The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  SEVENTEEN

  The lights went down and a less than imposing figure suddenly appeared on stage, sharply illuminated by a spotlight.

  Fans in the audience began clapping and a few also started a rhythmic chant: ‘Hou-di-ni! Hou-di-ni!’

  Harry Houdini, the famous escape artist, der Ausbrecherkönig, as he was billed, bowed at this reception, his long, wavy hair fluttering like a conductor’s at the opera. He looked rather out of place in his tuxedo, Klavan thought, as if he should actually be at the Court Opera and not about to entertain the throngs with his renowned feats escapology.

  Klavan sat amid this crowd of working-class Viennese occupying the cheap upper balcony seats at the Ronacher theater, happy that he had arrived as soon as the box office opened at seven, for there were many turned away for lack of available seats. He was enjoying the anonymous proximity to the masses. Their smell of perspiration reminded him of nights gathered around the fire as a boy growing up by the Baltic Sea. His brothers and father would bear the same heavy scent after a long day of amber fishing.

  His attention was brought back to the stage as an announcer, also dressed in a tuxedo, proclaimed that Herr Houdini – a son of the monarchy, having been born in Budapest – would present for the first time a death-defying new escape. He would free himself from an oversized milk can filled with water. Its lid was padlocked closed.

  ‘Failure means drowning,’ the announcer intoned impassionedly, and the audience gasped.

  At this announcement, Houdini grabbed dramatically at the front of his tuxedo and it came away to reveal his well-muscled frame clothed in a tight-fitting bathing costume.

  ‘Herr Houdini invites members of the audience to attempt to hold their breaths as long as he must to effect this escape,’ the announcer said, eyeing the audience as if in challenge. Houdini merely smiled.

  Two massive assistants wheeled the large milk can on stage, demonstrated how the lid opened and closed, and then Houdini wriggled and contorted his way in. Klavan felt a chill at the mere tightness of the space. When the assistants began adding buckets of water to the can, he wondered if this were really the right amusement for him. He had never felt secure on the water, despite the family business. Soon the water spilled out the opening of the can, and Houdini, who had kept his nose above the water- line until now, made a brief nod at the audience and dipped under. The assistants quickly padlocked the sides of the lid to the neck of the can with hasps, and then wheeled it behind a screen so that Houdini’s art would not be given away.

  A young working man to Klavan’s right suddenly exhaled and then sucked in a volume of air, having tried unsuccessfully to hold his breath along with Houdini. There were sounds from behind the screen but they clearly came from Houdini; anyone attempting to help him would be visible to the audience.

  ‘Somebody let him out!’ a woman with the bosom of an overfed turkey shouted.

  The rest of the audience shushed her. More seconds ticked by; the silence in the house was profound. Klavan could feel the tension himself, similar to when he would be about to go into action.

  Suddenly a metallic clanking sound rang through the theater and a dripping wet Houdini appeared around the corner of the screen. The audience exploded in applause and shouts of ‘Bravo!’ Klavan could not help himself; he joined in with the others.

  The rest of the show was an anticlimax for Klavan: Houdini wriggling out of a straitjacket, escaping from locked handcuffs, foiling the padlocks binding a steamer trunk into which he had descended.

  He slipped out at intermission – a strong man was going to show off his muscles in the second half and nothing could be more boring for Klavan than such impoverished animal displays of strength.

  Outside, the night air was crisp, clean and, for the first time since he had arrived, relatively mild. The vernal equinox had come and gone without him even noticing; it brought with it a spring evening. It would not last, he knew. Soon, winter would return. But for now he, like the Viennese out on the sidewalks, would simply enjoy the balmy evening.

  He decided to walk for a while through the Inner City before making his way back to the lodgings at the Pension Geldner. He was tired of fending off questions from the frau. As he remembered from his previous stay, she had not been so curious. He wondered if she suspected something, fearing that Klavan somehow could cause her problems. And Dimitrov! The man should just die and stop making his – Klavan’s – life miserable. But then, of course, his perfect plan would be ruined.

  He put all this out of his mind for the moment, blending into the crowds of Viennese out on the streets, tipping his hat at a comely young woman who blushed at his impudence. It felt good to be a common citizen for a time. Not that he would want to make a habit of it. Such a life would be stifling. The wife and kids waiting for you to return from the factory; the soul-destroying nature of it all. He squared his narrow shoulders as he made his way through the crowds, knowing that he could kill any of these without the slightest effort. Knowing he could do it without the slightest remorse. He lived on a different plane than these Viennese, so self-satisfied with their new spring outfits, their fat cigars, their ample waistlines.

  He understood Houdini – his life lived on the edge. Every performance could be his last. A simple mistake could mean death by drowning. He felt a kindred spirit in the man and had been meaning to see his performance ever since reading of Houdini’s escape from a Russian Siberian transport van. Hadn’t he effected his own such escape?

  It had been worth the wait, he thought as he came into the Stephansplatz with the cathedral looming overhead. An optimistic café on the square had put out tables but it was hardly that mild. Still, the area was busy with pedestrians and the low hum of voices. He felt a tug at his leg and was about to kick out, thinking that a dog had grabbed his cuff. However, looking down, he saw a young boy in a sailor suit staring up at him.

  ‘Papa?’ the child said, bewildered.

  His parents caught up with the tyke, apologizing to Klavan about their child’s mistake. But this sudden disturbance made him want to return to the solitude of the pension. Dimitrov was sure to be in an alcoholic stupor by now.

  He knew something was amiss as soon as he let himself into the pension. Frau Geldner was not at her designated place by the front desk. She had been when he left, interested to hear of his planned visit to the Ronacher. He approached his room stealthily; no other guests seemed to be about tonight. Too busy enjoying the mild evening, as he had. His door was partly ajar and he could hear the muffled sound of drawers being opened and closed from inside. He felt instantly on guard, filled with the same tension he’d experienced when Houdini was locked in the milk can.

  He slowly opened the door, revealing a scene he had half expected. There was Frau Geldner calmly going through his and Dimitrov’s things, picking up his notebook from the bureau and flipping through the pages, stopping to read an entry here and there. She would not understand the significance of these entries, he was sure, yet the fact she was snooping sealed her fate. And where was Dimitrov while all this was going on? In a drunken stupor?

  But a quick glance at the man’s cot let him know this was no stupor.

  He entered the room like a cat, quietly closing the door behind him.

  She spun around, the notebook still in her hand.

  ‘Oh, Herr Wenno. I am so glad you came back. Your friend …’

  She nodded helplessly toward the cot where Dimitrov lay, a spray of blood from hemorrhaged lungs covering the white coverlet. His face was as white as the unviolated part of the coverlet.

  ‘I heard a terrible gasping noise and came to see if I could be of assistance. I did not know what to do.’

  He smiled at her consolingly. ‘He was a sick man. It was to be expected.’

  He felt the ground slipping out from under him, his well-laid plan scuttled by this death and his privacy breeched by Frau Geldner.

  But he kept the smile on his face as he approached her.

  ‘I
didn’t know what to do,’ she repeated, putting the notebook back on the bureau. ‘I hoped to find some clue as to your whereabouts …’ She caught herself, realizing her mistake.

  ‘Ah, but then you knew where I was, Frau Geldner.’

  ‘Yes. How silly of me. It must have been the shock.’

  He nodded. ‘Quite understandable.’

  He was within arm’s reach of her now; she realized it as well, taking a step back and knocking the back of her legs against his cot.

  ‘The authorities,’ she said. ‘They’ll have to be notified.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ he said.

  The movement was swift, unexpected. He bent over for an instant and suddenly came back up with a knife in his hand retrieved from the sheath on his left calf. It was all one motion, really, and it was as if he were watching it from the outside, seeing the blade fly through the air with an underhand toss to land with a dull thud followed by a hiss of the frau’s breath as she exhaled, looking in amazement at the blade sticking out of her chest, trying to make an audible sound but failing. Her eyes grew wide for a moment and then fluttered as she collapsed back onto his cot.

  She was dead by the time he put a hand to her carotid artery.

  And now what? he asked himself. What to do with this mess?

  The first thing was to expunge any record of his presence at the pension. Assumed name or not, Klavan wanted no leads to him from the Pension Geldner. He went back to the front desk. Still there seemed to be no other guests about. He found the registration book and tore out the page with the name of Wenno on it.

  He made no attempt to clean up the mess in his room nor to try and stage some dramatic contretemps between the frau and Dimitrov. Let the authorities make of it what they might. He retrieved his knife, cleaning it on the frau’s skirt before returning it to the scabbard, and then packed his belongings quickly. He took the explosive device out of Dimitrov’s suitcase: that would serve as his own insurance now if apprehended.

  He spent another five minutes carefully searching the room for any trace of himself. Had other guests noticed him? That was something that he could not control.

  He locked the door behind him and took the key with him as he left the pension. Two blocks away, he dropped the key in a rubbish bin.

  He knew where he would have to go. It was his last trump card, but now was the time to play it.

  The maid opened the door cautiously. After all, it was a bit late for visitors.

  Klavan smiled reassuringly. The maid looked him up and down with disapproval.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell your mistress that she has a guest. Herr Schmidt. I am sure she will remember me.’

  The maid scowled at this, closing the door in his face. He waited another couple of minutes, unsure if the stupid woman was doing as he requested. He was about to knock again when the door swung open.

  ‘What is the meaning of this—’

  She stopped when she realized who it was.

  ‘Nice to see you again too, Lisette,’ Klavan said to the tall, elegantly appointed woman. ‘Or should I say, Princess Dumbroski.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Detective Inspector Bernhard Drechsler was at the canal waiting for him as he had said he would be on the phone, just below the Stephanie-Brücke. Very secretive he was, and Werthen couldn’t help but conclude that this must be damned important to be called out on a sacred Sunday.

  It had been some time since he’d last seen the inspector, and as Werthen stood momentarily at the top of the stairs leading down to the dock running beneath the bridge, he could discern little physical change in the lean, hawk-nosed policeman. Drechsler and two uniformed police officers stood over what appeared to be a body on the quay, draped in a canvas cover.

  It had been a brief spring: last night’s relative warmth was replaced today with a cold front out of Siberia. The sky was low and gray; ravens wheeled overhead, making their annoying gurgling croak of a call. A flutter of snowflakes was carried in the piercing breeze. Werthen took the steps slowly, fearful there might be icy patches.

  ‘What have we got, Inspector?’ Werthen asked as he approached the three men. He already had a suspicion but hoped he was wrong.

  Drechsler tipped his derby at Werthen. ‘Sorry to draw you away from your family on a Sunday, Advokat, but I need an identification.’ He nodded to what was now very obviously a corpse at their feet.

  ‘Why me?’

  Drechsler took out a sodden bit of card from his coat pocket.

  ‘It’s badly damaged from the water, but you can still read the name on it.’

  He held it out for Werthen to see. It was one of his business cards.

  ‘I assume it’s a client,’ Drechsler said. ‘There was no other identification on the body, no wallet. No telling how long it’s been in the canal. Herr Doktor Starb can help with that later at the city morgue, but for now it would be nice if we had a name.’

  Werthen breathed deeply. ‘Let’s see.’

  Drechsler nodded at the policeman to his left, a young man who did not look old enough to even be out of school, his cheeks rosy like a cherub’s in the brisk morning air.

  The young policeman leaned over, grabbed a corner of the canvas drop cloth and drew it slowly back. He let out an audible gasp and began retching, moving away in horror.

  Werthen felt the hair at the back of his head bristle as he watched a small eel squirm and writhe out of the corpse’s left eye socket.

  He showed no emotion, and nor did Drechsler, who had obviously seen worse.

  He took in the corpse in a glance, noting the strange angle of the man’s head, the sack of cobbles belted around his middle, the bloated stomach cavity.

  Werthen nodded casually, but was feeling anything but. ‘Yes. I know him. His name is Falk. A waiter at the Café Burg.’

  The young officer’s dry heaves had now turned liquid as he vomited into the canal. Drechsler nodded to the other policeman to cover the corpse again.

  ‘Must have taken a fall,’ Drechsler said, eyeing Werthen closely.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Werthen said.

  Drechsler slightly cocked his head, questioning this assertion.

  ‘I don’t have to tell you your business, Drechsler. You saw the angle of his head. Somebody’s broken the man’s neck. And you don’t get cobbles tied around your waist by a simple fall into the Danube Canal.’

  ‘A jumper?’ Drechsler offered. But it was clear he was just angling for information and Werthen wanted to forestall the next question.

  Instead, he asked one himself. ‘How was he found with all that weight to hold him down?’

  Drechsler looked over his shoulder in the direction of a stone bench on the quay tucked right under the arches of the bridge. An old pensioner sat there, a small bottle of schnapps in hand. A thick cane fishing pole leaned against the bench.

  ‘Going for carp, the old fellow was,’ Drechsler said. ‘Bottom feeders. Thought he had snagged the granddaddy of them all. It was quite a shock for him when he finally managed to tug up your client, but luckily he didn’t just run off. He found a policeman on his rounds and they managed to fish the body out.’

  Drechsler continued eyeing Werthen. ‘He was a client?’

  Werthen nodded.

  The ravens swept low over the corpse as if they meant to spirit it off.

  ‘Law firm or inquiries?’

  Here it comes, Werthen thought. It didn’t matter to Falk anymore, but for him there was the matter of not reporting a murder to the police. A serious matter, in fact, especially if Drechsler’s superior, Chief Inspector Meindl, got wind of it. Meindl was no friend of private inquiry agents, and held a special animus for Werthen as the sometimes colleague of Doktor Hanns Gross. Like Werthen, Meindl had been mentored by Gross while in Graz. Meindl was now repaying Gross’s infernal pomposity with his own as head of the Vienna Police Praesidium.

  ‘A friend brought Falk to me a little over a week ago,’ Werthen finally replied. ‘He had witnessed the
murder of his superior at the café—’

  ‘Stop right there, Advokat. You mean to tell me this man witnessed a murder and did not go to the police?’

  Another nod. ‘He was afraid he might become a suspect.’

  Werthen explained the situation to Drechsler and his promise to keep it a secret for the time being while he investigated the death of Herr Karl. ‘Then came another investigation that could not be refused and I had to put the waiter’s murder on the back burner—’

  ‘You’re losing me, Advokat. You seem to be a very busy man. Why didn’t you at least contact me once you had to put the murder investigation on the “back burner,” as you put it? And why can’t you tell me about this other investigation of yours?’

  Werthen tried to redirect the conversation. ‘Herr Falk went missing last Wednesday. His wife has been frantic.’

  ‘But I assume she did not go to the police, either.’

  Werthen could merely shrug at this. His attempts at misdirection were for naught.

  Drechsler shook his head and sighed. ‘And I thought you were the sensible one of the pair.’

  An obvious reference to Gross, but Werthen did not bother to respond.

  ‘Perhaps then, you will at least do me and the city of Vienna the favor of sharing what you have learned thus far about the first murder, this Herr Karl fellow.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector. I’ll bring my files to the Praesidium tomorrow.’

  ‘I think not,’ Drechsler said with what was for him a degree of emotion. ‘I’ll expect you this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, you do seem to have entangled certain parts of your anatomy in the mangle,’ Gross said later that morning after Werthen had explained his situation.

  ‘You needn’t appear so gleeful, Gross. If Meindl finds out—’

  ‘That poison pigmy,’ Gross spluttered. ‘He’s far too busy playing the sycophant to the wealthy and powerful to take notice of your misdeeds, Werthen.’

  Werthen only wished that were so, but previous run-ins with the chief inspector had proven otherwise.