The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  The uniform earned him free passage in a third-class carriage to St Petersburg. A widow with a lunch basket on her way to relatives in Moscow took pity on the poor soldier and shared her food with him for over two days, and then left one scrap of sausage as she disembarked at Moskovsky station. Half a day later he reached St Petersburg and there, hungry and broke, he took up watch across the street from the massive Ministry of Agriculture on St Isaac’s Square. It was Friday, pay day, and he was waiting for early leavers which would indicate higher-ranking bureaucrats and thus those with a fatter pay packet.

  He let over a dozen men pass him without following them as they were larger than he was – the wrong fit. Finally, late in the afternoon, he saw the perfect victim crossing the square, tapping the left breast of his long-tailed suit coat as if making sure that his pay packet was safely tucked away. He let the man get beyond the equestrian monument to Nicholas I in the middle of the square, then took up the tail a discreet distance behind. It required great effort to restrain himself as the man headed for an inn on a side street off the square. How much would he spend in there? What fine food and drink would he partake of?

  But agent 302 was disciplined; he knew he had to wait for the welcoming darkness of night, knew he could not follow the man into the inn, for he had no money to buy so much as a glass of vodka. He bided his time, strolling with hands behind his back like a soldier on patrol. A civilian now and again saluted him and he wished he could reach out and strangle the person, the dumb satisfied oxen that passed for much of humanity. Those people with their simpering wives and mewling children awaiting them in cramped flats; how he loathed them and their smug, secure lives. Lives that held no risk, no thumping of the heart, exhilaration at the kill. Those who lived their small lives in quiet, senseless anonymity.

  Soon his quarry came out of the inn, a toothpick in his mouth, and headed north along the quay of the Moyka River. Suddenly it struck him that darkness would not fall for another number of hours, at least eleven at night at this time of year. Could he wait that long? How much of the man’s pay packet would be left by then? And if, as he suspected, the man was headed for the shops of Nevsky Prospect, there might be precious few rubles left by the time darkness fell. He must improvise and quickly before more of the money was spent, for he noticed as well that the man, formerly wearing a wedding ring, had taken it off, which could mean only one thing: an amorous assignation was in the offing. Most likely one that dealt not only in an exchange of bodily fluids, but also in currency.

  When they reached the Red Bridge, where Gorokhovaya Street crossed the Moyka, he determined to act. He caught up with the man and put a strong grip on his shoulder. The man spun around, muttering, ‘What the—’

  He cut him off. ‘Citizen, your section chief at the Ministry of Agriculture hoped that I could track you down. It is imperative that you meet with him.’

  ‘Proschkova? What could he want at this time of day?’

  ‘Privy Councilor Proschkova,’ he said, improvising, ‘requests that you meet with him at a house quite near here, as a matter of fact. He sends his apologies, but deems it quite urgent.’

  ‘Urgent? But how?’ the bureaucrat said.

  ‘That is not for me to know, Councilor.’ He figured he was giving the man an upgrade in title, and noticed with satisfaction a trace of a smile on the man’s thick lips, still working the toothpick.

  ‘Well,’ he finally sighed, ‘I had other plans, but if Proschkova commands I must obey.’

  He set off quickly across the bridge to the other side of the Moyka, making the bureaucrat scramble to keep up with him, giving him no time to think how irregular this all was.

  He went several blocks toward the River Neva before he found a quiet street filled with large old apartment buildings. An elderly tenant was just exiting the front door of one and he quickly caught the door before it locked again. He held it politely for the bureaucrat.

  ‘But Proschkova lives nowhere near here.’

  ‘It is the house of a colleague,’ he explained, leading the man deeper into the large entryway. His instincts had been right; the apartment building had several staircases leading to different landings. The third staircase was deepest in the central foyer and it spiraled up to the left, creating a hidden space in the corner beneath.

  ‘The privy councilor said he would leave the key here,’ he said as he ducked under the staircase.

  The bureaucrat waited by the staircase instead of following as he had hoped. More improvising, acting as if fumbling in the gloom of the stairwell.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘My eyes have never been the same since Manchuria.’

  This seemed to interest the man. As he ducked under the spiraling staircase, he said, ‘So you fought during the Boxer Rebellion.’

  But he never heard the response to his question, for agent 302 struck him a sudden blow to the sternum in just the right place to disrupt the rhythm of the heart. The man made a grunting sound as he crumpled to the cobbled floor and was dead by the time the agent leaned over to check for a pulse. Now came a frenzied change of clothing; he had been right about the man’s size, for the clothes fit well. He left his old clothing and the body of the man – Nikolai Petrovich, as his document pouch identified him – under the stairs and quickly made his way out of the building without encountering anyone.

  You make your luck, he told himself. You act with courage and fortitude and no one can stop you.

  The rubles in the dead man’s pay packet purchased him a first-class seat on the Tallinn express; the suit of clothes guaranteed his continuing anonymity. He took a much-needed bath at the station before departure.

  Soon he would be free.

  As the train sped along the flat farmland, he peered through his own reflection in the glass, an instant doppelgänger. It had been so for many years. Born Pietr Klavan, an Estonian who at one time had prospects of a career as a concert violinist, he had assumed numerous identities over the years. In Vienna he was Schmidt, representative of the Heisl Parfumerie; in Berlin he was Erlanger, a Hungarian rail engineer; in Warsaw he was de Koenig, the agent of a Dutch mining concern; in Zurich he was Axel Wouters, rubber merchant; and in Prague he was Maarkovsky, an importer of Polish vodka. He had posed as policeman, actor, wine grower and noble.

  In each of those cities he had left dead bodies behind. Dead at the behest of his Russian handlers.

  And it had been those same handlers who had turned against him, who had sent him off to the slow death of the katorga, the work camps in Siberia. They had to save their own careers for the death of a certain double agent in Vienna, and he was the sacrificial lamb.

  But no longer.

  Now he had another new identity: Herr Wenno.

  He smiled at the thought. Wenno the warrior knight who would no longer fight the secret battles for the Russians but who would engage as his own man, his own warrior. An assassin for hire.

  It was what he was best at; now it would be in his own service.

  He awoke in the middle of the night, a troubled thought teasing at the back of his mind. Something left undone. A loose thread that might come unraveled. He turned onto his back; he would not sleep until he parsed this puzzle. And then it came to him. The under waiter; the colleague and perhaps the protégé of the older man. Had those two spoken of him? Had the Herr Ober taken the younger man into his confidence?

  There was no way to discover that. At least not quickly, and time was of the essence now. But he did know the other waiter was watching him when he spoke to Herr Karl. He could provide a description.

  No. This was not a time for subtlety.

  It was a time for action. His handler at the Russian training school had taught him that axiom: when in doubt, strike.

  TEN

  ‘Between Frau Schratt’s old rivals at the Burgtheater and those at court, I think there are enough suspects to go around,’ Gross said, finishing his brioche with a flourish.

  There had been no opportunity to talk abo
ut the case last night, for Werthen’s parents had joined them for dinner and they had been sworn to secrecy.

  Berthe, however, was a different matter.

  ‘And what about the son?’ she offered. ‘He may have issues with the emperor. There could be jealousy or anger at the man who has taken so much emotional charge from his mother, who did not come to her aid after the death of the empress. And there is the fact, as I learned from Herr Sonnenthal, of the grandfather executed long ago on the order of a very young Franz Josef.’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Werthen allowed. ‘But it is also dangerous ground, questioning the son of Frau Schratt.’

  ‘In fact, I have him on my provisionary list,’ Gross said, eyeing the remaining brioche in the basket. Frau Blatschky had gone out early this morning to the Elias Bakery to fetch the crimin-ologist’s favorite breakfast rolls. ‘However, from what one hears, the emperor has treated the young man rather well, seeing to his education and to prospects in the foreign service.’

  Berthe had a sudden inspiration: thinking of Toni Schratt reminded her further of the seance she attended over the weekend. It was a performance that seemed guaranteed to embarrass the young man. And according to Berthe’s friend, Rosa Mayreder, it might very well be part of a concerted effort on the part of Princess Dumbroski to undermine Frau Schratt’s role as the hostess of choice in Vienna.

  She mentioned the princess and was met by dumbfounded stares from the men.

  ‘You actually think the woman would hire someone to steal a compromising letter from Frau Schratt just to gain a social advantage? And risk having the emperor turn against her?’ Werthen was appalled at the idea.

  ‘She fought a duel over a flower arrangement,’ Berthe said flatly. ‘Yes. Where Princess Dumbroski is concerned, I think anything is possible.’

  ‘Well,’ Gross said, finally giving in to temptation and taking the last roll. ‘It looks like we all have our hands full, then.’

  ‘I was rather hoping you could follow up on the Herr Karl affair,’ Werthen said to his wife. ‘Perhaps approach the archduke or Prince Montenuovo to get an appointment with Czerny at the Hofburg.’

  ‘I could do both,’ she said.

  ‘It’s settled then,’ Gross said. ‘We each have our tasks. But may I recommend, Frau Meisner, that you begin with the princess. Time is of the essence.’

  Gross said her name with a slight lilt of sarcasm as he always did. The criminologist did not approve of modern women who kept their maiden names when marrying.

  Werthen was not sure, but he thought he also caught a hint of insincerity in Gross’s tone about time being of the essence.

  Franzl thought it was a treat to be decked out in knee pants and apron. He was assigned the potatoes his first morning. He had to scrub them clean. Beautiful little round golden things, first of the season. It seemed Frau Schratt fancied her potatoes with the skins on, so it was Franzl’s first task in the household to see to it there was not a speck of earth left on them.

  He worked away in a corner of the large and gloomy kitchen downstairs from the main rooms. It had been a busy day so far, he thought as he scrubbed away at the potatoes with the wooden-handled brush. They’d been delivered at six a.m. promptly by a fiaker. Frau Schratt had introduced him to the cook, who’d seemed unimpressed, and to Fräulein Anna, the other kitchen helper, who’d given him a sweet smile. It was she that Advokat Werthen explained they especially wanted him to watch. But now that he’d met her, Franzl could not understand why. Anna seemed like someone who wouldn’t even hurt a fly. She kindly showed him the proper way to clean the potatoes: not so hard as to disturb the skin, just the right pressure.

  ‘Frau Schratt’s very particular about her potatoes,’ she told him.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got other things to do, Anna,’ the cook said then. ‘The boy’s come to make our lives easier, not more difficult.’

  Anna winked at him as she scurried off to feed the boiler more coal. He was amazed; the house had what they called central heating. This was the life.

  Berthe met Rosa Mayreder at the Café Eiles just down the street from her apartment later that morning. They had tea and Berthe explained as much as she could to her friend about her reasons for wanting to get to know the princess better.

  ‘This mysterious investigation of yours had better be important,’ Rosa said. ‘The princess is not someone you want as an enemy.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Berthe said. ‘If you could just introduce us formally … I had no chance to meet her last Saturday.’

  ‘She likes it better that way. Fans not friends.’

  It had been several years since Werthen last spoke with Alexander Girardi, famed actor, comedian and tenor. Werthen and Gross’s first case, investigating the murder of Gustav Klimt’s model, had taken them to the dressing room of the actor, for he, like Klimt, had been carrying on an affair with the unfortunate young woman. Girardi had not been implicated in the murder, nor had he been able to supply any valuable information. Werthen was hoping that this time things would be different.

  Frau Schratt and Girardi were old friends; some said one-time lovers. What Werthen knew for sure was that Girardi was in Frau Schratt’s debt, for it was she who interceded with the emperor in 1896 when Girardi’s estranged wife attempted to have him committed to an asylum. Now, happily divorced from said wife, Girardi was once again the uncrowned king of Vienna, copied in dress and manner by the stage-happy populace, and Werthen was hoping the man could tell him who Frau Schratt’s professional enemies might be.

  Girardi’s home in the cottage district north of Vienna in Döbling belied his humble roots, the son of a locksmith in Graz. The villa looked large enough for several families; a bachelor like Girardi could get lost in its many rooms.

  Frau Schratt had arranged the interview for Werthen; a servant let him in at the appointed hour and took him to a small music room where Girardi was busy working on the role of Kálmán Zsupán, the wealthy pig farmer from Strauss’s operetta, The Gypsy Baron. It was one of the few operettas Werthen – no fan of light opera – had ever seen. Werthen was astounded to find Girardi in full costume with a ridiculous fake beard, moustaches spit-turned at the ends and a comical hat perched atop his head, its brim turned upward like a breakfast roll.

  He stood in the doorway without interrupting as Girardi finished the scene, a recording of the orchestral version playing on an Edison phonograph. Werthen was struck by the consummate professionalism of the man. Girardi had premiered the role of Kálmán Zsupán and had perfected it: he was Kálmán Zsupán. Yet here he stood in full costume working on it as if he were fresh to the stage.

  Girardi, aware of Werthen’s attention, ended the rendition with a flourish, bowing deeply to his audience of one.

  Werthen could not stop himself from clapping; the actor’s impish enthusiasm was infectious.

  ‘Yes, I do recall you now,’ Girardi said as they sat opposite each other at a small, delicately inlaid table freshly laid with a silver pot of hot coffee. Girardi laid his comical hat on the table and poured himself a cup. Werthen declined.

  ‘That sorry business with Liesel,’ Girardi said.

  Fräulein Elisabeth Landtauer was the model whose death had spurred Werthen’s first investigative efforts. He was happy to note that Girardi had not forgotten the young woman; it made him seem more human. More human also was his reversal to the twang of Viennese dialect, which the actor had perfected so well.

  ‘Yes, quite sad,’ Werthen said, not wanting to go too deeply into that affair, as it had ultimately led to the very gates of the Hofburg. ‘About Frau Schratt …’

  ‘Is she in danger? Just what is this about?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to discuss the details of the investigation, Herr Girardi. I do not believe she is in any physical danger, but it would seem she has an enemy or enemies that wish her ill. Let us leave it at that.’

  ‘How can I help? Kathi is the dearest friend. She has been there for me when I’ve needed her
. I’ll gladly return the favor.’

  For once the actor sounded as if he were not on stage.

  ‘Who might wish to see her harmed, discredited? We are not talking about petty jealousies here but real animosity.’

  ‘Does this have to do with the emperor?’

  Werthen ignored the question. ‘Can you think of anyone that might fit that description?’

  Girardi shrugged. ‘In the theater? There are several. In real life,’ he swept his hand dramatically as if implying that his Döbling villa represented reality and not the stage, ‘very doubtful. Kathi is the kindest woman I know. She is the sort to take in strays, to help out complete strangers.’

  ‘In the theater, then.’

  ‘One makes enemies in such a hothouse environment,’ Girardi said. ‘There are only so many roles, so many good parts.’

  ‘But she’s virtually retired.’

  Girardi smiled at this. ‘Actresses never retire, Advokat. They may perform less, but they never take a final curtain willingly. Also, Kathi has Protektion – connections.’

  ‘The emperor?’

  The actor nodded. ‘She is loath to use this influence, but those who are against her do not believe that. They see her standing in the way of progress at the Burg – keeping the young actresses back, interfering with the management of the house.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Surmise, Advokat. Merely that.’

  ‘Understood. I am not assuming guilt, merely looking for a direction in which to move forward.’

  ‘Two people come immediately to mind. Fräulein Maria Theresa Greilin and Herr Director Schlenther. The one is a budding star at the Burg and the other—’

  ‘The director of the Burgtheater.’

  ‘He and Kathi have been at each other’s throats since he arrived in Vienna in 1898. Up to then, Kathi had been the queen of the Burg, the people’s favorite and the emperor’s special friend. She had her pick of roles, some of which might have been more appropriate, truth be told, for younger actresses. She advocates for her friends and, when under contract, had leave time that left most wishing they knew an emperor. That changed with Schlenther’s arrival. He’s a stolid Prussian and could not tolerate interference in the affairs of the Burg. Subsequently, Kathi’s contracts were brought more in line with others at the Burg. But it bred animosity and led to Kathi attempting in every way possible to dislodge the director. She is a very powerful woman, our Kathi, and she has very powerful friends. The one thing saving Schlenther is Prince Montenuovo’s dislike for Kathi.’