J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Do we have a choice?’ Gross asked sarcastically.

‘Of course we will, Prince Montenuovo,’ Werthen said for them both.

‘That is well. As I have said, it is a matter of the utmost urgency. The emperor will see to your university leave, Doktor Gross. And you will be recompensed for any case work you must leave for the time being, Advokat Werthen.’

Which meant, Werthen told himself, that the matter of Herr Karl’s death would be placed on the back burner for now. But there was nothing for it; the emperor, perforce, came first, even if it seemed a paltry domestic matter. After all, it was the twentieth century. Who cared? Everyone knew men had affairs; most certainly powerful men. What damning information could the letter contain? he wondered.

‘Well, it seems you have things all arranged, Prince,’ Gross said, rising without waiting to be dismissed. ‘I suppose we will be on our way.’

Montenuovo remained seated. ‘We will expect daily briefings, beginning this afternoon. You may use my private telephone for messages.’

He handed across an embossed card with the double eagle prominent on it.

‘You take it, Werthen,’ Gross said. ‘You know how I am with bits of paper.’

The prince blanched at this comment, but Gross was oblivious to the offense he gave.

‘You will also each need an authorizing letter from me as proof of your royal commission.’

He handed each such a letter now, and this time Gross said nothing, merely tucking it into his coat pocket.

The lieutenant major again saw them out. There was a private fiaker now awaiting them at the front of the palace.

‘At least the good frau had the decency to find a home in close proximity to the summer palace,’ Gross said with heavy irony as he heaved his bulk into the carriage. It was well known that the emperor had purchased the villa for Frau Schratt exactly because of this proximity. He had a special door cut in the walls around his grounds so that he could easily visit the actress for a breakfast tete-a-tete.

They made small talk as the fiaker left the palace grounds, turning right on Hietzinger Hauptstrasse and over the bridge into the cottage district beyond, and past the famed Dommayer’s Casino where Johann Strauss debuted. Gross was elaborating on his latest article on the use of fingerprints in a Prague murder case as the fiaker turned right onto Gloriettegasse, a quiet, tree-lined lane full of green-shuttered baroque villas. Frau Schratt’s was at number nine, painted in Habsburg yellow, as were most of the other villas on the street.

There were definite benefits to being the special friend of the emperor, Werthen thought, as he and Gross descended the carriage and approached the front door of the villa. The actress could hardly afford such a place on her ten thousand gulden per year pension from the Burgtheater.

The door opened just as Werthen was about to rap on it. They were confronted by a squat, scowling woman in a blue linen shirtwaist who had about her the appearance of a matron at a women’s penitentiary. One rather long hair sprouted from a mole on her left cheek. She squinted disapprovingly at Werthen as she noticed his eyes focusing on the mole. Undoubtedly the legendary Netty, long-time housekeeper to Frau Schratt, Werthen assumed, a woman so fiercely loyal that – as gossip had it – she had kept the First Lord Chamberlain himself waiting at the doorstep in the rain while King Ferdinand I of Bulgaria, an ardent admirer of Frau Schratt, was hustled out the back entrance.

‘I believe Frau Schratt is expecting us,’ Gross said. ‘We have come from Schonbrunn.’

The woman merely grunted at this introduction, opening the door wide enough for them to enter past her.

‘You’ll find my lady in the conservatory.’ She set off down the entryway which led into a long interior hall. They passed a music room, a dining room, a small sitting room and finally there was quite literally light at the end of the tunnel, for they eventually entered a large glassed-in veranda and conservatory from which there were pleasant views of the snow-covered gardens to the rear of the villa. Werthen noted a number of cast-iron radiators along the walls of the vast conservatory; it was as warm as a hothouse in summer. Large potted palms dotted the expanse of tiled floor.

The housekeeper led them through a virtual jungle of palms and ferns to a far corner of the conservatory where table and chairs were gathered in a neat Biedermeier ensemble. In one of these chairs sat a woman of middle age, somewhat portly yet stately in appearance, with a magnificent head of golden hair and piercing, intelligent blue eyes. A handsome woman for almost fifty, Werthen thought. As handsome off the stage as on, for Werthen had last seen her several years earlier in the Ferdinand Raimund play, The Spendthrift. She had retired a couple of years ago when her friendship with the emperor was at a low ebb, and she had traveled a good deal. Now back in Vienna, she had gone back to the stage intermittently.

Frau Schratt nodded her head merely to note their arrival, sweeping a hand to two empty chairs.

‘It is an honor to meet you,’ Gross said, taking the lead.

‘And I you,’ Frau Schratt said. ‘The renowned criminologist.’ Then to Werthen: ‘And our local legal lion.’ Her smile made these meaningless puffs of flattery seem sincere. She had obviously done her homework, learning her lines like the consummate actress she was.

‘Yes, quite,’ Gross said, obviously feeling that he had come out the loser in these comments. ‘We have spoken with Prince Montenuovo.’

She reacted to the name as if it were the scratch of a fork against a porcelain plate. ‘Yes, the prince would have been appraised. I was hoping the emperor would look after this himself, however.’

It was public knowledge that Montenuovo and Frau Schratt were on less than friendly terms. The prince, like many at court, did not approve of the emperor’s intimacy with the actress, not for reasons of false morality but simply because she wielded power with Franz Joseph. Some called her the uncrowned empress, and she did have his ear on matters, not only pertaining to the Burgtheater but also to matters of state.

‘The missing letter,’ Gross prompted. ‘We have heard that it is of a rather personal nature, but is there anything else in its contents we should be concerned about?’

She cast her eyes to the domed roof of the conservatory and took a deep breath. Then, fixing her gaze on Gross, she said, ‘If you mean that someone mentioned in the letter might benefit from possessing it, then no. That is not the case. There are matters of a rather personal nature in it, as you indicated. I kept it because it is the dearest love letter I have ever received.’

‘But?’ Gross said, sensing that something else was on offer.

‘Well, if you must know, there are also references to a personage that were better kept from the public eye.’

Werthen and Gross said nothing, waiting for Frau Schratt to complete the thought.

She sighed – a dramatic gesture Werthen had witnessed her perform on the stage, a gesture filled with both longing and regret.

‘The emperor makes a rather critical comment of the German Kaiser in the letter. Humorous, but if made public it could badly damage relations between our countries.’

‘We understand that you noticed only yesterday that the letter was missing,’ Werthen said.

‘That is correct.’

‘Was there any sign that the drawer where it was kept was interfered with?’

‘No.’ Another monumental sigh from Frau Schratt. She knew where this was headed.

‘We need to examine all the outer doors,’ Werthen said.

‘Please do,’ she said. ‘But I doubt you will find anything. My son, Toni, examined the exterior doors closely yesterday and could find no sign of the locks being tampered with.’