The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  Klavan took up his place again at the table by the window, opening his empty notebook as if looking at notes. Five minutes later the attendant returned with four heavy tomes on the principles of otolaryngology and individual aspects of throat diseases.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but Treatise on Nasal Fungal Aspects is currently at the bindery being repaired.’

  Klavan made a great show of being annoyed by this information before waving the attendant away. He spread out the books on the table in front of him and began a careful inspection – not of their contents, but of the plan now hatching in his mind.

  He knew now that the books were stored on the second floor and that white-coated attendants seemed to have easy access to that territory. He checked the clock on the wall next to the portrait of Joseph II. It was still twenty minutes until the sacred Viennese lunchtime. The library would close for ninety minutes, according to the listing on the front door. And that would give him his chance.

  At ten minutes to noon, he packed his briefcase, placing it on one of the chairs, and left the books on the desk.

  ‘I assume I can leave the books for later,’ he said to another attendant, and the man nodded.

  ‘They’ll be here when you return from lunch sir. Mahlzeit,’ he added in that annoying salutation the Viennese employed at times of eating, a much-diminished form of bon appétit.

  Klavan gritted his teeth as he returned the greeting. ‘And where might I find the washrooms?’

  The attendant went out into the main rotunda and directed him to a set of doors just beyond those leading up to the stored books.

  ‘But best to hurry, sir. Wouldn’t want to get locked in and miss your lunch.’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Klavan agreed, but that was exactly what he did want.

  There was no one in the washroom. He took up position in an empty stall in case one of the attendants was the overly conscientious sort. As the minutes ticked away, he discovered this had been a wise move, as someone called into the washroom at noon to announce the mealtime closing. He heard the door close slowly behind this herald, but was in no hurry to come down from his perch, sitting in a squat on the toilet seat so that his feet would not show under the stall door. He gave it another five minutes before getting down from the toilet and proceeding cautiously to the door of the washroom. He put his ear to the white enameled door but could near nothing from the outside. To be safe, he gave it another five minutes, then slowly opened the washroom door, peering out toward the entrance. The hallway was empty; no sign of assistants or the registrar by the library. He quickly made his way to the door across the hall leading up to the second floor, through which he had earlier seen one of the assistants disappear. He was in luck, for this door opened to a sort of landing before the stairs; on hooks next to the door hung several of the white coats the assistants wore. Perhaps this was where they divested themselves of their uniform before heading off to lunch.

  He would borrow one and return it long before any of the assistants returned from their sausage and kraut. Klavan did not have a high impression of Viennese cuisine.

  He quickly found one of the white coats that fit and slipped it on. He hoped this would provide him with double cover: for the book depository on the second floor and for Office 3G on the floor above.

  He was working on old information there, but knowing the glacial speed at which life in Vienna changed, he felt fairly sure Office 3G was still in operation.

  He mounted the stairs, careful to do so as quietly as possible. He had no idea who might be about during the noontime closing. Surely there was a guard somewhere. Or were they all off to the gasthaus? How Viennese of them, he thought with venom. The land of schlamperei. Thoughts such as this only made him more disgusted with himself that his previous mission to Vienna should have been compromised. Yet it was not the Viennese that had tripped him up, but rather that meddlesome Advokat Werthen and his cohort, Doktor Gross, both originally from Graz if he were not mistaken.

  He shoved such thoughts from his mind, concentrating now on each step he took upward. Finally he reached a door and discovered that on the other side of this was a hallway almost identical to the one on the floor below.

  Where to now? One would think the stairs would continue into the floor above, but instead they ended at the second floor. Was there a separate outside entrance for the third floor? It would make sense, knowing the nature of the work that went on in Office 3G. But if so, such an entrance was most probably a recent addition, built since Office 3G had been moved in secrecy here from the General Hospital in early 1899. Surely the original plans built during the reign of Joseph II had included contiguous interior stairs to the third floor, and just as surely the existence of such stairs had been disguised.

  He went back into the stairwell and examined the end of the steps at the second floor. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? These steps led up to a wall; the door was to the right. Covering the wall was a large canvas sign demarking the second floor and book depository. ‘Entrance restricted to library personnel only.’

  He tapped lightly on the canvas-covered wall and heard a hollow sound. Then he ran his hands over the surface, feeling for any irregularities. As he suspected, at about waist high his right hand struck on such an irregularity. He ran a finger along the right corner of this wall and discovered the sign could be lifted out from the wall. Behind was a small door with a latch countersunk into the wood so as to be unnoticeable.

  Whoever had renovated had left this access even after deciding to block the interior stairs. Makes sense, he thought. An emergency exit. There could well be need for such a means of rapid egress from Office 3G.

  He turned the latch and the small door opened. He ducked his head as he entered, and then made sure that there was a corresponding operational latch on the inside before closing the door behind him. This led to a flight of stairs similar to that which took him to the second floor. He followed the stairs up and came to a full-sized door. He assumed that this one led to the third-floor hallway, but again took the time to listen for exterior noises before opening it. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened this door, peaked his head out and saw no one about.

  Apparently noontime was as sacred for the researchers of Office 3G as it was for the library personnel below.

  He proceeded down this long hallway, past one long room with a bank of interior windows giving onto the hallway like a nursery observation ward in a hospital. Instead of babies, however, there were dozens of cages holding an assortment of animals: white rats, rabbits, guinea pigs and some larger animal that Klavan was not sure of. A stoat?

  He proceeded past this to another room which also had interior observation windows. Here were row upon row of test tube racks, each containing a glass tube stoppered with a ball of cotton. He nodded. This was what he was looking for.

  He was just putting his hand to the door of this room when a voice sounded from behind him.

  ‘Library personnel are not allowed on this floor.’

  He wheeled around to confront a robust-looking young officer dressed in a blue military tunic with white buckskin pants tucked into high black books. He wore a sword at his side and looked like he might know how to use it.

  Klavan made his usual immediate survey of the adversary. Sword worn on the left hip; the soldier would have to draw it right handed across his body.

  ‘Sorry,’ Klavan said in his most pleasant voice. ‘I’m actually a visiting researcher. This was all they had to give me for the lab.’ He pulled at the lapels of the white lab coat.

  The officer looked at him more closely now. It was obviously better to be mistaken for an errant library assistant than caught in an obvious lie, which Klavan had the feeling he had been. He’d taken a chance with the visiting researcher story; it was not working with the officer, who was obviously familiar with every person in Office 3G.

  Quickly now, he thought, as he continued smiling benignly at the officer. He was too far away from the man; nothing else he could do. He made the de
cision.

  ‘Look,’ the officer began, then stared at Klavan’s hand as he brought out the hollow India rubber ball from his pants pocket, the length of tubing also showing.

  ‘I squeeze this and we are both pieces of meat and whatever is stored in those glass tubes goes up with us,’ Klavan said, still smiling. ‘But it won’t destroy that material. Merely spread it in the air for the entire city to breathe.’

  The officer put his right hand on his sword.

  Klavan shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not unless you are prepared to have your name go down in infamy.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Klavan nodded at this. ‘Better. I am a simple journalist—’

  ‘With a bomb?’

  ‘An anarchist journalist,’ he said, improvising and moving closer to the target. ‘I have heard rumors of this secret laboratory. After the tragic events of October, 1898, this was supposed to have come to a halt. However …’ Klavan swept his free right hand toward the observation windows.

  The man gripped his sword again. ‘How do I know you even have a bomb?’

  Klavan smiled on the inside now. This was what he was waiting for.

  ‘You see the tube here – it is threaded down my pants to an explosive charge taped to my calf. Here, I’ll show you.’ Keeping his eyes on the soldier, Klavan leaned over, reaching under his pant leg with his right hand to free his knife.

  The subsequent movement was so smooth and rapid that the soldier was staring down at the handle of a knife blade sticking out of his chest before he realized what was happening. He took a stumbling step toward Klavan, then toppled to the parquet floor.

  Klavan lost not a moment in deciding what to do. He took his knife out of the man’s chest, wiped it on the tunic and quickly replaced it in its sheath. Then, grabbing the large soldier under the arms, he dragged him to the door to the stairs, manhandling him down the flights of steps to the small hidden interior door on the second floor. Still wearing the white lab coat, he raced back up the stairs to the third floor and the room full of test tubes about half an inch in width and six inches long. Each was stoppered with a hunk of cotton to let air in the tube. The liquid in each was brownish. Klavan searched the tubes until he found one with what looked like a tiny, light-colored thread coiling the length of the fluid.

  He took this and carefully lodged it in a secure pocket in his vest meant for a thick writing pen or for a cigar, perhaps. The tube fit with room for more. On a sudden inspiration, he decided to find a second vial of the deadly fluid. It took him two more minutes, but he finally came upon another vial with what looked to be a string of developed bacilli in it. He placed this in the pen pocket next to the first. He then pulled the handkerchief out of his pants pocket and arranged it to cushion the two vials in his vest pocket.

  Now he stripped the white coat off, scouring down any blood marks on the floor. He hoped to buy as much time as possible before the discovery of the officer’s body.

  Racing back down the stairs, he pulled the body as far into the corner of the landing as he could, draping the white coat over it. Then he exited the hidden door, making sure the canvas sign was in place and concealing its existence, and made his way down to the first floor again.

  Now is where nerves come into play, he told himself. The obvious thing would be to try and get out of the building before anyone returned.

  That was also the stupid, frightened animal thing to do. He would most likely set off an alarm doing so.

  No, he would wait out the noontime closing once again in the first-floor washroom, he decided, and then when business was once again underway he would nonchalantly retrieve his checked coat and make his way out of the Josefinium, a respected doctor from Hamburg finished with his medical research.

  Retreating once again to his toilet seat perch, Klavan counted the minutes until one-thirty. He could hear the hum of voices from outside and then someone entered the toilets to relieve himself after a heavy lunch. The man stood at a urinal and peed for at least two minutes while Klavan marveled at the elasticity of the fellow’s bladder. Shortly after this man left, Klavan got down from the toilet perch and left the washroom as well. He returned to his books in the reading room, sat at the table for another ten minutes then told the assistant he was finished with them.

  ‘You still have two hours until closing,’ the assistant told him.

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately, however, I just recalled another appointment I have this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow.’

  The library assistant actually looked put out at having to do his job sooner than expected. Klavan left the reading room, handed over the receipt coupon to the old woman ministering the cloakroom, nodded at the registrar and calmly made his way to the entrance.

  Suddenly feet came running toward him. He twisted around in a defensive posture, his right hand curled in a fist, his teeth bared.

  The library assistant stopped abruptly, his eyes growing wide in fright.

  ‘You, you forgot this, sir,’ he said, his voice breaking.

  He held out the forgotten briefcase to Klavan, who quickly adjusted his body and unclenched his fist.

  ‘How good of you,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And I thought I was too young to become an absent-minded professor.’

  The assistant issued a small, nervous laugh at this comment, and Klavan was off into the cold afternoon, patting the vial of death in his vest pocket. It was that easy.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Hermann Postling enjoyed the walk, plus it saved him transport money. They were paying for his travel. He could use that money however he damn well pleased, he thought. Nothing illegal in that.

  He hoped they would have some food on hand. Usually they did: a bowl of fruit (not really his favorite food, but he’d eat a banana if it was free) or a plate of wurst and cheese (that was more like it – more like real food you could chew on). The frau was a funny one, though. You could never predict what there’d be with her. Some days there would be nothing for a snack. That’s why Hermann had taken his lunch at the hostel before setting out for the Prater.

  He couldn’t walk very fast. A man at seventy-six like he was should be happy to be walking at all. Hermann had seen a lot in his nearly eight decades on Earth. When he was a baby, Francis I was still emperor; now his great-nephew, Franz Josef was running things, as he had been since the bad old year of 1848. Hermann remembered that time, too. It was the students who’d started it all. That’s what comes from too much education, Hermann thought ruefully as he made his way across the Danube Canal and on toward the Prater. He’d already been working for ten years by that time, learning the cooperage trade, and here were all these pampered boys in their university hats out on the streets demanding a constitution and the right to vote. He’d wished he’d been in uniform then; he would have shown them their rights at the end of a sword.

  This blustery day of March 1902 was much the same as that day in March in 1848 when he’d heard the thud of boots on cobbles as the throngs of students made their way along the Graben toward St Stephen’s Cathedral.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, Grandpa,’ a middle-aged lady yelled at him as he bumped into her just over the bridge.

  He ignored her and shuffled along, a stiff wind off the canal buffeting him.

  Hermann Postling wasn’t the kind to demonstrate, to make demands, to blame others for his woes. And he’d had his share of woes. He’d built his own small cooperage firm by 1858 and married the daughter of his older partner. Had three children, though the boy thought he knew best and hightailed it out of Vienna when he was seventeen to immigrate to Canada, only to drown when his boat sank on the Atlantic crossing. One daughter had died in childbirth along with the baby; the other married an Italian and lived in Milan. She might as well be dead; he hadn’t seen or heard from her in years. His wife had died of a broken heart, as far as he could figure, losing all the children that way and then the business going too with the panic of 1873.

  Ever since the
n Hermann Postling had lived rough, finding work where he could, begging when he couldn’t find work and finally not being good for much work altogether.

  Still, he never complained.

  But things were going to change now. Come Thursday he’d have something to boast about. On Thursday he’d be coming into a fair piece of change. And that slick little fellow wasn’t going to cheat him out of it – he’d make sure of that. Herr Wenno, he called himself, but Hermann wasn’t fooled. What kind of name was that, anyway? Couldn’t be his real name. Thought he was being so clever, getting him chosen among the dozen men for the ceremony. Acting like he was just looking out for an old man. He was watching Herr Wenno. He wouldn’t trick Hermann Postling; he wasn’t going to take his twenty pieces of silver.

  Maybe, just maybe he’d give one of those coins to the young boy. A nice boy, nicer than his own son had ever been to him.

  Lost in these thoughts, Hermann approached the Rotunda in the Prater, entered the front door and was greeted by the frau.

  ‘We were worried you weren’t coming,’ the painter, Tina Blau, said to him. ‘You have some eager artists awaiting your arrival.’

  Taking his coat, she led him to the dais where he would sit for the next several hours, modeling for a gaggle of women. But his eyes focused on the boy – he couldn’t be much more than ten – who always sat close up and worked like a stevedore with his set of charcoals.

  He winked at the boy, and the boy nodded back in greeting, a smile on his lips.

  Franzl, the art teacher called him. He had that determined look about him that reminded Hermann of himself as a youngster.

  They had spent most of this Monday attempting to track down leads to the two would-be assassins who had made such salami of the attempt on the emperor’s life at the gates of Schönbrunn. If the Serbian lead was not enough for Montenuovo to send a broadside against Belgrade, perhaps it could at least aid in tracking the perpetrators. After all, they could very well still be in Vienna seeking another opportunity to strike.