J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Yes, Werthen,’ Gross answered for the prince. ‘Standard security methods.’

‘Guards from the palace witnessed the incident at the gates,’ Montenuovo continued, ‘but by the time they ducked the salvo of bullets and had raced to the scene, the fiaker and assailants were long gone. We, of course, covered up the incident. Passersby were told it was a military exercise, and newspapers were forbidden to print any mention of it.’

Montenuovo nodded at Werthen. ‘It appears our silencing methods functioned.’

Werthen tilted his head in assent. One could not keep secret the fact that a certain princess was carrying on an affair with the captain of the guards, but when there was an attempt on the emperor’s life, all was silence.

‘I am actually delighted that you have discovered the true motive behind your commission, Doktor Gross.’

‘And why would that be, Prince?’

It was now Werthen’s turn to be one step ahead. ‘Because he wants to continue our commission in order to find out who was behind the attack.’

Gross pursed his lips. ‘Don’t be absurd, Werthen. No. Prince Montenuovo wants nothing less than that we prevent the assassination of the Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary. That we, in fact, save the empire.’

He would have to take Dimitrov with him. Klavan could not trust him on his own. Dimitrov was in even worse shape than when he had arrived, if that was possible.

‘You’ve got to stop drinking,’ he told the man after he had shaken him awake this morning. ‘You’re a mess.’

Dimitrov smirked at this. ‘Perhaps a new suit of clothes will do the trick,’ he said.

‘It is rather too early for gallows humor,’ Klavan retorted. Why had the idiots in Belgrade sent him such a specimen? Did they want him to fail?

Had he under- or over-estimated Apis? Is the man a preening fool or a canny stage manager somehow setting me up for a fall? Klavan wondered.

But it was too late for such second thoughts. He knew this from long experience: the soft part of you, the piece some called cowardice, was always looking for a way out, always seeking excuses for inaction.

‘Get dressed,’ Klavan ordered him. ‘We’ve got a busy day. You can have coffee on the way.’

‘But I do enjoy the cup Frau Geldner serves.’

‘You haven’t been talking to her, have you?’

‘I’ve displayed good manners, Herr Wenno. Nothing more.’

‘She’s not the bumpkin she appears,’ Klavan said. He himself had stopped taking morning coffee his second day in Vienna; he didn’t like the questioning looks the other boarders were giving him. Anonymity was his only friend. There was one especially interested fellow. Klavan heard he was the nephew of Geldner. He had little piggy eyes that sized Klavan up like maybe he was fitting him for a prison suit.

They took the elevated train from the west train station along the Gurtel, or outer ring road, to the Josefstadterstrasse stop, and then headed by foot down Neulerchen?felderstrasse to the Kubit Men’s Hostel. Klavan had actually stumbled on his plan, but regardless of how it had been developed, it was a thing of wonder.

And it all depended on one old man – Hermann Postling.

They stopped outside the hostel for a moment, then headed in.

‘Jesus,’ Dimitrov muttered as they entered the dingy building. ‘Is this where they store you when you get old?’

‘Only if you’re lucky,’ Klavan said. There was a front desk where Klavan signed in as a supposed nephew of Postling.

They proceeded to the second floor, to the reading room where the old man usually passed his days. He was there, in his corner seat, a world atlas open on the table in front of him. None of the other men shared his table. Postling was the solitary sort and not quite all there. The atlas was open to a map of the Canary Islands, Klavan noticed as he and Dimitrov approached. The old man had a fixation on islands; he swore he was going to retire to one when his ship came in.

‘It’s nice there this time of year,’ Klavan said, taking a seat uninvited next to the old man, who smelled unwashed.

Herr Postling looked at Klavan and then at Dimitrov, who was still standing.

‘Fat lot you know about it,’ he said. ‘I doubt you’ve ever been on a ship let alone an island.’

‘I could take you up on that bet, Herr Postling. I come from a long line of-’

Klavan had almost said ‘amber fishers’, but abruptly cut himself off. There was no need to share his life story, to give anyone a hint of his true identity. Dimitrov lifted his eyebrows as if beckoning him to finish.

‘You are quite right,’ Klavan said to the old man. ‘I saw a reference to the weather in Tenerife the other day in a newspaper.’

The old man tapped his bulbous red nose. ‘You can’t fool Hermann Postling. I can smell shit a mile off.’

But he was incapable of smelling his own, Klavan decided. Postling was an unwashed and disagreeable codger, which made him even a better choice. Klavan felt no reluctance in using him and discarding him. There was no one to miss him, no one to question about poor old Hermann. The hostel keeper had seemed amazed the first time Klavan had come to call that the old man could actually have a nephew who cared enough about him to pay a visit.

‘Is that where you’re going when you get your twenty pieces of silver?’

Postling eyed him contemptuously. ‘Not likely I’d tell you, is it?’

‘And you haven’t told anybody else, right? Like you promised.’

‘Who would I tell? And why? Buzzards around here would probably just try to steal the invitation.’

‘You keep it hidden. That’s the idea. Can’t trust anybody.’

Postling looked up at Dimitrov again. ‘Your friend going to sit down?’

‘He likes to stand,’ Klavan said. ‘We’ve got to go soon. I just wanted to drop by and see how you’re doing.’

‘I’m not sharing the silver, if that’s what you’re after.’

Klavan shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t think of it. I just don’t want people pestering you. Nobody’s come around asking questions, have they?’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Just questions. Maybe about the invitation.’

The old man muttered something in such a thick Austrian accent that Klavan did not catch it.

‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘I said there’s no damn misfit bothering me except for you.’

Back out on the street, Dimitrov asked, ‘What was all that about?’

‘Just my old uncle,’ Klavan said, turning his collar up against a sharp wind.

‘And the twenty pieces of silver?’

Klavan eyed him with a brooding sense of loathing that shut the other up.

It was, in fact, how Klavan had met old Postling: begging on the street near the water tower on the Wienerberg in Favoriten. It was a spot Klavan had taken a shine to, with a view over the city that made a man feel like he controlled things. He had been there several times, thinking and planning. He’d taken little notice of the old man before, but for some reason today he’d focused on him.

At first glance, Postling was just one more scrofulous old reprobate, with an aroma coming off him bad enough you’d think it would keep anyone at arm’s length. But it didn’t. This patch of ground was near playing fields and a park that attracted the Viennese, even in winter with skating. He did all right for himself as a beggar. Klavan could see there was something about the old man, a cast of the eye, a glum look that reminded him of his own grandfather, and he’d dropped a half crown in the man’s filthy tin dish. The clatter seemed to wake the geriatric up; he’d spluttered to life.

‘Don’t have to make a racket of it,’ he’d said. ‘Now I suppose you expect me to tip my hat to the fine gentleman. Pah. When I get my invite and my twenty pieces of silver from the emperor there’ll be no more begging for Hermann Postling.’