The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  The name sounded familiar. Where had she heard that before? Perhaps she had not heard it but read it. Berthe had brought along Karl’s leather notebook with his notes regarding the Herr Karl investigation. She pulled it out of her handbag, shuffled through the pages, and then, turning one leaf, she discovered the little slip of paper her husband had retrieved at the dead man’s flat. She handed the paper to Czerny.

  ‘Yes, that’s the name,’ he said. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘In Herr Karl’s belongings.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Czerny held the paper up to the light. ‘Odd that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why carry around a slip of paper with the old man’s name on it? It’s as if he had to remind himself of the name. I thought he knew the old fellow.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘Bravo, Berthe,’ Werthen said when she shared her information with them. They had gathered at Werthen’s office in the afternoon as arranged to discuss their next move. ‘This Postling fellow could be very important.’

  ‘He is scheduled to come into direct contact with the emperor tomorrow,’ Gross said. ‘I suggest a visit to the gentleman.’

  ‘But what could he do to the emperor?’ Berthe said. ‘Is he infected with the plague? Is that the plan?’

  ‘That, my dear, is why I believe you should remain home,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Not this time. I missed all the fun last night with Princess Dumbroski. I’m not staying home again.’

  ‘A beard of biblical proportions, you say,’ Gross said suddenly.

  ‘Yes. That is how Herr Czerny described it to me.’

  ‘And Werthen, you remember the false beard we found in Dimitrov’s things at the Pension Geldner?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Gross. You’ve struck on it. Dimitrov was going to take the old man’s place at the ceremony. He was dying anyway. He would give his life to kill the emperor. Shoot him, stab him …’

  ‘Blow him up,’ Gross offered.

  ‘And with Dimitrov dead, Klavan needed to figure out a new plan,’ Berthe said. ‘Hence the theft of the plague bacilli.’

  ‘There is no time to lose,’ Gross said.

  On their way out they saw Franzl proudly displaying a charcoal portrait he had just completed to the secretary, Erika Metzinger.

  She held it up for the others to see. ‘Not bad, is it?’

  Franzl’s face reddened as she said this.

  Indeed, it was not bad at all.

  ‘Reminds me of a charcoal I saw by Michelangelo once in Florence,’ Berthe said.

  ‘You’re only saying that.’ But Franzl threw his shoulders back at the compliment.

  ‘Saying it and meaning it,’ she said as she ruffled his hair.

  ‘Where are you three off to?’ Erika asked as they hurried out of the office.

  ‘To see a beggar,’ Berthe said gaily.

  It took almost an hour to travel to the men’s hostel from the Inner City. There was work on one of the streetcar lines that halted them several times. They could have walked there faster. At the entrance Gross stopped and gave both Werthen and Berthe a fierce look.

  ‘I am going to go in there on my own,’ he said, ‘and I want no arguments from either of you. This is not a lark, this could be deadly if the old man is somehow contaminated.’

  ‘Now, Gross—’ Werthen began, but the criminologist was adamant.

  ‘You did not hear Professor Doktor Nothnagel this morning describing how deadly this form of plague is. If you had, you would know better than to argue with me. You have a young child. Now do as I say and wait here!’

  A workingman passing by shot them a worried look, hearing the tone of voice, and hurried on his way.

  ‘This is a one-person job anyway.’

  He turned from them abruptly and made for the door of the hostel.

  ‘Be careful, Gross,’ Berthe called after him.

  Gross went to the registration desk in the foyer where an attendant sat on a high stool, busy with the illustrated sports newspaper. The page was full of pugilists in tights.

  ‘I would like to see Herr Hermann Postling, if you don’t mind,’ Gross said.

  The man – about forty and not going anywhere fast in his career – looked up from his newspaper. ‘My condolences.’

  Gross scowled at him but the man had obviously deflected worse in his life.

  ‘If he’s in, he’ll be at his usual table upstairs. Third on the right from the window. He’s the one that’ll be by himself. Sign in here.’ He tapped a spatulate finger on a ledger book and returned to his paper.

  Gross inscribed his name and then took the stairs to the second floor. He easily found the table in question, but it was unoccupied. He glanced around the room, looking for another elderly man with a long gray beard. He was again without luck.

  Gross stumped back down the stairs to the front desk.

  ‘He was not there,’ Gross said.

  Up came the eyes again from the paper. The attendant had moved on to the cycling news.

  ‘Lucky us. Hermann is a busy fellow. Got his begging to do. Lord knows all he gets up to. He’s usually here for the food, though. Doesn’t like to miss his meals, our Hermann.’

  ‘And when is meal time?’

  ‘Hungry, are you?’

  ‘Look now, I have about lost my patience with you. Keep a civil tongue in that mouth of yours or I’ll let your superiors know.’

  ‘Six o’clock,’ the man said without emotion. ‘You’ve got over an hour to wait.’

  Gross sighed mightily, turned on his heels and went back outside where Berthe and Werthen were carrying on an animated conversation with a beggar who seemed somehow familiar. Gross was about to send the old fellow on his way when he had a sudden inspiration.

  ‘Herr Postling?’ he said, coming up to the trio.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ The old man now turned on him suspiciously.

  ‘This is the colleague we mentioned,’ Werthen quickly informed the man.

  ‘Pah,’ Postling muttered. ‘Looks like another resident of the hostel to me.’

  Gross felt his temper rising. ‘Now, see here …’

  But Berthe now quickly cut in. ‘Herr Postling was just telling us about Herr Wenno.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Gross said.

  ‘You’re not here to tell me it was all a hoax, are you? I’ve got my heart set on the twenty pieces of silver.’

  ‘No, no,’ Werthen assured him. ‘Nothing of the kind.’

  ‘You’re to be the star of the show,’ Berthe added.

  This brought a smile to the old man’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a suspicious scowl.

  ‘Then what’s this all about?’

  ‘We were just curious if Herr Wenno has visited you lately. Say, since Monday.’ Berthe smiled reassuringly at him.

  ‘And what if he has?’

  ‘Well,’ Werthen began.

  ‘You’re not taking it back. Not on your life.’

  ‘Slowly, Herr Postling,’ Berthe said in the calmest of voices. ‘What is it we can’t take back?’

  He warmed to her. ‘The good smelling stuff. A bottle of cologne. One of those nice little bottles with the little rubber ball for spraying. He meant for me to make a present of it to the emperor tomorrow. After he washes my feet. Well, I figure an emperor can afford his own cologne. So—’

  ‘Where is the bottle now?’ Berthe asked. ‘We may need to give you a replacement. That one might not be good anymore. Did you use any of it?’

  ‘Not a drop.’ Then Postling’s face crumpled. ‘That’s not right. Not fair.’

  ‘We’ll get you another bottle,’ Werthen reassured him. ‘Don’t worry. A bigger one even. Now maybe you could show us that bottle.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Berthe asked.

  ‘Because I don’t have it anymore. I already made a present of it. To that nice little boy who drew my picture.’

  Werthen, Gross, and Berthe m
ade the connection at almost the same instant, suddenly understanding why the old man looked familiar to them. He was the man from Franzl’s sketch.

  ‘A young boy named Franzl?’ Werthen said.

  ‘Well, that’s the very one. I sit for the folks to draw at this studio out in the Prater. Sweet young boy. Reminds me of my own before he ran off for Canada and got himself drowned. Gave it to him this afternoon.’

  Werthen’s mind raced. Then Franzl must have already had the cologne with him when he was showing off his sketch at the office. Had he sprayed it? Werthen could not remember any scent in the office.

  ‘We’ve got to get to the boy, Herr Postling,’ Berthe told him.

  ‘Tell him I didn’t know it had gone bad,’ the old man said mournfully as they rushed off to a fiaker rank on the corner.

  Gross told the driver they would double the fare if he could get them to Habsburgergasse 4 in half the time. The man’s eyes bulged and he had the whip to the horse even as they were settling into their seats.

  Later, Werthen could remember nothing of the ride. He was going over every possible scenario. It was obvious that Klavan had put the plague bacilli in the cologne bottle, hoping the emperor would use it, charmed by the gift from the old man. But what if Franzl decided to try it, sprayed it on in the office with Erika next to him? My God, they would both die horrible deaths. If Franzl sprayed it in an open area it could spread to all those around him. His heart was pounding in rhythm to the horse’s hooves.

  Finally the carriage came to a stop at the office and as Gross paid the driver, Werthen and Berthe leaped to the sidewalk and raced up the flights of stairs to the law offices, bounding in out of breath. Erika was at the typing machine, alone in the outer office.

  ‘Franzl,’ Werthen said, between breaths. ‘Where is Franzl?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Where is he?’ Berthe asked. ‘He may be in danger.’

  Before she could answer, Werthen said, ‘Did he have a bottle of cologne? A spray bottle?’

  ‘Why, yes. He showed it to me, proud as anything. Said it was like payment for his art.’

  ‘Did you smell it? Did he spray it in here?’

  ‘Advokat. What is it? This is frightening me.’

  ‘Did he spray it?’ Werthen asked again.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Said it was going to be a special gift. He left early to give it to her. I said it would be all right just this once to leave early.’

  ‘Her?’ Berthe said. ‘Who?’

  ‘The friend he made when he was at Frau Schratt’s.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Berthe said. ‘We’ve got to get there.’

  Werthen went immediately to his phone, looked into his address book, found Schratt’s number and had the operator place the call.

  The phone rang five times before finally it was answered.

  ‘Schratt residence.’ It was Netty’s voice, steely and efficient.

  ‘Hello, this is Advokat Werthen. My colleague Doktor Gross and I conferred with your mistress about a missing letter.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was the hint of animosity in her voice. After all, they had incriminated her beloved mistress in their investigations.

  ‘There was a young boy in service with you at the time.’

  ‘Young Franzl. Yes.’ Her voice softened.

  ‘Have you seen him today?’

  ‘He’s at the kitchen table as we speak. Enjoying a cup of hot cocoa. Such a thoughtful gift for Anna.’

  ‘Has she opened it? I mean, sprayed it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Werthen did not know how to get through to her. Finally he opted for fear.

  ‘It’s poisoned. Understand. Do not spray the cologne.’

  ‘Gott in Himmel.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Werthen said. ‘Has she sprayed it?’

  ‘No!’ came a scream down the line, as if Netty were yelling at those in the kitchen. ‘Don’t touch it! It’s poison.’

  And then the line went dead.

  TWENTY-NINE

  He stretched out in the comfortable chair in his hotel room. It had been a busy day, but it was all coming to fruition now, he thought, looking at himself in the full-length mirror of the wardrobe. He was amazed at the transformation a suit of clothes and a pair of glasses could make. The spectacles, purchased at an optical shop this afternoon, had glass for lenses as they had been the model for the window display. The optician had been only too happy to sell them, however, when he got a look at Klavan’s money.

  He smiled at the reflection, almost unrecognizable even to himself. With his hair combed back off his forehead as it now was and the new and very special clothes, his own mother might not recognize him.

  All was in readiness. And he would be there himself to witness his great coup.

  Berthe held him to her bosom, squeezing so hard Franzl had to finally plead for air.

  ‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ he said again, and looking abashed at Fräulein Anna. ‘I thought it would make a nice present for you, like saying thank you for being so good to me.’

  Her face reddened as he said this. ‘It’s all right, little poppet. You couldn’t know.’ Then to Werthen, who was standing next to his wife and Franzl: ‘Why would anybody put poison in perfume?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Fräulein Anna,’ he answered. ‘Some people are just bad.’

  If only it were that simple, he thought.

  ‘We really should be going,’ Gross prompted. ‘Business to attend to.’

  Werthen nodded at him. Now that they had ascertained that Franzl was safe and that the cologne had not been used, they did have other matters to see to this evening.

  Frau Schratt did not deign to make an appearance, even as they prepared to leave. They let Franzl and Fräulein Anna take leave of each other, each promising the see the other soon.

  ‘And I mean soon, poppet,’ Fräulein Anna urged. ‘But no presents next time, all right?’

  Berthe offered to take Franzl home in a separate carriage while Werthen and Gross went to an emergency meeting with Prince Montenuovo at the Hofburg. The prince was in a vile mood, obviously brought on by having to miss his dinner. It was as if he blamed them for the deadly bottle of cologne, which Werthen had passed on to laboratory workers from the General Hospital, who were specially dispatched.

  ‘Lord knows what the boy was thinking of. He could have killed Frau Schratt and her entire household.’

  ‘No,’ Werthen interrupted, anger gripping. ‘Klavan could have killed them all. It was he that turned the cologne into a deadly weapon.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ the prince allowed. ‘But it was damned cheeky passing on the cologne like that.’

  Gross intervened before Werthen had a chance to well and truly outrage Montenuovo.

  ‘It was a close one,’ he said, ‘but I feel this also presents us with a golden opportunity.’

  ‘How do you come to such a bizarre conclusion, Doktor Gross? You may have tripped the man up, but you have not knocked him down for good.’

  Now it was Gross’s turn to take umbrage at the prince’s testiness.

  ‘There is no reason to let Klavan think he has been tripped up. He may show his hand if he thinks he’s succeeded in his damnable scheme.’

  ‘But he hasn’t succeeded. We’ve stopped the old man.’

  Gross exchanged a glance with Werthen at his use of ‘we’.

  ‘But I am proposing that we leave Herr Postling in place. Police are guarding the men’s hostel. There is no way for Klavan to discover that the cologne has been taken. So, I say we go ahead with the ceremony as planned. I am sure we can secure another bottle of the actual cologne for Postling to give to the emperor.’

  ‘But what if the old man was in on it?’

  ‘I assure you, Prince Montenuovo,’ Gross said, ‘Herr Postling’s only incentive in this manner is the twenty silver coins to be awarded by the emperor. He was taken in by Klavan. I think we can use him now. It might make Klavan lower his gua
rd.’

  Montenuovo shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. Why, the man might already be infected with the plague. My God, we should have him isolated.’

  ‘The cologne was still sealed when we took it into possession,’ Werthen said.

  ‘Still …’

  ‘Prince Montenuovo, I firmly believe this would work,’ Gross said.

  But Montenuovo was adamant. ‘Now to find a replacement for the old man.’

  He gave Gross an appraising look, then shook his head. ‘I need to contact Czerny immediately. I am sure you will excuse me, gentlemen. I have work to do now.’

  ‘The pompous ass,’ Gross railed later as they were seated around the table and enjoying Frau Blatschky’s liver-dumpling soup. ‘Passing up a golden opportunity. Klavan would surely want to check with Postling later to make sure the gift had been passed on. Idiot.’

  His ire did not affect Gross’s appetite, however. Once the soup was taken away, he indulged in a healthy helping of Esterhazyrostbraten – roast beef with root vegetables in a cream sauce of bacon, capers, tarragon, white wine, sour cream, and lemon peel.

  There were just the three of them, as Berthe had put Frieda to bed before dinner.

  ‘How will he even know if Postling isn’t among the twelve tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re right,’ Werthen said, setting down his fork. ‘We should keep a guard on the hostel in case Klavan shows up. Plain clothes.’

  Gross considered this. ‘I feel that our Herr Klavan will somehow know if Postling is among the old men tomorrow. But yes, I concur. It would do no harm. Duncan, I should think. Perhaps he could arrange a small group from the Belvedere to establish a casual surveillance following the ceremony. The police are hopeless undercover, regardless of what clothing they don. They might as well wear a sign around their necks declaring their profession.’

  Werthen eyed the criminologist. ‘You say you think that Klavan will somehow know if Postling is there, which means you suspect he may be at the Hofburg tomorrow.’

  Gross took time to finish masticating the mound of beef he had wedged into his mouth before bothering to nod. Then a final bite and swallow. ‘Yes. Astute of you, Werthen.’