J. Jones - The Third Place

Berthe tried to laugh it off. ‘You have caught me out, Princess. I am one of those curious Viennese who wishes to know more about a woman who duels, who holds seances.’

A half-step closer. Princess Dumbroski shook her head.

She was close enough now for Berthe to smell the sweat on her. She swallowed hard.

‘I think not,’ Princess Dumbroski said. ‘You know what I do think, though, Frau Meisner? I think you may be working with your husband, Advokat Werthen, in a desperate attempt to find a missing letter belonging to a certain washed-up actress who has an inflated opinion of her importance to an aged ruler.’

Berthe struggled to keep her expression from giving her away, but it was not her expression that did so.

‘I see by the extreme coloring rising from your neck and spreading to your cheeks that my surmise is correct.’ She reached out with her left hand and brushed Berthe’s cheek as proof. The foil still remained in her right hand.

‘You see, I have my allies in many places. There is not much that happens in Vienna that I am not aware of. Of importance, that is.’

Another half step closed the distance between them. Berthe made to move back, but her back was against the doorjamb. Princess Dumbroski’s face was next to hers. She could feel the woman’s breath on her.

‘I could always use another ally,’ she said. ‘Or another intimate. A beautiful woman like you must have allies, too. Or intimates.’

She kissed her on the mouth before Berthe could move her head.

‘I think I had better leave,’ Berthe finally said, finding her voice.

‘As you wish,’ the princess said, stepping back now and whipping foil in the air like a riding crop. ‘Next time you come, don’t bring the old woman.’

Berthe wanted to strangle her. Rage built like damned-up waters ready to break through. She turned to go.

‘And Frau Meisner, for your troubles, I had nothing to do with the missing letter. But that woman has plenty of other enemies. Don’t forget the son. Family revenge is a powerful motive.’

Berthe could listen to the woman’s insidious tone no longer. She burst through the double doors and into the hallway, eager to find Rosa Mayreder and be gone. Laughter followed her down the hall as she brushed the despised kiss from her lips.

Gross was in no hurry. For him, this was an exercise in futility, but the emperor requested it and there was an end to it. It needed to look like a formal investigation. Mundane, though. And a pity. It would all end badly.

He needed a bit of exercise, hoping to work off the lunch of blutwurst and knodel he had just consumed, so he strolled along the Ringstrasse, headed toward the Third District and Favoritengasse. Yesterday’s snow was already turning into a slushy mess.

It took him a half hour to reach the Consular Wing of the Theresianum on Favoritengasse, location of the elite Consular Academy, formerly the Oriental Academy, where the empire’s best and brightest were trained for the diplomatic corps. Gross had no intention of interviewing Frau Schratt’s only son, Baron Anton Kiss, in her premises or in her presence; he would much rather conduct such a discussion on the neutral grounds of the school where he was in training.

A liveried servant in white gloves stood at the entrance to the Consular Wing. Gross introduced himself and his reason for visiting and the servant led him into an interior courtyard and up a flight of stairs to a suite of rooms appointed in proper imperial style.

The servant led Gross to a waiting area. ‘I will announce you to the director,’ he said, and then scurried off to the largest corner office.

Several minutes later he was ushered into the director’s office, whose door held a brass plaque announcing its occupant: Michael Pidoll von Quitenbach. The director was an austere-looking man, bald, with white fringes and a Van Dyke beard and moustache of the same whiteness. His skin was also of a powdered pallor; the only bit of color on his face was his defiantly black eyebrows. He was dressed formally in the black cutaway of the foreign service, standing behind a vast cherrywood desk as Gross entered.

‘And how may I assist the eminent criminologist?’ von Quitenbach said, his accent more high German than Austrian. As always, Gross was pleased by his name recognition, but it did not appear the director was any too pleased to greet him. A dyspeptic scowl appeared to be his standard facial expression, even when talking, which was, Gross thought, quite an achievement.

‘I need to talk with one of your young scholars,’ Gross said, taking the chair opposite the director. ‘Baron Anton Kiss.’

Von Quitenbach’s eyebrows lifted. ‘The baron. May I inquire why you wish to see him?’

‘I’m afraid not, Herr Director.’ He reached into his breast pocket and brought out the authorizing letter Prince Montenuovo had given to him and Werthen. The man read the brief note without expression.

Handing it back, von Quitenbach asked, ‘Where would you like to meet with the baron?’

‘This office should suffice,’ Gross said with a degree of impish satisfaction. That’ll teach the fellow to scowl at me, he thought.

Von Quitenbach stiffened at the suggestion but, a loyal bureaucrat, he made no protest.

‘I shall await you in my assistant’s office.’

Gross imagined a game of musical offices as the pecking order came into play, dislodging one underling after the other from his office.

It took several minutes, but finally Baron Kiss was shown into the room, a young, good-looking boy-man with the rosy cheeks of a youth from the Alps via Vienna’s exclusive Hietzing district.

Gross by this time had made himself comfortable in von Quitenbach’s chair. Introductions were briefly made and Gross nodded at a chair across the desk from him, but the youth ignored the gesture. Instead, he said, ‘What is all this about? Am I to be disturbed in the middle of my economics class? Couldn’t this wait until the end of the day?’

‘As your classes go on until eight in the evening, I think not,’ Gross responded. ‘I have been commissioned by the highest authority, I assure you, Herr Kiss.’

He let the comment sink in as well as his intentional dropping of the youth’s title.

‘Uncle Franz Josef, that would be, then,’ Kiss allowed. ‘And it is probably about this wretched missing letter business.’

Gross knew the youth was aware of the missing letter, for his mother had informed him and Werthen that her son had checked the doors and windows for a possible break in. But he was hoping Kiss could inadvertently offer some evidence to bolster a theory he was developing.

‘Your assumption is correct. And please do take a seat, Herr Kiss.’ He waited for the young man to do so before continuing. ‘Is it possible your mother might have mislaid the letter?’

‘You’ll have to ask her about that, but I assure you my mother is a very organized woman. She has compartmentalized her life to exacting standards.’

The comment sounded more like complaint than praise; an actress such as Frau Schratt must have had to leave a young boy much on his own when touring and when ministering to the emotional needs of an emperor who liked to pay six a.m. morning visits to his mistress.

‘Yes, to be able to memorize all those lines,’ Gross said. ‘Quite a talent.’

‘If you say so. Really, is all this necessary? It seems much ado about nothing. All of Vienna knows that mother and Uncle Franz are special friends.’

‘There may be more to it than that,’ Gross replied, ‘but the contents of the letter are not my concern. I have been tasked with ensuring that it is returned to its rightful owner.’