J. Jones - The Third Place

‘How may I help you, sir?’ It was an art form to be able to turn what should be a courteous question into a threat.

‘I would like to see Oberstabelmeister Czerny.’

The clerk, whose name by the tag on his coat was called Plauder, seemed to have trouble understanding him.

‘Czerny,’ Werthen said again, louder this time. ‘I would like to schedule an appointment.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ Herr Plauder said, squinting at Werthen. ‘In regards to what? This is a rather busy time of the year for the Herr Oberstabelmeister with Easter approaching.’

Werthen felt the hairs at the back of his head bristle at the man’s imperiousness.

‘In regards to a private inquiry,’ he said, setting down one of his business cards on the counter separating him from the clerk.

The man stared at it incredulously. Werthen gazed around the sterile and lifeless-looking office. In apartments all around him in the Hofburg was opulence and luxury: Gobelin tapestries, star parquet floors, crystal chandeliers. Not a trace of it here, however. He could be in the provincial offices of a postmaster. A photograph of Franz Joseph in the regalia of office and striding at the head of a procession was the one ornament in the room.

Plauder looked up at Werthen. ‘Herr Oberstabelmeister Czerny has no availability until after Easter.’

‘You might tell him it is in regards to his old friend, Herr Karl Andric.’

‘I do not tell the Oberstabelmeister anything. He is in command.’

‘Relay a message, then,’ Werthen insisted. ‘It is rather urgent.’

The man sniffed once, turned the card over and then back to its face, slipping it across the counter to Werthen. ‘Write the message on the back. I will put it in his box.’

Werthen did so then handed the card back to the clerk, who made no move to pick it up.

As he left the office, Werthen decided that he perhaps might need to consult an old ally with a bit of influence with the Hofburg, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, for whom he and his wife Berthe had already accepted a number of commissions.

At the office, Fraulein Metzinger was at her desk already and young Franzl was bundled up, a packet of letters in his hand ready to be delivered.

‘There is someone waiting for you,’ she said, looking a bit flustered. Fraulein Metzinger was not the flustered type.

‘Who is it?’

‘He wouldn’t give his name, only his rank. A lieutenant major.’

‘He looks grand in his uniform,’ Franzl piped in.

‘I am sure he does,’ Werthen said, taking a stock of correspondence his secretary had placed in his in-tray.

Werthen opened the door to his office, a knot of expectation in his stomach. He knew from long experience that it is only the criminal class who do not feel such expectation when meeting with authorities; this knowledge, however, did little to calm him.

The officer was seated in the chair facing Werthen’s desk, a black helmet fitted with a gilt double-eagle insignia held in his lap. He wore a smart-looking red tunic with shiny brass buttons, white buckskin breeches, high black boots and a long sword at his side, all of which bespoke a member of the Trabant Life Guards, the bodyguards of the emperor. The uniform bore the high stiff collar that covered most of the neck – another sign of the personal staff, for such a collar had become regulation attire after it had deflected an assassin’s knife half a century before when a Hungarian nationalist had attacked the young emperor.

The man immediately stood, ramrod stiff, the helmet – its four-inch pike on top – tucked automatically under his arm now. He nodded briskly at Werthen.

‘Herr Advokat, my apologies for coming unannounced like this. It is, however, a matter of some urgency.’

Werthen motioned toward the chair. ‘Please, sit and tell me what it is, Lieutenant Major …’

‘Simmreich, sir. Lieutenant Major Bernhard Simmreich. And if it is all the same to you, I would rather we discussed the matter once we are underway.’

‘Underway? Where to?’

‘Schonbrunn.’

Simmreich said nothing else – that one word let Werthen know this was an imperial summons. He controlled a sudden urge to laugh, something he often did when nervous. Probably not something this young and earnest officer would understand, however.

‘Well, then, shall we be on our way?’

Fraulein Metzinger cast him a concerned look as he told her he had an urgent meeting and would be back later. Once on the street, the officer steered him to a coach and pair of horses waiting nearby. There was nothing ostentatious about the carriage; Werthen had not even noticed it when arriving just moments before. The driver was not dressed in uniform, but rather looked like a fiaker driver. When they were settled on the leather benches inside, the carriage rattled out of the warren of cobbled streets of the First District to the Ringstrasse and thence south to Babenburgerstrasse, turning off the Ring and reaching Mariahilferstrasse, which would lead to the country palace of the Habsburgs – Schonbrunn.

Simmreich sat stiffly and said nothing.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is about now?’ Werthen finally asked.

‘I have been instructed to tell you that Prince Montenuovo will receive you at the palace.’

Werthen tipped his head in appreciation of this bit of information. Montenuovo was one of the most powerful men in the empire, though his rank as second to the master of the court did not reflect that. He had his hand in everything that had to do with court matters or the life of Emperor Franz Josef. Werthen had had dealings with Montenuovo before, and knew him to be as wily as a fox. That he was an arch enemy of Franz Ferdinand, nephew to the emperor and heir apparent to the Austrian throne, and a man with whom Werthen had also had dealings, sometimes complicated matters for Werthen.

‘I hope to find the prince in good health,’ Werthen said.

‘I am sure you will,’ the lieutenant major replied.

They were the last words spoken for the duration of the trip.

Finally arriving at the summer palace, Werthen could see that the snowfall was heavier here near the outskirts of town; crews in leather aprons were out in the immense central court in front of the palace scraping snow off the pebbled approach road. Liveried servants breathing vapor bubbles awaited the carriage, and soon Werthen found himself escorted down a long back hallway to the private apartments of this vast palace complex of fourteen hundred separate rooms. He was led into a room whose walls were covered in the red brocade of the imperial apartments, furnished with the white and gold of Blondel chairs and desk the emperor personally prescribed. Werthen’s trips to Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s headquarters at the Belvedere let him know that the archduke’s accommodations were paltry in comparison. Here was the seat of power. Real power.

Simmreich, still without further explanation, took Werthen’s hat and coat, though he would rather have kept the coat in the glacial climes of this room. A fire burned in a baroque fireplace, but as its heat rose to the twenty-foot molded ceilings, the fire did little to take the chill off the air. The lieutenant major motioned him to be seated, and he did so as Simmreich slipped out of the room. Werthen took a deep breath, wondering what Prince Montenuovo – and by implication, the Emperor Franz Josef – could want with him. The door by which Simmreich had taken his leave opened once again and into the room came a familiar figure.

‘By Jesus, it is you, Werthen! They’ve got us both.’

Werthen could not help but smile at the unexpected arrival of his colleague and sometimes partner in detection, the eminent criminologist, Dr Hanns Gross.