J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Does that mean the emperor? And what a bloody silly comment. Of course the contents are your concern. If someone or something is mentioned therein that might prove inflammatory, then it is highly relevant for investigators to know about it. It would help narrow down those who might profit from such disclosure or threat of disclosure.’

Gross nodded appreciatively at this comment. The young man, he decided, stood to have a formidable diplomatic career. His reasoning was impeccable, but Gross had to remain circumspect. He could hardly make the slight against the German Kaiser in the letter public knowledge.

‘Let us say there may be sensitive material in the letter, not as regards your mother’s friendship with the emperor, but about a third party. However, I hardly think the person in question would have knowledge of such a letter. I understand you examined all possible points of entry to your mother’s villa and found nothing untoward.’

‘That is so,’ Kiss said.

‘And from that you concluded …?’

‘Exactly what I assume you concluded: that it was someone in the household who took the damned thing. Someone most likely in the pay of one of mother’s enemies.’

‘She has a number of those?’

‘Famous women always do. Famous women who are the mistress of an emperor, even more so.’

He pronounced the word ‘mistress’ with a degree of venom.

‘You do not approve of your mother’s relationship with the emperor?’

‘Is that any of your business?’

‘I have been commissioned to be thorough in my investigation,’ Gross said.

‘Which means I too am a suspect, I suppose.’

Another nod from Gross.

‘Am I to provide an alibi, then? This is absurd. Why don’t you use this fancy dactyloscopy one reads about in the papers?’ He cast Gross a challenging grin.

‘In fact, we did take fingerprints of the handle to the drawer as well as the interior. But I am afraid there were a mass of such prints, all indecipherable. Besides, if one were aware of the science of fingerprinting,’ he cast Herr Kiss a meaningful glance, ‘then all one need do is wear a pair of gloves to avoid detection.’

Herr Kiss had now stopped smiling. ‘What is it you want to know from me, other than the fact that I did not take the letter in question?’

‘A shortlist of enemies would be helpful. Also, any of the staff who you think might be capable of such a deed.’

Kiss looked upward as if searching for inspiration. He sighed deeply. ‘I highly doubt any of the staff is involved,’ he said.

This comment gave Gross a sudden jolt but he did not show any emotion.

‘Enemies then,’ he said.

‘I can do you one better. Why not visit the count?’

‘Which count would that be, young man?’

‘Count Johann Nepomuk Wilczek. Uncle Hans and mother were … well, they have been friends for years. Longer even than Uncle Franz Joseph. He may be able to help you.’

The Baron Kiss appeared to have a quantity of ‘uncles.’ It was also clear to Gross that he was withholding information. Kiss had not yet learned the fine art of dissimulation, so vital in the diplomatic trade.

‘You surely do not put him in the category of enemy, then.’

Kiss shook his head. ‘Uncle Hans has an island named after him.’ He said this non sequitur earnestly as if it provided some sort of testimony for the man. ‘He can tell you all about mother. No one knows her better.’

Gross squinted at him; he felt that same jolt of uncertainty Kiss’s earlier remark had elicited.

‘Is that all?’ Asked like a young school boy of an older prefect.

‘I think that should suffice,’ Gross said. ‘I thank you for your time and hope that I have not too greatly disturbed your studies.’

Kiss rose and left the room without an adieu.

The school director, Michael Pidoll von Quitenbach, must have been watching the hallway, for he appeared in the doorway not half a minute after Baron Kiss’s departure.

‘I hope that little visit helped,’ he said. There was more than a trace of irony on the word ‘little’.

‘It all helps,’ Gross said. ‘Each of the fragments adds up, you see. Individually they are simply shards, tile chips. But correctly assembled …’ Gross snapped his fingers, ‘… and voila , we have-’

‘A mosaic!’ Von Quitenbach beamed, proud of himself.

‘More of a collage, Herr Direktor. Sometimes a mere tessellation. And that is where this comes into play.’ He tapped his right forefinger against his temple. ‘The facility to interpret the patchwork, to make your mosaic out of a variegated montage is more than a guessing game. For that, you need training, diligence, experience, but most importantly talent.’

He found himself glaring at the man whose ironic intonation of the word ‘little’ had spurred this invective. But apparently its intended target was completely unaware of the hedged hostility in Gross’s comments, for which the criminologist was happy.

This fit of pique bothered Gross. What has got into me that the smallest perceived slight can set me off so? he wondered. But he knew.

Baron Kiss had said it himself: this wretched missing letter business . He might as well be investigating a case of infidelity.

He returned to his room at one-thirty in the afternoon. He checked the tell he left at the bottom of the door. Before leaving, he had stuck one of his black hairs to door and jamb with a bit of grease. It was still in place.

Young Dimitrov was at his side; he could feel the man’s anxiety. It oozed from his pores like stale sweat.

‘What are you looking at?’ Dimitrov said in badly accented German.

‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ He bent down and retrieved the hair, then opened the door.

‘It’s small for two of us,’ Dimitrov said, surveying the room with its pair of cots separated by a scarred deal table and a pair of rickety chairs. Wooden pegs hung on the walls at the head of the cots in lieu and a wardrobe stood against the wall between them.

‘We won’t be here long,’ he replied.

‘I won’t be, that is for sure.’ Dimitrov made an attempt to laugh; it trailed off into a thick cough. He dropped his case to retrieve a soiled handkerchief from his breast pocket.

The hairs on the back of Wenno’s neck bristled as the suitcase struck the floor. He shut the door behind Dimitrov. ‘You should be more careful with that case.’

Dimitrov coughed blood into the handkerchief, sniffed once, folded the rag and stuck it in his breast pocket once again. He shrugged at Wenno’s suggestion.

They had promised him a volunteer; they said nothing about the mental condition of the man.

‘What kind of a name is Wenno anyway?’ Dimitrov asked.

He didn’t bother answering this. ‘We have a little over a week for preparations. They say you are willing to give your life for your homeland. Are you a patriot?’

‘I’m dying anyway. They’re paying my wife.’ A snarl of a grin. ‘My widow soon enough.’

Wenno had worked with all sorts of agents: those who did it for love of country, those who did it for love of money, those who were forced into it either by their rank or by blackmail. He preferred working with those who – like himself – were paid. Paid professionals.

Dimitrov was being paid. Period.

‘Did they give you any training before sending you to me?’

‘They said you would handle that end. Look, I’m all in. I was on that stinking train for twenty hours. Twenty hours on a third-class wooden bench. You’d think they could afford first class.’

‘It’s a matter of discretion,’ he told him. ‘You don’t need unwanted attention with what you’re carrying in that case.’