J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Which translates that you don’t figure I look like the first-class sort.’

He had not taken Dimitrov for the introspective sort, but obviously there was some organ at work between the man’s ears. ‘It’s how your controllers would think. Not my decision.’

‘Well, thanks for that, at least.’

‘Did you eat?’

‘I ran out of cheese and salami somewhere in the miserable flatlands of Hungary. You got something here?’

‘We can go out. There’s a good gasthaus at the corner.’

Dimitrov’s face suddenly paled. He grabbed the handkerchief out of his pocket and put it to his mouth as another fit of coughing gripped him. His eyes teared and he breathed deeply as he again folded the cloth.

‘Does that go on most of the time?’ Wenno asked Dimitrov.

A curt nod. ‘Worried about your sleep?’

He shook his head. ‘Worried that you make it to next week.’

‘What are you doing, little poppet?’

Franzl looked up from the sketch he was making. ‘Nothing.’

‘I didn’t know you could write.’

The dinner dishes were cleaned up and the cook and Fraulein Anna were sitting at the kitchen table having their meal. Franzl had finished his quickly and discovered a bit of scrap paper and a pencil in the small writing desk in one corner of the cavernous kitchen where the cook planned her menus and shopping lists.

‘I can write,’ he said, looking up briefly. ‘But I’m not writing now.’

Anna smiled at him. ‘Well, what are you doing then? Doodling?’

‘Sort of.’

She shot him another impish grin, hopped out of her chair and came over to where he was sitting on a low stool, using the seat of a chair as his desk.

‘Well, you are a clever little poppet, aren’t you!’ She snatched the sketch and went back to the cook. ‘Look what he’s done. He’s made pictures of us eating.’

Cook glanced up from her kraut and pork long enough to make a grunting noise, followed by, ‘Be better off learning to clean the skillet properly.’

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ Anna enthused. ‘A regular artist is our Herr Franzl.’

‘And he’s going to be a regular sleepyhead tomorrow if he doesn’t get to bed,’ Cook said. ‘You, too, you flighty little bird.’

Anna rolled her eyes at Franzl, making him giggle.

‘And what’s so funny about that?’ the cook thundered. ‘Tomorrow’s another day just like this one. You need to be up and working by six, so off with you both.’

Cook stood and swept the plates off the table, plunging them into the sudsy water of the deep porcelain sink.

‘I need to clean the last of the dishes,’ Anna said.

‘Off with you. I’ll see to these, you see to your little “poppet.”’

It came as a surprise to Franzl that he was sharing lodgings with Fraulein Anna, but he figured if it was all right with her it was for him, too. Truth was he liked her. She treated him like a little brother.

They went up the back stairs to the top of the house where the servants’ rooms were. It was a small room, but they had hung a blanket over a rope as a divider.

‘Sorry to be crowding you,’ Franzl said as he went to his side.

‘No. I think it’s just fine. It’s nice to have someone to talk to before going to sleep. When you get bigger they’ll give you your own room, but for now we can be roommates.’

She pulled the blanket across the rope, providing a degree of privacy. He listened to the rustle of her clothes as she changed into her nightgown. Then he hurriedly hopped into pajamas as she turned down the gas lamp.

‘Cook is right,’ came her disembodied voice from the other side of the blanket. ‘Tomorrow’s another day and it’s up early around here, I can tell you.’

‘She likes to yell,’ Franzl said.

‘Cook? Yes, but she doesn’t really mean anything by it. She’s got a big heart, really. Just likes to act bossy. I mean, look at her tonight cleaning up after us.’

Franzl considered this and decided Fraulein Anna was probably right.

‘You just do your job and it’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Besides, she’s a little nervous. We all are.’

‘Why is that?’ he asked.

‘About the letter, of course. But then you wouldn’t know – you just got here. Cook says we’re not to know, but she overheard some fancy gents the other day who came asking questions. Acted like they were newspaper writers or some such, asking us all questions – could we read, did we know where certain keys were … Cook says they were investigating a letter that’s gone missing.’

Franzl felt his pulse quicken. ‘What kind of letter?’

‘An important one, I guess. No wonder, we’ve got important people calling at this house. I suppose you don’t know about that, either.’

‘Actors and such?’ Franzl said. ‘I know Mistress is a famous actress.’

‘A whole lot more important. The emperor himself is a special friend. He sometimes comes to visit for breakfast. You might even see him one day.’

Franzl whistled low to let her know he was impressed. But he didn’t like trying to fool Fraulein Anna.

‘Cook says it’s all a lot of hogwash, pardon the expression.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Promise not to tell?’

Franzl crossed his fingers. ‘Promise.’ And he hated himself.

‘Cook thinks that letter did not really go missing. There wasn’t much activity around this house for a month or so, I can tell you. And then this letter disappears and suddenly there are visitors from Schonbrunn and fellows who call themselves newspaper reporters and now the mistress is in the spotlight again. That’s what Cook thinks, anyway.’

‘You mean that mistress made it all up?’

‘Remember, you promised not to tell.’

‘I think we should be going, Emile,’ Frau von Werthen told her husband. ‘I believe our trio of intrepid investigators has things to discuss.’

Werthen’s father, having taken a glass or two of the Gewurtztraminer beyond his usual quota, looked crestfallen at the suggestion. ‘But we just got here.’

‘Yes,’ his wife teased, ‘and we just ate one of Frau Blatschky’s best plates of boiled beef, fresh horseradish and parsley potatoes. And a double helping of rice pudding for someone I know to top it all off.’

Gertrud von Werthen got up and lifted her husband by the arm. Before rising, Emile von Werthen quickly quaffed the last drams of the wine in his glass.

Werthen and Berthe exchanged smiles. They made no polite protests: they did in fact have matters to discuss. Gross sat across the table from them enjoying his own second helping of the rice pudding, evidently oblivious to the imminent departure. At the last moment he mustered a modicum of politesse, rising from his chair to wish the older couple a good night. He would be following them soon, for he was staying at the same lodgings, the Hotel zur Josefstadt in the nearby Langegasse.

They saw Werthen’s parents off at the door and then he and Berthe returned to the dining room where Gross was still worrying his rice pudding.

Werthen went first. He outlined his discussion with Girardi and how he had started to follow up on the enemy list the actor had given up.

‘I sat in Herr Director Schlenther’s outer office at the Burg for a good half hour waiting to speak with the man, then I finally realized it would be a fool’s errand. After all, what would I ask him? “Did you hire someone to steal a letter from Frau Schratt?” Nonsense. Finally I decided it was enough to know who the possible enemies might be, but there is precious little to be gained by interviewing them other than watching for guilty reactions to probing questions.’

‘I’m afraid I came to the same conclusion,’ Berthe said. ‘The one thing I did learn from Princess Dumbroski was that she already knew of the missing letter. She seems to have a network of allies in high places. And she swears she had nothing to do with the theft.’