The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  ‘And now we are denied even the spent bullets,’ Gross said in the same voluble manner.

  ‘We don’t know that, Gross. Perhaps this assistant …’

  ‘Oh, bravo for the assistant. Another fool, most likely. Someone’s damned incompetent nephew, I’ll warrant.’

  There was no use talking to Gross when he was in one of these moods. Werthen just walked on down the corridor.

  ‘Et tu, Werthen? Turning your back on me, as well?’

  ‘So what is this secret you so desperately want to share?’ Berthe smiled as she said this, for she had an inkling of what was coming.

  Fräulein Erika Metzinger, her husband Karl’s secretary, moved her still-untouched schnitzel around on her plate. They were seated at a window table at the Café Frauenhuber, which Karl called his home away from home; his ‘third place.’

  ‘Erika?’ Berthe prodded.

  ‘He’s asked me to marry him.’ She did not look up from the plate.

  ‘But that’s wonderful,’ Berthe said. ‘Why the long face? You love him, don’t you?’

  Erika finally looked up. ‘Of course I do. He’s the most wonderful man I know.’

  ‘We are speaking of Herr Sonnenthal, right?’

  This comment finally brought a smile to Erika’s face.

  ‘Yes, Berthe. We are talking about Bernhard.’

  ‘Well then, again I say that’s wonderful. But you really must do something about his name. You can’t whisper sweet nothings to “Bernhard.”’

  ‘At such moments I simply call him Herr Sonnenthal.’

  Which brought a laugh from Berthe this time. ‘He really is a fine young man, Erika. You two are perfect together.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Erika said. ‘I think we are perfect now, without marriage. I’m afraid it will change everything.’

  ‘Marriage?’ Berthe said incredulously. ‘It’s been almost four years for me and I haven’t changed into a werewolf yet.’

  ‘Be serious, Berthe. You know what I mean. I don’t know if I am cut out for the role of hausfrau.’

  ‘Is that what he wants? Someone to boil his shirts and have a hot meal ready whenever he arrives home?’

  Erika shrugged.

  ‘Which means,’ Berthe persisted, ‘that you haven’t even asked him about his expectations. It’s a new world, Erika. Even for the men we love.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Erika said, gazing quizzically now over Berthe’s shoulder.

  Berthe turned and saw the head waiter standing nearby as if he wished to speak with her. It was one of the under waiters who had served them earlier.

  ‘Hello, Herr Otto. How are you this fine day?’

  He looked troubled. ‘Not so good, Frau Meisner. You see, it’s my nephew. He seems to have gone missing.’

  ‘It’s patently obvious what’s happened,’ Gross was saying that evening after dinner as they all sat around the littered dining table at Josefstädterstrasse. ‘The fellow’s done a runner. Shows he was guilty all along. He’ll probably turn up as a mustachioed waiter in some out of the way place in Italy beyond the reach of Austrian law.’

  Werthen finished his coffee, setting his cup down deliberately. For a man of such intelligence, Gross could make quite ignorant pronouncements from time to time.

  ‘And leave his pregnant wife and young son in the lurch?’ Werthen said.

  ‘To keep his neck out of the noose,’ Gross replied. ‘A dead man is little use to wife and children. At least this way he could send support money.’

  ‘But there was no direct evidence linking him to the crime other than his own testimony …’

  ‘Which you yourself wondered about at the time, I believe you told me. An attempt to cover his tracks in case anybody had witnessed the cowardly crime.’

  True enough, but Werthen had begun to discount such a theory. Herr Otto was one of the best judges of a man’s character that he knew. If Herr Otto did not suspect his nephew, then the young man was surely innocent.

  ‘I was only at the tip of the iceberg with that investigation,’ Werthen countered. ‘There are still numerous leads to follow before jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Well, Herr Advokat,’ Gross said in his courtroom voice, ‘then come up with an alternate solution for Herr Falk’s sudden disappearance.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s had an accident,’ Werthen said, but realized how feeble that sounded the moment he uttered it.

  ‘Two days missing,’ Berthe said. ‘I agree with Doktor Gross. He’s run away. Or else …’

  ‘Quite,’ Gross said. ‘Or else he’s dead.’

  SIXTEEN

  Werthen felt torn: he wanted to go back to his initial investigation, yet no less a personage than the emperor himself requested – no, commanded – his services. The next morning he and Gross got an early start. He had promised his parents that they would all go out to the Vienna Woods with them this Saturday to further inspect progress on their new villa, but Gross was adamant.

  ‘Time is of the essence, Werthen,’ he insisted. We have already lost two weeks. The trail will soon grow cold.’

  ‘How much colder can it grow, Gross? There are no leads to follow.’

  Gross cast him one of his knowing looks, which infuriated Werthen even further.

  They took the tram to Schönbrunn, each sitting in his little pool of brooding silence after a remark from Gross as they boarded.

  ‘No reason to be glum, Werthen. Your crime is solved. Falk’s disappearance proves that. Be thankful we have such a lovely new task before us.’

  No word from Gross as to why they were traveling to the summer palace once more, and Werthen was damned if he was going to ask, like some schoolboy querying his teacher.

  Thus, there was silence between them as the tram rattled along the standard gauge rails on Mariahilferstrasse. Yesterday had been the first day of spring, and for once Viennese weather obeyed the seasons; the day was sunny and quite balmy, bringing the Viennese out in droves to the sidewalks of the busy Mariahilferstrasse. It was still morning, and the shops were open before Saturday half-day closing. Could Herr Falk be among them, somehow lost in the city? Perhaps he had a head injury. They say such things can cause a person to forget his identity.

  Grabbing at straws, he told himself. Perhaps Gross was right about Falk.

  They arrived at the gates of Schönbrunn, at the approximate spot of the failed assassination attempt on Franz Josef.

  Gross immediately began scouring the cobbled area.

  ‘You can’t actually imagine you’ll find any here after two weeks have passed,’ Werthen said.

  Gross made no reply.

  ‘You can be damnably irritating,’ Werthen said in exasperation.

  This comment appeared to reach the criminologist. ‘What do you say, Werthen?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He shook his head disgustedly.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there with your hands in your pockets. We have investigating to do.’

  He struck off at a furious pace toward an outbuilding a few hundred yards from the main gates. Werthen rolled his eyes and set out after Gross, catching up only as they approached what appeared to be a workers’ shed.

  ‘The guns were reloaded,’ Werthen said as he finally realized their mission. ‘Montenuovo said they emptied their revolvers and then reloaded.’

  Gross wheeled on him suddenly but his face was beaming. He clapped Werthen on the shoulder.

  ‘Good man. Which means …?’

  ‘That you’re hoping to find a casing. Perhaps one swept up as a souvenir by one of the groundsmen.’

  ‘Ah, your wife is a lucky woman, Werthen, to be married to such a clever man.’

  ‘You could have appraised me of your intentions, Gross.’

  ‘But that would have denied you the delights of discovery.’

  Werthen very much doubted his old mentor was actually attempting a learning opportunity. It was more likely a matter of raw egoism.

  Gross began vigorously rapping a knuckle on the
door to the outbuilding, which had the sign Platzwart – groundsman, over the lintel. The door was opened suddenly by a squat man in the grey uniform with red piping of the groundscrew at Schönbrunn.

  ‘Good day,’ Gross said pleasantly. ‘I’ve come to talk with your supervisor.’

  ‘You’re already doing so,’ the man said in a thick Viennese accent. ‘What do you need?’

  Gross quickly produced his letter from Prince Montenuovo, which made the fellow stand up straight and take notice.

  ‘I need to talk with the crew that swept the front entrance the day of the accident two weeks ago.’

  The man squinted at Gross and then let out a sigh. ‘I knew it,’ he spluttered.

  Werthen and Gross exchanged glances but said nothing.

  The man rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘I told Müller he should report it to the palace authorities, but no, he knows better. There’s no reasoning with the man.’

  ‘Herr …?’ Gross prompted.

  ‘Wilma,’ the other said. ‘Siegfried Wilma. I’ve been the supervisor here for five years and nothing like this has ever happened on my watch.’

  ‘Herr Wilma, what should this Herr Müller have reported?’

  ‘Let him tell you himself.’ He turned around and yelled into the depths of the shed. ‘Müller! You’ve got company.’

  A bleary-eyed giant came lumbering to the door, towering over his supervisor.

  Wilma looked up at the man. ‘I told you so.’ And then he left Müller to deal with Gross and Werthen.

  ‘So what do you two want?’ It was not so much a question as it was an accusation.

  ‘We understand you found something at the entrance to the palace,’ Gross said. ‘Just after that unfortunate accident two weeks ago.’

  It hadn’t been stated, but this was a good working assumption, Werthen figured.

  Now Müller’s mouth turned down at the corners; he was a sulking bear of a man.

  ‘Never did,’ he said. The denial sounded so patently false that Werthen let out a low laugh.

  ‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ Müller said, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘I didn’t find nothing.’

  ‘This “nothing” you didn’t find,’ Gross said evenly. ‘Might it be a shell casing?’

  Müller’s eyes squinted into arrow slits on a castle wall.

  ‘Herr Müller?’ Gross prodded.

  ‘I don’t have them.’

  ‘What did you do with them?’

  A muscle worked in the man’s jaw. Werthen could tell Müller was struggling to concoct a lie, but he continued to let Gross handle the interview.

  ‘I’ll know if you’re lying,’ Gross said. ‘If you want to keep this job you tell us the truth, and now.’

  His voice rose on the last word, making Müller’s eyes now open wide like a frightened horse.

  ‘Sonnenthal. That reporter fellow. He’s got them. Paid me for them but not enough for this trouble.’

  Gross looked stunned for a moment, then turned abruptly and stormed off toward the fiaker rank near the palace entrance.

  Werthen caught up with him again. ‘Sonnenthal,’ he said. ‘Our Sonnenthal?’

  Gross grunted at the question.

  So I was right about Gross’s sources, Werthen thought.

  ‘The man should have told me,’ Gross thundered, waving a fiaker down and climbing into the carriage.

  Werthen followed, barely having time to take a seat as Gross spit out the address of the Arbeiter Zeitung office.

  ‘Did you ask him?’ Werthen said as the carriage bounced along the cobbles.

  ‘Ask him what?’ It was as if a black cloud were over Gross’s head like some comical caricature in the magazine Kikeriki.

  Werthen sighed. ‘Herr Sonnenthal is an excellent journalist, but how was he to know you were investigating matters at Schönbrunn?’

  ‘I damn well pay him to do so.’

  ‘I assume he sent on news of this outrage along with other news that might be censored.’

  Gross folded his arms over his bulky chest and puffed his lips out.

  ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Gross waved the question away.

  ‘So he earned his money. It was up to you to seek further information once we were summoned for this case. You can’t blame Sonnenthal for your oversight.’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  Werthen made no reply to this.

  After a moment, Gross said, ‘You are correct, Werthen, as usual. My oversight. I do not like making errors. Let us just hope that it is not too late to retrieve the casings. They are our only lead thus far.’

  Werthen tried unsuccessfully to hide the shock on his face. That magisterial Doktor Hanns Gross should admit a mistake! The world must surely be coming to an end.

  ‘If I’d known …’ Bernhard Sonnenthal appeared quite abashed at Gross’s revelations, shrugging with his hands.

  They had left the offices of the newspaper and were huddled over a table at a small café near the editorial offices on Mariahilferstrasse. Obviously Sonnenthal did not think it appropriate to discuss his moonlighting ventures in the confines of the newspaper office. It was, however, as Werthen well knew, common practice for journalists to find another outlet for their hard-won stories, articles the powers that be would never allow to be printed. Much better a block of white space in the page than to allow the Viennese to know someone had tried to assassinate their beloved emperor.

  ‘Well, you didn’t and that is my fault,’ Gross admitted. ‘Do you in fact have evidence from the groundsman Müller?’

  He nodded and took a sip of his mocha. ‘They are in my desk at the office. If you wait a moment, I’ll dash back and get them.’

  True to his word, it was but a moment before Sonnenthal returned and placed three brass casings in front of Gross and Werthen. No expert on arms, Werthen left the examination to Gross, who immediately pulled out his travel magnifying glass and closely inspected the bottom of the casing.

  It took him only moments to set the brass down on the marble table with a clink.

  ‘As I suspected. Serbians at work.’

  ‘You can determine that simply from spent bullet casings?’ Werthen said with a degree of skepticism.

  Gross sighed, but then decided to be lenient with his pupil and explain the process.

  ‘This is clearly from a Nagant M1891 revolver, made in Belgium and Serbia with a 7.5 millimeter bullet. It has been the standard sidearm for the Serbian military for a decade. It has a most distinctive mark on the case.’

  He held the casing to Werthen’s eye; even without the aid of a magnifying glass he could see the Nagant etched in the brass.

  ‘It is highly unlikely that such a weapon would fall into the hands of civilians, and even less likely still that two such models would.’

  For Gross had determined from further marks that the three casings Sonnenthal had produced were fired from two different weapons.

  ‘What you are saying is that the Serbian military ordered the assassination of the emperor,’ Sonnenthal said with passion.

  ‘Yes,’ Gross replied, ‘and it might be wise to keep your voice down, Herr Sonnenthal.’

  There was no need to ask why; it was a simple matter of geopolitics. Austria had for decades wanted a foothold in the Balkans; Serbia on the other hand had dreams of becoming the leader of a pan-Slavic empire in the region. Long dominated by the Ottoman Empire, Serbia went to war against the Turks and managed to win Bosnia. However, following these hostilities in 1876 at the Congress of Berlin, Austria–Hungary managed to maneuver the great powers into giving her a protective mandate over Bosnia-Herzegovina. When Serbia itself was declared an independent state two years later, the rivalry only increased, spurred on in part by Russia, defender of the Slavs and eager to checkmate Habsburg ambitions in the Balkans. There were those who said war between the two was inevitable, but Werthen was not so sure. With interlocking alliances, nobody would be so foolish as to set off the Balkan powder
keg.

  A simple act of assassination, however, was a different matter.

  ‘They’ve had their go,’ Werthen said. ‘I doubt they will try again. Not on Austrian soil.’

  ‘Thank the Lord, Werthen, that you chose the law and not foreign affairs,’ Gross remarked at this comment. ‘I have heard tales of a secret society of Serbian army officers, the Black Hand, who vow to bring down the monarchy. Either ours or theirs. Fellow by the dramatic nom de guerre of Apis is at the head of it. So, I respectfully disagree. I very much doubt that this will be their last attempt. We are not talking about wild-eyed anarchists here, but rather a concerted effort by one state to eliminate the head of another state.’

  Werthen and Sonnenthal exchanged looks; there was little reassurance to be gained from each other, however.

  Gross went on: ‘There will be further attempts, though I doubt any quite so clumsy and incompetent as this one. They may even bring in an international.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘A paid assassin. A real professional and not more amateurs such as the ones who staged the fiasco at Schönbrunn. There are plenty such killers about for the right price.’

  ‘We need to show these casings to Montenuovo,’ Werthen said. ‘If this proves Serbian involvement, then …’

  ‘It proves nothing – not in a court of law, at any rate. And Vienna can hardly issue an ultimatum to another sovereign state – even one so deserving of it – with such flimsy evidence.’

  Seeing the consternation on Werthen’s face, Gross pushed on: ‘Though unable to prove it in a court of law, I am undeterred. I have a superior intelligence. I am willing to join lines, make connections where others see only a series of dots. And I am not held accountable by matters of state. We will, of course, share this evidence. But do not delude yourself, Werthen. It will be up to us to foil the next attempt on the emperor’s life.’