J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Is there anything else I should know about Herr Karl before I go? Any other reason someone might want to kill him?’

‘You think somebody did him in because of his little money schemes? Half the Herr Obers in Vienna would be dead if that were the case.’

‘How about the rest of the staff? Were they as resigned to Herr Karl’s extortion as you were? Nobody harboring a grudge.’

‘We’re talking about a few crowns here and there. Hardly enough to kill for.’

‘Then something else. Anything odd transpire with Herr Karl lately?’

‘Well, I was thinking after I talked with you the other day. There was a man came in here about a week ago. It might have even been the day Herr Karl died. He had a talk with Herr Karl, like we are doing now. Private. Out of the way. It was a busy day, though, and a valued customer was asking for Herr Karl. So I came back here to see if I could get his attention. Before I did, the man said something like, “Be sure you do.” That idea, anyway, like he was giving the orders. And Herr Karl’s face was as pale white as one of our tablecloths. The man noticed my presence then and put on a broad smile, and Herr Karl went to the customer and nothing more was said of it. But it seemed strange at the time.’

‘This man. Can you describe him?’ Werthen asked.

Karl chewed his lip for a moment. ‘He was one of those fellows that don’t stand out very much, if you know what I mean. Slight build, medium height, so far as I could tell with him sitting down. Clean-shaven, close-cropped hair. Nothing about him to make him memorable. It was just the way he made his face change once he saw me approach that makes me remember. It was like he put on a mask in an instant. There was something almost scary about that change.’

‘Could he have been the assailant you witnessed killing Herr Karl?’

‘That is what I have been mulling over since seeing you. I just don’t know. Maybe they were both about the same size, that’s all I could say. But there’s something else I’ve been trying to remember. Something peculiar. Something about the awkward way he held his cup. But it won’t come.’

Werthen knew the feeling. ‘Don’t focus on it too much – sometimes that helps. And when you remember, get in touch, no matter how trivial it seems.’

Falk sighed and nodded. ‘And you haven’t gone to the police.’

Werthen shook his head. ‘I told you that I would protect you as much as I could, but you have to be completely honest with me.’

‘I am. I swear I am. So, can I get you something, Herr Werthen?’

‘A small mocha would be good, Falk. No need for you to serve it. We don’t want the others getting suspicious.’

As Werthen sat over his coffee, he made notes in his pocket notebook and then read where things stood thus far. ‘Herr Karl Andric, head waiter at the Cafe Burg, died the night of Monday, March the tenth after leaving the cafe. Apparent accidental death by slipping on ice between twin museums and cracking his head on a concrete pillar. Not so, says waiter Rudolph Falk, nephew of Herr Otto’s wife – Otto is to be trusted. He got his nephew the job at Burg. Falk, put upon by Herr Karl, followed him that night to talk with him and witnessed his brutal slaying by a man or woman of medium height but with enough strength to cave the back of Karl’s head in. According to Falk, this had to be planned, for the killer brought what appeared to be a length of pipe along tucked up the sleeve of his overcoat. Do I believe Falk? Is he using me to help make himself look innocent? Falk had a motive – he wanted to be head waiter, though in the event it did not work out that way. Also, Herr Karl was basically extorting the young waiter, along with the other staff and commercial suppliers.

‘Falk later informs me that there was a man who seemed to upset Herr Karl a couple of weeks before. A nondescript man of medium height with nothing remarkable other than something odd or awkward about the way he held his coffee cup. Falk cannot remember exactly – check back in later about that? What to make of that? Could be anything. “Be sure you do,” Falk overheard the man ordering Karl. More interesting. Still, where does that lead? Could it be about Herr Karl’s little money-making scheme that he was running at the Cafe Burg? And what is the “something peculiar” that Falk is trying to remember about this mysterious stranger?

‘From Kraus, off the top of his head, I received a small list of others who might stand to gain from Herr Karl’s death: the disgruntled customer, Herr Bachman, who in fact turned out to be a former colleague in the legal profession from Graz. Bachman opens up the new angle with news of Herr Karl’s kickbacks. But he also has a perfect alibi for the night of the murder: he was in jail.

‘There was also the suggestion of descendants of the previous head waiter at the Cafe Burg whose legacy was expunged when Herr Karl took over. Possible retribution? Unlikely, but worth tracking down. And then there are other ambitious waiters, not only at the Burg, but at other establishments who might actually kill for the position of head waiter. Or perhaps even professional jealousy vis-a-vis other head waiters in the Waiters’ Association. I need to follow up on that as well.

‘Less likely was Kraus’s theory about Herr Karl’s Bosnian Serb roots, of his father’s revolutionary activities somehow coming to impact on the son, and of the ominous-sounding Black Hand. Kraus the dramatist? Put to the bottom of the list.

‘A “maybe” is Herr Moritz Fender, the literary critic who scolded cafes such as the Burg for fostering lightweight literary circles. Not urgent, but must talk to him eventually.

‘And finally, from a visit to the landlady, Frau Polnay, I learned that Herr Karl had one friend, and he a mightily influential one at that: Oberstabelmeister Johann Czerny, Master of the Staff at the Hofburg. Would Czerny know anything of Kerr Karl’s illicit dealings? Would he have more information about his friend’s state of mind just before his death? Any word of threats or the like? Yes – follow up with Czerny.’

Werthen stared at the page for a moment, then noticed a slip of paper just protruding from the top of the notebook behind the final sheets. He opened the notebook to these sheets and saw the piece of crumpled paper he had taken from one of Herr Karl’s suits at his rooms. Written on it was the name ‘Hermann Postling.’ He had quite forgotten about that, but now inserted it in the notebook as a bookmark for his notes on Herr Karl. A piece of detritus, but he had earlier thought it worth keeping. Perhaps he should check the handwriting to see if it was Herr Karl’s or not.

He looked at the clock near the entrance. Four-fifteen. Where had the time gone? Tomorrow would be another day, and Czerny would be at the top of the list.

Three days to spring, Werthen thought with irony the next morning as he trod through the half foot of snow that had fallen during the night. Buds on the lime trees in the Volksgarten looked like they might reconsider their early unfurling. The roses were still tied down and mulched: gardeners at the city’s park never erred on the side of optimism.

He didn’t mind the snow; in fact, he was enjoying it as Vienna had strangely little of it this winter. It was mild enough to overturn rational faculties and make one wonder what odd forces had been released with the new century.

He made his way through the Volksgarten on his usual route to the office on Habsburgergasse, stopping off at the House Master’s Bureau in the Albertina wing of the vast urban palace cum castle of the Hofburg. It was stifling warm inside the front office; a bell over the door announced his arrival and a grey-faced man in his forties, bundled in muffler and white housecoat, looked his way with an expression bespeaking either irritation with the public in general or distress at an attack of gastritis. His pinched nostrils flared as he spoke.