J. Jones: The Third Place

Franzl was off like a rabbit, a broad smile on his face.

Meanwhile, Werthen focused his mind, trying to keep evil thoughts regarding Vogelsang at bay. So concentrated was he in this effort that he did not even notice that Franzl had already returned clutching a small wooden box of charcoals.

‘Is that what you want, then?’

‘It’s a wonderful one.’

‘Not very many charcoals.’

‘I’m just a beginner, sir.’

‘That’s not what your teacher tells me.’

‘Frau Blau is just being polite.’

‘Even the archduke complimented your horse drawings at the Christmas exhibition.’

Franzl blushed at this, but nodded as well. ‘He did like them, didn’t he?’

Werthen paid for the charcoals.

As they made their way along the windy streets, Werthen suddenly said, ‘I think it is high time I get another case.’

‘Another legal brief, sir?’

‘No. I mean a real case. An investigative case.’

‘I think that’s a wonderful idea, sir.’

‘And you know what else I feel like now?’ Werthen asked.

But he did not wait for a reply.

‘A fine melange for me and a large cup of chocolate smothered in schlagobers are in order for you, I believe.’

Franzl’s eyes grew as large as half-crown pieces as Werthen led their way to the Cafe Frauenhuber.

No Herr Otto today, Werthen noticed as they entered the soothing, serene precincts of the Frauenhuber, his own personal ‘third place,’ as the Viennese liked to refer to their cafe. Home, work, cafe. In that order. But Fritz, another waiter, recognized him and led him and Franzl to a window table. Werthen ordered for them.

Franzl was looking about him in amazement, taking in the sight of all the affluent customers seated in Thonet chairs at their marble-topped tables, at the bustle of servers holding silver-plated trays full of cups and water glasses over their heads; experiencing the hum of low conversation going on all around them, the slap of Tarock cards at one table, the sizzle and snap of newspaper pages being turned.

‘I’ve never been in one of these places,’ Franzl said, as if he were forbidden the very use of the word ‘cafe.’ ‘They usually shoo me away from the doors if I get close.’

‘Well, no shooing here. You’re gainfully employed, now, Franzl. A regular citizen. Now tell me. What fine drawing are you going to do with your new charcoals?’

The boy brightened. ‘Frau Blau wants me to do more figure work. There’s this old fellow with a long beard and deep-sunk eyes who she pays to model for us. That’ll be a treat. Did you ever want any art stuff when you were my age?’

‘Books were more my thing,’ Werthen said as Fritz arrived with the coffee and hot chocolate.

They were sipping their respective brews when the jingling of the bell over the main door caught Werthen’s attention. Herr Otto, attired all in black, entered, his cheeks red from the cold. It was odd to see the head waiter entering the front of the cafe. But Herr Otto seemed preoccupied, in some sort of distress.

The man quickly made his way through the main hall, nodding at familiar customers. When he saw Werthen he made special eye contact, lifted a fisted hand with forefinger an inch from the outstretched thumb to indicate ‘just a moment,’ and then disappeared behind swinging kitchen doors. In a moment, as promised, he reappeared, top coat and hat removed, now dressed in the full tuxedoed regalia of the Herr Ober. He made his way quickly to Werthen’s table.

‘I am so pleased to see you, Advokat Werthen.’

‘I missed you when we first arrived,’ Werthen replied. He and Herr Otto had a long history, beginning with Werthen aiding him in a false accusation of theft from his former position as head waiter at the Cafe Landtmann. Since that time, they had been allies, and Herr Otto had always managed to find Werthen a quiet table at the Frauenhuber when needed, always made sure to save a fresh edition of Neue Freie Presse for his perusal.

‘If it is not a disturbance, Herr Advokat, might I request an appointment with you?’

‘Legal matters, Herr Otto? A will perhaps?’ Werthen smiled at him.

‘In your other capacity, Herr Advokat.’

Werthen’s heart quickened. A case. As he had told Franzl, he was badly in need of one.

He nodded at the black armband Herr Otto was wearing. ‘Does that have anything to do with it?’

Herr Otto sighed. ‘I have just returned from the funeral. A colleague. From the Cafe Burg.’

‘Herr Karl?’ Werthen had read about the unfortunate death of the man, slipping on an icy patch between the twin museums and cracking his head on a cement pillar at the base of the Maria Theresa monument. Herr Karl was something of a legend, known even to Werthen, who seldom visited the Cafe Burg. The ‘little general,’ his regulars had dubbed him, both for the man’s love of military lore and for the way in which he ran things at the Burg.

‘It was an accident. What is there to investigate?’ Werthen asked.

‘If I could talk to you at your office …’

‘Of course you can.’

‘Perhaps later this afternoon, then, Herr Advokat. I have only come in to check on the books. Say in an hour, then?’

‘I look forward to it,’ Werthen said. ‘And I am sorry for your loss.’

Herr Otto smiled at this, nodded to Franzl and was on his way.

Werthen looked at his young companion. ‘Don’t let it get cold. Better drink up.’

‘You think somebody killed this Herr Karl fellow?’ His eyes once again grew large at this possibility. ‘You were hoping for a case. Maybe this is it, Herr Werthen.’

‘Maybe,’ Werthen allowed. ‘Maybe.’

An hour later Werthen was seated in his office on the Habsburgergasse trying to concentrate on the file in front of him – a draft for the will of one Herr Schminkel, who could not decide to whom he wished to leave his most prized possession, his stamp collection. Werthen had created his own nickname for this client, the Flatulent Philatelist. Of an advanced age, Herr Schminkel did not seem to be fully in control of his bodily discharges. Werthen always made sure to apply a bit of 4711 Kolnisch Wasser to his pocket handkerchief in advance of any meeting with the man.

A gentle rap at his door and his secretary, Fraulein Metzinger, poked her head in. ‘Herr Swoboda and Herr Falk to see you, Herr Werthen.’

This took him aback; he was eager to speak with Herr Otto and now two new clients had arrived to interrupt that interview.

‘Are they scheduled?’ he asked, irritation in his voice.

‘Herr Swoboda said that a meeting had been arranged,’ the secretary explained, keeping her voice low so the visitors would not overhear.

Werthen was at a loss to remember any such arrangement, but finally relented.

‘Send them in, then. The other gentleman I mentioned should be coming shortly.’

Fraulein Metzinger nodded curtly and withdrew, presently followed by Herr Otto and another younger man in tow.

Werthen felt an idiot. He had always known the waiter by the soubriquet Herr Otto, never even wondering about the man’s surname. Now the problem is, Werthen decided, which one was he, Swoboda or Falk?

He rose from his desk. ‘Come in, come in. Please be seated,’ he said effusively, waving his hand at a pair of leather armchairs on their side of the desk.

Fraulein Metzinger had already relieved them of their hats and coats in the other office; Herr Otto sat with prim dignity, perching almost on the front of the cushion, hands in his lap, while his younger companion let himself fall back into his chair, legs akimbo and hands gripping the arms of the chair. There was a frosting of dandruff on the shoulders of the young man’s dark suit.