffering from varicose veins and could thus use an extra pair of hands. It was further determined that Franzl would not go snooping about in other people’s rooms. He was simply to make friends with those he could and not be too obvious about it. To become a confidante, if possible. To keep his ears open.

  ‘I could do that,’ Franzl piped in. ‘The captain showed me how to make nice with the other riders at the stables and not to make them suspicious of me.’

  He was referring to his association with the lead rider of the Spanish Riding School, a man of meager background who was able to rise above his class and who had taken Franzl under his wing. Captain Putter was an honorable man; too honorable, as he took his own life over the discovery of a scandal with the famed Lipizzaners.

  ‘I am sure you can, Franzl,’ Werthen said. The boy had lost both parents when he was nine and his beloved mentor, Captain Putter, at ten. He had had enough troubles already in his short life. Werthen only hoped that he was not creating more for him.

  NINE

  He was pleased to be back in Vienna.

  He never thought he would say that, not even to himself. After all, Vienna was the scene of his disgrace, of his undoing. It had spelled the end of his career as a Russian agent.

  But now it would be the scene of his rebirth, of his greatest achievement as a freelance agent.

  Freelance.

  He liked the sound of the word, for he was indeed a medieval mercenary warrior.

  He pulled the comforter up over his left ear. He slept on his side, always his right side. To sleep on the left would mean cutting off the blood supply to the heart, slowing down his reaction time. He would not be slow to react ever again.

  The landlady, Frau Geldner, ran a pension not far from the Empress Elisabeth West Train Station. She smoked a meerschaum pipe and affected a rough working-class accent, but she was as clandestine as he was. Far from being uneducated, she wrote for the anarchist papers throughout
Europe and knew how to be discreet with her guests. The Pension Geldner was a byword in his profession. Indeed, he had stayed here the previous time, as well, but Frau Geldner was perfectly content to pretend that she did not recognize him.

  Freelance. He closed his eyes and thought once again of his return to St Petersburg in disgrace, of being condemned to the Siberian camps. But most of all he could see each movement of his escape en route to the camps.

  I will call myself Wenno, he thought as the guard slumped at his feet. Wenno, the famous master of the thirteenth-century Livonian Brothers of the Sword, the warrior monks who, like the Order of the Teutonic Knights, battled to convert the pagans.

  Looking down at the man at his feet, he figured that this was one pagan who would not eat his borscht tonight. He leaned over, though, putting a manacled hand to the man’s jugular to be sure. He was a thorough agent, trained in such things. The bruising at the neck where he had strangled the guard with his chains was already showing.

  There was little time now for reflection. He searched the dead man’s pockets, found a ring of keys, fitted several in turn into the lock of his manacles until he found the one that fit and freed himself.

  He rubbed his wrists and ankles. He would never allow himself to be put in chains again. Ever.

  It took him only three more minutes to strip the guard in the station bathroom – for he had feigned illness as the train pulled into Omsk station – and exchange clothing. His luck held. No one came in the bathroom during these critical moments. Just as he finished dressing, he heard footsteps approaching the door. He quickly dragged the dead guard into a toilet stall, propped him on the seatless toilet then counted a beat, waiting for the newcomer to enter the bathroom and find another vacant stall before he opened his stall door and left.

  Back on the platform, he decided he would need to find a change of clothes soon; something that fit him better, and something that bore no connection to the Russian army.

  Agent 302 no longer had any loyalty to that service.