The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  Gross did not give him a chance to explain about his leg; any normal person with a sense of empathy would have noticed him limping. Not Gross, however. He was devoid of empathy – a characteristic as foreign to him as humility.

  Gross plunged on into the darkening day, into the sheet of snow that had begun to cover the city.

  And in the end it was all for naught. Montenuovo treated their discovery exactly as Gross had prophesied: too little evidence to proceed. How could Austria send an ultimatum to another sovereign country on the strength of three shell casings? Neither would his eminence, Franz Josef, agree to a curtailment of public appearances. Not at Easter time, to be sure.

  ‘But it is not the sovereign state of Serbia,’ Werthen protested. ‘It is most likely a cabal of officers around this Apis fellow.’

  ‘Do you hear yourself, Advokat?’ Montenuovo said. ‘“Most likely.” That is not good enough. Find me a perpetrator able to link this assassination attempt to Belgrade and we will do more than send an ultimatum, I can guarantee you. But for now there is nothing to be done but ensure the emperor’s safety.’

  ‘And how are we to do that,’ Werthen complained, ‘if the emperor insists on taking part in all manner of public appearances?’

  ‘That, my friend, is what you have been hired to ascertain and to insure.’

  ‘I appreciated your help back there,’ Werthen said with heavy irony once they were back on the open square beneath Montenuovo’s Hofburg office. The snow had intensified; there was already a good six inches coating the cobbles.

  ‘I am sure you will not appreciate this, Werthen, but in fact—’

  ‘I told you so,’ Werthen finished for him. ‘For God’s sake, let us find a gasthaus and round of slivowitz before we suffer frostbite.’

  TWENTY

  Werthen had transcribed his notes for Drechsler, keeping the original in his leather pocket notebook. Berthe was grateful for this; she had a starting point. Now going over those early notes the next morning, she was able to check off the unfortunate Herr Falk as a suspect.

  Berthe was not so sure about her husband’s theory of his death. It seemed a stretch that the murderer would somehow find out that there was a witness to his homicidal activity. And why strike nine days following the murder of Herr Karl? Surely the killer would assume that by that time Falk would have told the police everything he knew, if he were ever going to do so.

  Berthe took a different tack: what if the murder of Herr Falk were not a matter of defense at all, but of offense? In this version of events, the deaths of Herr Karl and Herr Falk were related in motive and not a matter of the killer covering his or her tracks. But what could that motive be?

  Examining her husband’s list of suspects, she could easily check off those who might have killed because of Herr Karl’s pay-off scheme and monetary kickbacks from vendors and staff. Herr Falk had himself been victim of this scheme. Likewise, the relatives of the previous head waiter at the Café Burg, Herr Siegfried, the traces of whom Herr Karl had thoroughly expunged when he’d become head waiter. Herr Falk had nothing to do with that, either.

  Other ambitious waiters or jealous head waiters could also be put to the bottom of the list. From what Berthe’s husband told her, Herr Falk was only temporarily serving as head waiter following Herr Karl’s death. The management of the Café Burg was going to bring in another waiter from outside the staff. And the literary critic, Moritz Fender, could surely have no quarrel with Herr Falk, for it had been Herr Karl who had made his café the home of one of Vienna’s many literary circles.

  Also, if she were looking for common motive, then clearly Herr Karl’s Bosnian Serbian roots that Kraus had pointed to had nothing to do with these murders.

  Which left her with only one avenue of investigation: Herr Karl’s bosom friend, Oberstabelmeister Johann Czerny. Hardly a suspect, but her husband had been keen to talk with the man right up to the point where he was commissioned by Prince Montenuovo. Perhaps Czerny would have some information about his old friend that could help to explicate his and Falk’s deaths.

  But what to make of the mysterious stranger Falk saw talking with Herr Karl? Again, Berthe’s husband seemed to find this incident of interest, mentioning twice in his notes that he should follow up on this possible lead. Yet such a possibility went against her new theory of shared motive for the deaths of Falk and Herr Karl. If the mysterious stranger – with an awkward way of holding his cup – were the murderer, that would take matters back to the original theory: Herr Falk’s death was to keep him from talking.

  She put a question mark next to this section of the notes.

  And what to make of the name scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper and used as a bookmark?

  ‘Hermann Postling.’

  This could mean anything, but once again Berthe trusted her husband’s instincts for keeping this scrap of paper found at Herr Karl’s rooms. She wondered if he had included the name in his transcription of notes he’d handed over to Drechsler and somehow doubted it. The police would surely want the original for handwriting analysis.

  With such a dearth of investigative leads, Berthe decided to keep her options open with Herr Hermann Postling. Perhaps there would be a Meldezettl listing for him, a way to track the man. Could Postling and the mysterious stranger at the café be one and the same? It was worth a bit of time in the city archives, she decided.

  Her thoughts were interrupted as the double doors to the sitting room of their Josefstädterstrasse flat were thrown open and her daughter Frieda – dressed in a fur hat, long woolen coat and fur hand muff – came bursting in, her cheeks red and glowing with the cold from outside.

  ‘Mutti, Mutti,’ the excited toddler screamed as she raced to the leather couch where Berthe was ensconced with papers and pencil as she took notes. ‘The snow was so white!’ She jumped onto the couch, sending papers flying.

  ‘Sorry,’ came a voice from the doorway. ‘She got away from us.’

  It was her father, Herr Meisner, accompanied by his new friend, Frau Juliani, a small, energetic and outspoken woman for whom Berthe was developing a real liking.

  Berthe held her daughter to her tightly, paying no attention to the disarray of papers. There would be too few opportunities for hugging in the near future, she feared. Children grow up so rapidly; she would take any opportunity for a nice, long hug. She felt even closer to her child – if that were possible – because of the events of last autumn, when they had almost lost her to scarlet fever.

  ‘Snow generally is white,’ she whispered in Frieda’s ear.

  The child drew back from her, shaking her head and looking quite serious. ‘No. Not on the street. People step on it. Black like my bobo.’ She lifted her coat and pointed to her stockinged shin. Underneath the layers of clothes was a black-and-blue bruise where she’d bumped her shin playing.

  This made Berthe laugh with joy. ‘A poet in the making. The bruised snow. Perhaps your daddy will use it in one of his stories.’ And she hugged Frieda again.

  Finally she looked over her daughter’s shoulders. She had completely forgotten her father and Frau Juliani, who were still standing in the doorway like guilty children.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Berthe said. ‘But you don’t have to wait to be asked to come in, do you?’

  Her father, who had his home in Linz, had lately taken a small apartment in Vienna to be near his friend. He was spending more time in Vienna now than in Linz, and they enjoyed spending time with Frieda, taking her on outings like the one this morning.

  Her father shrugged, and she sensed there was something wrong. The two of them took off their heavy coats as Berthe helped Frieda out of hers. A bit of snow fell out of the fur muff and Frieda quickly gathered it up only to have it melt in her little hands.

  Herr Meisner and Frau Juliani came into the room, sitting in the leather armchairs across from Berthe. Again, she felt the strain. A widower for many years, Herr Meisner was not a cloying, overly protective father. He had wide interests. I
n addition to his successful Linz shoe factory and to his reputation as one of the most noted Talmudic scholars in Austria, he was also an amateur musician of no little talent and a historian of prodigious knowledge. But suddenly something seemed not right with him.

  ‘Sweetie,’ she said to Frieda. ‘Why don’t you go find Baba? She’s in the kitchen.’

  Frieda’s eyes grew wide with anticipation. ‘Baba! Yes.’

  She was off Berthe’s lap and out of the room with no further adieu, in search of her beloved Baba – their cook, Frau Blatschky, with whom Frieda had developed a very special relationship.

  Alone now, Berthe eyed her father. ‘Is everything all right? You both look as though you’ve just broken a cookie jar.’

  This made them smile, but did not ease the tension.

  ‘Well,’ Herr Meisner finally said, ‘it’s just that we have something to tell you.’

  By the look on his face, she expected the worst.

  ‘What is it?’ she said with real concern. ‘Are you ill? We’ll see the best specialists.’

  Herr Meisner waved his hands in front of him. ‘No, nothing like that.’ He looked sideways at Frau Juliani. She reddened as he said, ‘In fact, I’ve never felt better physically in my life.’

  Frau Juliani looked down at her cupped hands in her lap.

  ‘Well, what is it, then?’ Berthe said. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘We would like to get married,’ Frau Juliani said, as it was obvious Herr Meisner was for once tongue-tied. ‘And we would like your blessing.’

  Berthe could not help herself; she began laughing, partly out of relief and partly at the absurdity of the situation of her father feeling he had to ask her permission to marry.

  Seeing their shocked reaction, she put her hand to her mouth to still her laughter. Berthe jumped to her feet and went to them, kneeling in front of where they sat and attempting clumsily to embrace them both. They finally leaned in so that she could grab the outer shoulder of each.

  ‘It’s wonderful news,’ she said. ‘I am laughing only because I thought there was something wrong, not something right.’

  Frau Juliani was the first to draw back, punching Herr Meisner’s arm playfully. ‘See, I told you that you’d raised a sensible daughter.’

  ‘I just thought …’ he began.

  ‘You’ve been alone for almost two decades, Papa. You deserve some happiness.’ And then to Frau Juliani: ‘So long as I don’t have to call you “Mama,”’ Berthe said.

  ‘Fredrika will suffice,’ Frau Juliani said. ‘Yes, I know, quite a mouthful. Close friends call me Freddi – I hope you do so, too.’

  PART FOUR

  TWENTY-ONE

  Klavan walked along the street feeling invulnerable.

  At any instant he could turn the sidewalk full of noontime strollers into an abattoir. All it would take would be a little squeeze on the hollow India rubber ball he carried in his left trouser pocket. He had taken this trick from the British anarchists who vowed never to be taken alive by the police. The little ball was attached to a thin, surgical rubber hose that led up the inside of his vest and fed into a vial in the inside pocket of his suit coat. Squeezing the ball would create a puff of air, activating a shutter-like contraption which in turn would immediately spark the explosive material he carried in the coat pocket. Enough concentrated explosive material to flatten everything in a ten-yard radius.

  It had been intended as his assassin’s weapon for the unfortunate Dimitrov, though he did wonder if that man could have gone through with the deed when it had come down to it.

  Now it served as his insurance that he would not live out his days in a moldy prison cell or dangle at the end of a rope.

  He had a new idea now, for he could hardly expect old Hermann Postling to blow himself to kingdom come on his, Klavan’s, say-so; neither could he see any way to deceive the old man into carrying and setting off such a bomb. So, Plan B.

  He’d made his way by foot today from Lisette’s spacious Ringstrasse apartment past the Hofburg, Parliament and Rathaus to the intersection with Währingerstrasse. This he followed north past the Votiv Kirche and he was now approaching his destination, the Military Academy for Medicine and Surgery, otherwise known as the Josefinium.

  Klavan knew its history; knew that this was named after Emperor Joseph II, the reforming kaiser, built in 1785. For the last several decades it had served as medical library and museum of human anatomy. But Klavan had no interest in history other than in the secrets it might reveal for his personal use. That is why the Josefinium interested him in one major respect. During his last fateful mission in Vienna, Klavan had gathered a wayward bit of information from one informant. It seemed one section of the old academy was still being used for medical research, but of a type that needed to be kept secret from the Viennese. Office 3G it was innocently called, but within its small confines there was the potential to destroy Vienna.

  Klavan had no real desire to destroy this city, though he did find it an intriguing possibility. To rid the earth of so many humdrum lives would be no crime.

  He had a more limited goal. He wanted to destroy one small faction of the city; he would strike off the head of the snake. He tensed his hand in excitement at this thought, stopping just as it began to apply pressure on the rubber ball in his pocket. Klavan let out a barking laugh at his near accidental suicide. A young woman bundled in furs and wool scurried past at that moment and cast him a suspicious glance. He winked at her seductively and this sent her bustling along at increased speed.

  He stopped outside the massive wrought-iron gates, looking at the rather pleasant classical facade – two wings jutting out from a central hall. The steep roofs were coated in snow; the bare trees of the first courtyard were still powdered white; the Habsburg eagle surmounted the third-story balustrade. Office 3G was in the rear of the third story of the left-hand wing.

  He put his hand to the gate and pushed it open.

  He had his story arranged, rehearsing it once more as he walked toward the main entrance past the statue of Hygieia, the goddess of health. At least he assumed that was who it was, with a snake wrapped around her arm and feeding from a bowl she held.

  Symbols. Klavan hated symbols. Hygieia was the daughter of Aesculapius, god of medicine, whose own symbol was a snake curled around a rod. Snakes shed their skin, so the ancients took them as symbols of regeneration. Aesculapius’s daughter kept the healing snake and added a bowl, the symbol of pharmacy. Another example of the useless information pumped into his brain during his all too brief stay at the music academy in St Petersburg.

  That’s why I hate symbols, Klavan told himself as he passed by the scantily clad statue. Too cerebral. Klavan much preferred action.

  There would be plenty of that soon.

  A sign at the main doors let visitors know that the Josefinium Collection of Anatomy and Pathology was open only on Saturday mornings and to men only. The 1200 wax figures, produced in Florence and painstakingly shipped from there, would not be allowed to corrupt the tender sensibilities of Viennese ladies.

  It was the left wing that was Klavan’s destination. Here was one of the finest medical libraries in Europe, taking up two floors of that wing.

  He let himself in the main door and headed to the left. Today he was Professor Doktor Wilhelm Schieff of Hamburg come to do research otolaryngology, a Viennese specialty. The young man seated at the registration desk leading to the library took the identity papers Klavan offered him and which, together with several other false identities, he had stored in a rental locker at the central station in Brussels. Like the suicide bomb he wore, such papers were Klavan’s insurance in an insecure world. In an emergency he could find other identities as well.

  The young bureaucrat looked carefully at the papers. Klavan was unconcerned: they had been produced by the Office of Documents at his former employers, the Russian Military Intelligence. But the young man was hardly looking for forgeries; who would go to such lengths to be allowed in the
medical library?

  No. Klavan figured this was merely his way of appearing important, of making his shit work appear vital to the country.

  Klavan made out the pulsing artery in his throat he would cut were this a true ‘situation’.

  That was what his trainer, Kolinsky, called a life-and-death confrontation. ‘You have a situation, you need to know already where to strike your adversary. Determining that once the situation begins can mean defeat.’

  Which meant death, of course, only Kolinsky liked to deal in polite evasions and euphemisms.

  ‘Any person you see or meet, first thing is the examination for weak spots where you can strike. You don’t care what he does for a living,’ Kolinsky preached, ‘you don’t care if he is married or parts his hair on the right. You want to know his dominant hand, you want to judge his reach, look at his face for scars of other battles, see how he plants his feet. If you want to stay alive, you know these things before you ever shake his hand.’

  The registrar handed back his identity papers and without speaking gestured Klavan to the door of the reading room. Klavan left his heavy coat at the cloakroom and then, entering the library, he found a large space, well lit with floor-to-ceiling windows. Several large tables were in the center of the parquet floor with chairs. He found free space at a more private table at the edge of the room by a window. He put down the brown pig leather briefcase on the tabletop to reserve his place and went to the card catalogue. He had bought the case today on the walk along the Ring especially for this visit. He had also purchased a number of pocket handkerchiefs and stored them in the back along with a notebook and pen. He opened the case and took out the pad and pen along with one of the handkerchiefs, which he’d shoved into his front pants pocket. He would need that later for padding.

  Klavan checked the card catalogue industriously for several minutes, filled out five request cards and handed them to a white-coated attendant who would fetch the books from the shelves. He watched as the attendant went out of the room and headed for the stairs at the rear of this wing.