The Third Place

by J Sydney Jones

  She smiled in his direction, and Czerny solemnly nodded his head at her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said evenly, ‘that all makes perfect sense. One assumes that the dogged Klavan was able not only to learn of the close friends the Oberstabelmeister might have, but also to dredge up any dirt he could on them. And as we know, Herr Karl could be compromised in this respect with his numerous kickback schemes—’

  ‘I really do not know where this is going, Frau Meisner,’ Prince Montenuovo complained. ‘It would suffice to include it in a written report. I am sure none of us can spare our valuable time—’

  ‘Give the woman a moment,’ Franz Ferdinand said in a voice that commanded respect.

  Drechsler shot Werthen a nervous glance, but the lawyer merely smiled in return.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Berthe continued, ‘Klavan likely blackmailed Herr Karl into talking his old friend into adding Herr Postling to the list for the foot-washing. Initially, Klavan planned to substitute Postling with a dying man sent from Serbia who would be in disguise and then detonate a small bomb just as the emperor was washing his feet, killing all those around him. Money was to be paid to the family of this man who was dying already of consumption. His death, however, came too soon, and Klavan had to change his plan to spreading the plague at the ceremony.’

  She paused, again casting her eyes around the room, from the face of the prince, wearing an exasperated expression, to Gross smiling like a basilisk.

  ‘We know how that all ended. It was part good luck and part bravado.’ She smiled at Werthen.

  ‘And we know what became of Klavan. But in all the storm and thunder, the death of Herr Karl has been neglected. We assumed it must have been Klavan who killed him, again covering his tracks or to stop him from an attack of conscience. But now we see that is not really possible. You see, Herr Karl was killed before he could even speak with his old friend. Before he could solicit the name of Hermann Postling.’

  ‘What?’ Prince Montenuovo said, irritation oozing from him.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Czerny spluttered. ‘He spoke with me on the phone about it the afternoon before he died.’

  ‘That is true, but he did not mention Postling’s name during that call.’ Berthe lifted a file and held it for all to see. ‘This is the testimony of one Ignatz Plauder, formerly the head clerk at the office of the Oberstabelmeister, as sent to the offices of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.’

  ‘If he had something to share, he should have sent it to me,’ Prince Montenuovo said.

  Berthe ignored this interruption. ‘Herr Plauder was blamed for giving the list of participants to Klavan, disguised as a priest, and for that misstep he was banished to Galicia. He is anxious to make amends.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is,’ Czerny said.

  ‘He reports that he sometimes listened in to telephone conversations his former boss might have. I do not see how such an admission furthers his cause for reinstatement, but there it is. He confirms that on the tenth of October, late in the afternoon, he listened in on a conversation between his boss and a friend who often called and who was always given special access to the Oberstabelmeister. It was in this conversation that an appointment was made for a meeting the next day. It was neither a friendly nor a cordial conversation, according to Herr Plauder. At one point he quotes his former boss, Herr Czerny, as saying, “Don’t push me too far, Karl. I have my limits.” Herr Plauder also informs us that the name of Hermann Postling was added to the ceremonial list on October 11, the day after Herr Karl’s murder.’

  ‘Lies!’ Czerny spluttered.

  Berthe shook her head at him. ‘Is it a lie that you are near bankruptcy? That is further information provided from Herr Plauder from overheard telephone conversations. And your creditors confirm it. One wonders what a bachelor who makes a very handsome salary could do with all that money. And then Inspector Drechsler, at my suggestion, made inquiries into the financial affairs of Herr Karl. This morning the Länderbank reported a safety deposit box in the name of Karl Andric.’

  Berthe smiled at the inspector. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what you found in that box, Inspector.’

  Drechsler looked a bit embarrassed at having this assemblage learn that a woman had to tell him how to do his job, but he obliged. ‘It contained fifty thousand crowns.’

  She looked directly at Czerny now. ‘Was he doing the same to you as he did to all the others? A little friendly blackmail? What did he have on you, Herr Czerny? What secret from your past was he using as his source for blackmail? But that is not important now. I am sure we shall find out in due course. What is important is that you had reached those limits you mentioned on the phone to Herr Karl.’

  ‘You besmirch the name of a true friend,’ Czerny replied. ‘You make unfounded accusations. Why would I tell you of Herr Karl’s request or give away the name of Hermann Postling if I had anything to hide?’

  ‘Because you had something to hide. The murder of Herr Karl.’

  The room became absolutely still at this accusation.

  Berthe glared at him now – an enemy she would break; a coward who surely knew the placement of Herr Postling could endanger the emperor but allowed it to happen in order to save his own skin.

  ‘How did you know it was the back of Herr Karl’s head that was caved in? It was never mentioned in the newspapers. There was no record of it. Why not the front or the side? Or is it because you were there? You struck the fatal blow and then lifted his head to crush it on the cement pillar, crushing it like a pumpkin.’

  ‘The woman is mad!’ Czerny shouted.

  ‘You were the one who mentioned the manner of death when we first spoke,’ Berthe said calmly.

  ‘This makes no sense,’ Czerny said. ‘If I supposedly killed my best friend before he could even make the request for Herr Postling to be included on the list, then how did his name get there?’

  ‘Why, via Herr Klavan, of course,’ she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘That is the only explanation. He followed Herr Karl that night to make sure the man was going to do what he demanded. Or perhaps he followed you. He was an obsessively thorough man about such things. Whatever the case, he was near the Maria Theresa statue when you ambushed Herr Karl. You’d had enough of Herr Karl’s extortion, of his controlling you and bleeding you of your wealth. A mere head waiter able to bring down the Oberstabelmeister if he so chose to do so. Thus, Herr Karl had to die. And Klavan witnessed it. He probably even saw Falk – another reason that man must die, too. Klavan followed you. You must have thrown the murder weapon away at some point, to be retrieved by Klavan. That is why my husband later found it in the room he had rented at Frau Geldner’s. And then Klavan caught up with you and demanded Postling be added to the list or you would hang for murder.’

  ‘Demented,’ Czerny said. ‘Supposition on supposition. “Must have” this, “must have” that.’

  ‘Not all supposition,’ Inspector Drechsler spoke up. ‘We examined an overcoat at your apartment this afternoon, Herr Czerny. And there was a good deal of what our laboratory people tell us is blood on one sleeve and on the front as well, as could be expected with such a brutal attack.’

  He moved quickly for a sedentary man, but a casually outstretched leg from Herr Bachman tripped Czerny to fall at the very feet of Drechsler, who was even then getting his handcuffs ready.

  ‘That was enjoyable,’ Bachman said. ‘Makes me wish I’d never been drummed out of the legal profession.’

  EPILOGUE

  She took up new residence on Prince Michael Street in Belgrade.

  It was a far cry from her city palace in Vienna, but she had learned to adapt in her life. The Austrian archduke had made it impossible for her to live elsewhere; every capital in Europe had been poisoned against her by that bug-eyed creature.

  How he had found out about her secret hiding place behind the books, she did not know. Certainly Klavan had not told him. But his men had stormed in early one day and examined the bookcases until discov
ering the secret door. His adjutant had given her the choice between jail and banishment.

  She, of course, had taken the latter.

  ‘There is no real space for a gymnasium,’ Elise said with a touch of scorn as she surveyed the bare rooms of the apartment.

  Princess Dumbroksi was beginning to regret bringing the maid with her, but she was privy to too many secrets to leave behind. Elise, it was turning out, was not quite so adaptable as she was herself. Prince Michael Street may be the finest in Belgrade, but it hardly compared with the Ringstrasse in opulence. And their accommodations did leave something to be desired.

  However, Princess Dumbroski – for that is how she thought of herself now, not as simple little Lisette Orzov of Trieste – knew she could better her situation. She had an appointment this afternoon that would start such a campaign of improvement and rehabilitation.

  Princess Dumbroski had not come to Belgrade by accident. True enough, it was one of the few half-civilized cities that might allow her residency. More importantly, it was where her rebirth would begin.

  After leaving Vienna with barely the clothes on her back and the strongbox of her life savings, she had gone to Paris, not believing the threats of the archduke’s officer. But gendarmes had sent her packing within two days of her arrival. The same happened in Berlin and Amsterdam. In Brussels she had gone straight to the watchmaker, to chubby Monsieur Philipot. She had no intentions of trying to stay in that city; it was already closed to her after her business dealings with a certain member of the royal family.

  Instead, she was seeking vengeance. And when Philipot reluctantly told her the identity of Klavan’s last employers, she knew how she would get that revenge.

  ‘Let’s not worry about a gymnasium at the moment, Elise,’ she said. ‘We have other plans to make.’

  Apis, she thought, might very well like to know the identity of the man who was responsible for foiling his assassination plot. She was tempted to lay it at the door of those truly responsible, Advokat Werthen and Doktor Gross, or perhaps even Werthen’s wife, whom she suspected of somehow knowing about the secret hiding place.

  But she wanted deeper revenge. She did not want to divert Apis’s rage. No, she would tell him later today who was truly responsible for the fiasco in Vienna: Archduke Franz Ferdinand.

  That would make him a marked man with the Black Hand.