The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  In addition to his other roles at court, Werthen knew that Montenuovo also was in charge of the court theaters.

  ‘And Fräulein Greilin?’

  ‘She is a Schlenther protégé. Quite talented, really. But not favored by Kathi. I fear Kathi has another favorite, young Fräulein Minter, born in Baden bei Wien and the daughter of a grocer, just like Kathi. The girl has become something of a surrogate daughter, and Kathi does campaign for her. She may be officially retired, you see, but she keeps her hand in the thespian ring. There was a public altercation between the two …’ Girardi sighed at the thought. ‘Very unprofessional on the part of Fräulein Greilin, but she is young and feels that her career is threatened.’

  Werthen made note of both of these. ‘No others?’

  A shaking of his head. ‘As you say, petty jealousies.’ He rose, putting his comical hat on once again, his features transforming before Werthen’s eyes. He was Kálmán Zsupán.

  ‘And now, I fear, I must return to my rehearsal. There is a performance in three days’ time. Do give my best to Kathi. And if there is anything else I can do …’

  ‘You’ve been more than helpful,’ Werthen said, taking his cue to leave.

  They arrived at the Ringstrasse apartment of Princess Dumbroski at exactly one in the afternoon, as arranged. Frau Mayreder used the excuse of a forgotten reticule from the Saturday seance for this appointment.

  As they ascended in the elevator to the third floor, Frau Mayreder said, ‘I still do not know what you hope to accomplish by such a visit. You are being awfully closed-mouth about it all.’

  Berthe smiled at her friend. ‘You’ll have to trust me, Rosa. It is a matter of state, but that is all I can tell you.’

  ‘What an exciting life you live with that investigator husband of yours. I assume it is some sort of private inquiry.’

  Another smile. ‘And how do you know it is not my own case?’ Berthe said, which brought a shade of pink to the cheeks of Rosa Mayreder, the great proponent of women’s rights.

  Berthe patted the woman’s forearm. ‘It’s quite all right, Rosa. I am guilty of the same. Remind me I have a doctor’s appointment and I imagine an imposing male figure in white coat.’

  ‘And if we do it, think how long it will take to change the world.’

  The lift reached the third floor with a sudden jolt, rocking them as they stood by its door.

  A maid answered the door of Princess Dumbroski’s apartment on the second knock. Rosa Mayreder supplied their names and the woman said, ‘She is expecting you. This way.’

  The apartment proved to be rather cavernous, with a number of white lacquered doors leading off a main hallway. As they proceeded they could hear a metallic clinking as of small imperfect bells being sounded. The maid finally stopped in front of a pair of doors behind which the clinking sound seemed to emanate.

  She threw open the doors to display a scene out of a mad painting by Bosch. There in front of them was Princess Dumbroski, attired in tights and fencing mask, a foil in her hand and nothing on her torso. She was circling a young woman in the same attire, or lack thereof. Blood streamed from a wound on this woman’s left bicep. Their bare breasts heaved as they circled and parried, taking deep breaths. The foils had no fleuret at the tip to blunt the sharp point; they were fighting, it appeared, for real. The princess made a sudden thrust which the other woman blocked, but it was merely a feint, for Princess Dumbroski quickly brought her blade to the left now, slashing at the woman’s upraised forearm, cutting and bringing more blood.

  ‘C’est tout!’ the princess shouted. ‘I have scored twice. Sufficient for today.’

  She lifted her mask up; her face was filled with a fierce animal passion.

  The other woman also lifted her mask. ‘My apologies, Princess. I lost my concentration.’ She glanced at Berthe and Rosa Mayreder standing in the doorway, slack-jawed as if to blame them.

  ‘Yes, but the first cut came before our visitors. Enough. Have those wounds attended to.’

  She approached the other, gave her a formal kiss on each cheek and then, pausing, kissed her on the lips.

  The other fencer passed by Berthe and Frau Mayreder, making a low, undecipherable sound as she did so. It was clear to Berthe that this woman did not appreciate their presence.

  Princess Dumbroski made no attempt to cover her breasts as she turned her attention to them.

  ‘How do you like my little gymnasium?’ The princess, still holding her foil, swept it about the large room proprietarily.

  It was indeed appointed as a room for gymnasts with its floor mats, balance beam, leather-covered horse and dangling rings. In one corner lay a set of dumbbells.

  ‘What’s good enough for the empress is good enough for me,’ the princess said breezily.

  The Empress Elisabeth, assassinated four years earlier, had been an enthusiast of physical exercise, outfitting rooms at the Hofburg and at Schönbrunn with similar exercise paraphernalia.

  ‘And like the ancient Greeks, we prefer to take our exercise au naturel.’

  Berthe, who had made a study of Greek, understood the implied joke, for the word was derived from gymnos, which meant naked: ancient athletes trained in that state. The irony was that the word gymnasium in German referred to a preparatory high school. Berthe could hardly imagine the young scholars at the elite Theresianum Gymnasium going about their Latin studies au naturel.

  ‘She was bleeding,’ Rosa Mayreder said, still somewhat shocked at the scene.

  ‘Just a knick. I know when to stop.’ She fixed her eyes on Berthe now. ‘And I know when to inflict pain.’

  Berthe felt herself redden at the comment. She could never control this blushing that would start at her chest and blossomed up her neck. Fortunately, she was wearing a high lace collar today.

  ‘So, Frau Mayreder, you have misplaced your reticule. We are no train station maintaining a lost and found, but I am sure Elise will do what she can to look for it.’

  The princess pulled a bell rope on the wall in back of her, next to a window looking out on the Ringstrasse. The maid who had let them in promptly came to the door.

  ‘Elise, perhaps you can assist Frau Mayreder. She seems to have misplaced a reticule.’

  ‘Madam,’ the woman said by way of response, nodding her head.

  ‘And while you are about your business, perhaps your young friend and I can get to know each other.’

  It was what Berthe had been hoping for, but suddenly she was not so sure she wanted an intimate tête-à-tête with the princess. She felt out of her depth, on her guard.

  But Rosa Mayreder did not sense this, leaving the two to their discussion as she searched for the fictional reticule.

  Once the door was closed, Princess Dumbroski looked closely at Berthe. A towel hung from the back of a chair, but still the woman made no effort to cover herself. Berthe tried to focus on her face.

  ‘Now, Frau Meisner, perhaps you can tell me what this little farce is all about?’

  ‘Berthe, please,’ she said, still trying to follow her original plan of somehow becoming friendly enough with the princess to discover helpful information.

  The woman tilted her head to the side as if to examine a rare art work.

  ‘I use Christian names only with those I am intimate with, Frau Meisner. And you should know that I really do not have friends. Allies, yes. Friends, very sparingly. Is that what this little ruse about the missing handbag is about? You want to be my ally?’

  She took several steps toward Berthe, who still stood by the door.

  The princess was now only a step away from her as she spoke: ‘Or do you seek something more intimate?’

  Berthe tried to laugh it off. ‘You have caught me out, Princess. I am one of those curious Viennese who wishes to know more about a woman who duels, who holds seances.’

  A half-step closer. Princess Dumbroski shook her head.

  She was close enough now for Berthe to smell the sweat on her. She swallowed hard.
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  ‘I think not,’ Princess Dumbroski said. ‘You know what I do think, though, Frau Meisner? I think you may be working with your husband, Advokat Werthen, in a desperate attempt to find a missing letter belonging to a certain washed-up actress who has an inflated opinion of her importance to an aged ruler.’

  Berthe struggled to keep her expression from giving her away, but it was not her expression that did so.

  ‘I see by the extreme coloring rising from your neck and spreading to your cheeks that my surmise is correct.’ She reached out with her left hand and brushed Berthe’s cheek as proof. The foil still remained in her right hand.

  ‘You see, I have my allies in many places. There is not much that happens in Vienna that I am not aware of. Of importance, that is.’

  Another half step closed the distance between them. Berthe made to move back, but her back was against the doorjamb. Princess Dumbroski’s face was next to hers. She could feel the woman’s breath on her.

  ‘I could always use another ally,’ she said. ‘Or another intimate. A beautiful woman like you must have allies, too. Or intimates.’

  She kissed her on the mouth before Berthe could move her head.

  ‘I think I had better leave,’ Berthe finally said, finding her voice.

  ‘As you wish,’ the princess said, stepping back now and whipping foil in the air like a riding crop. ‘Next time you come, don’t bring the old woman.’

  Berthe wanted to strangle her. Rage built like damned-up waters ready to break through. She turned to go.

  ‘And Frau Meisner, for your troubles, I had nothing to do with the missing letter. But that woman has plenty of other enemies. Don’t forget the son. Family revenge is a powerful motive.’

  Berthe could listen to the woman’s insidious tone no longer. She burst through the double doors and into the hallway, eager to find Rosa Mayreder and be gone. Laughter followed her down the hall as she brushed the despised kiss from her lips.

  ELEVEN

  Gross was in no hurry. For him, this was an exercise in futility, but the emperor requested it and there was an end to it. It needed to look like a formal investigation. Mundane, though. And a pity. It would all end badly.

  He needed a bit of exercise, hoping to work off the lunch of blutwurst and knödel he had just consumed, so he strolled along the Ringstrasse, headed toward the Third District and Favoritengasse. Yesterday’s snow was already turning into a slushy mess.

  It took him a half hour to reach the Consular Wing of the Theresianum on Favoritengasse, location of the elite Consular Academy, formerly the Oriental Academy, where the empire’s best and brightest were trained for the diplomatic corps. Gross had no intention of interviewing Frau Schratt’s only son, Baron Anton Kiss, in her premises or in her presence; he would much rather conduct such a discussion on the neutral grounds of the school where he was in training.

  A liveried servant in white gloves stood at the entrance to the Consular Wing. Gross introduced himself and his reason for visiting and the servant led him into an interior courtyard and up a flight of stairs to a suite of rooms appointed in proper imperial style.

  The servant led Gross to a waiting area. ‘I will announce you to the director,’ he said, and then scurried off to the largest corner office.

  Several minutes later he was ushered into the director’s office, whose door held a brass plaque announcing its occupant: Michael Pidoll von Quitenbach. The director was an austere-looking man, bald, with white fringes and a Van Dyke beard and moustache of the same whiteness. His skin was also of a powdered pallor; the only bit of color on his face was his defiantly black eyebrows. He was dressed formally in the black cutaway of the foreign service, standing behind a vast cherrywood desk as Gross entered.

  ‘And how may I assist the eminent criminologist?’ von Quitenbach said, his accent more high German than Austrian. As always, Gross was pleased by his name recognition, but it did not appear the director was any too pleased to greet him. A dyspeptic scowl appeared to be his standard facial expression, even when talking, which was, Gross thought, quite an achievement.

  ‘I need to talk with one of your young scholars,’ Gross said, taking the chair opposite the director. ‘Baron Anton Kiss.’

  Von Quitenbach’s eyebrows lifted. ‘The baron. May I inquire why you wish to see him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Herr Director.’ He reached into his breast pocket and brought out the authorizing letter Prince Montenuovo had given to him and Werthen. The man read the brief note without expression.

  Handing it back, von Quitenbach asked, ‘Where would you like to meet with the baron?’

  ‘This office should suffice,’ Gross said with a degree of impish satisfaction. That’ll teach the fellow to scowl at me, he thought.

  Von Quitenbach stiffened at the suggestion but, a loyal bureaucrat, he made no protest.

  ‘I shall await you in my assistant’s office.’

  Gross imagined a game of musical offices as the pecking order came into play, dislodging one underling after the other from his office.

  It took several minutes, but finally Baron Kiss was shown into the room, a young, good-looking boy-man with the rosy cheeks of a youth from the Alps via Vienna’s exclusive Hietzing district.

  Gross by this time had made himself comfortable in von Quitenbach’s chair. Introductions were briefly made and Gross nodded at a chair across the desk from him, but the youth ignored the gesture. Instead, he said, ‘What is all this about? Am I to be disturbed in the middle of my economics class? Couldn’t this wait until the end of the day?’

  ‘As your classes go on until eight in the evening, I think not,’ Gross responded. ‘I have been commissioned by the highest authority, I assure you, Herr Kiss.’

  He let the comment sink in as well as his intentional dropping of the youth’s title.

  ‘Uncle Franz Josef, that would be, then,’ Kiss allowed. ‘And it is probably about this wretched missing letter business.’

  Gross knew the youth was aware of the missing letter, for his mother had informed him and Werthen that her son had checked the doors and windows for a possible break in. But he was hoping Kiss could inadvertently offer some evidence to bolster a theory he was developing.

  ‘Your assumption is correct. And please do take a seat, Herr Kiss.’ He waited for the young man to do so before continuing. ‘Is it possible your mother might have mislaid the letter?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her about that, but I assure you my mother is a very organized woman. She has compartmentalized her life to exacting standards.’

  The comment sounded more like complaint than praise; an actress such as Frau Schratt must have had to leave a young boy much on his own when touring and when ministering to the emotional needs of an emperor who liked to pay six a.m. morning visits to his mistress.

  ‘Yes, to be able to memorize all those lines,’ Gross said. ‘Quite a talent.’

  ‘If you say so. Really, is all this necessary? It seems much ado about nothing. All of Vienna knows that mother and Uncle Franz are special friends.’

  ‘There may be more to it than that,’ Gross replied, ‘but the contents of the letter are not my concern. I have been tasked with ensuring that it is returned to its rightful owner.’

  ‘Does that mean the emperor? And what a bloody silly comment. Of course the contents are your concern. If someone or something is mentioned therein that might prove inflammatory, then it is highly relevant for investigators to know about it. It would help narrow down those who might profit from such disclosure or threat of disclosure.’

  Gross nodded appreciatively at this comment. The young man, he decided, stood to have a formidable diplomatic career. His reasoning was impeccable, but Gross had to remain circumspect. He could hardly make the slight against the German Kaiser in the letter public knowledge.

  ‘Let us say there may be sensitive material in the letter, not as regards your mother’s friendship with the emperor, but about a third party. However, I hardly think
the person in question would have knowledge of such a letter. I understand you examined all possible points of entry to your mother’s villa and found nothing untoward.’

  ‘That is so,’ Kiss said.

  ‘And from that you concluded …?’

  ‘Exactly what I assume you concluded: that it was someone in the household who took the damned thing. Someone most likely in the pay of one of mother’s enemies.’

  ‘She has a number of those?’

  ‘Famous women always do. Famous women who are the mistress of an emperor, even more so.’

  He pronounced the word ‘mistress’ with a degree of venom.

  ‘You do not approve of your mother’s relationship with the emperor?’

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  ‘I have been commissioned to be thorough in my investigation,’ Gross said.

  ‘Which means I too am a suspect, I suppose.’

  Another nod from Gross.

  ‘Am I to provide an alibi, then? This is absurd. Why don’t you use this fancy dactyloscopy one reads about in the papers?’ He cast Gross a challenging grin.

  ‘In fact, we did take fingerprints of the handle to the drawer as well as the interior. But I am afraid there were a mass of such prints, all indecipherable. Besides, if one were aware of the science of fingerprinting,’ he cast Herr Kiss a meaningful glance, ‘then all one need do is wear a pair of gloves to avoid detection.’

  Herr Kiss had now stopped smiling. ‘What is it you want to know from me, other than the fact that I did not take the letter in question?’

  ‘A shortlist of enemies would be helpful. Also, any of the staff who you think might be capable of such a deed.’