J. Jones - The Third Place

Suddenly a metallic clanking sound rang through the theater and a dripping wet Houdini appeared around the corner of the screen. The audience exploded in applause and shouts of ‘Bravo!’ Klavan could not help himself; he joined in with the others.

The rest of the show was an anticlimax for Klavan: Houdini wriggling out of a straitjacket, escaping from locked handcuffs, foiling the padlocks binding a steamer trunk into which he had descended.

He slipped out at intermission – a strong man was going to show off his muscles in the second half and nothing could be more boring for Klavan than such impoverished animal displays of strength.

Outside, the night air was crisp, clean and, for the first time since he had arrived, relatively mild. The vernal equinox had come and gone without him even noticing; it brought with it a spring evening. It would not last, he knew. Soon, winter would return. But for now he, like the Viennese out on the sidewalks, would simply enjoy the balmy evening.

He decided to walk for a while through the Inner City before making his way back to the lodgings at the Pension Geldner. He was tired of fending off questions from the frau. As he remembered from his previous stay, she had not been so curious. He wondered if she suspected something, fearing that Klavan somehow could cause her problems. And Dimitrov! The man should just die and stop making his – Klavan’s – life miserable. But then, of course, his perfect plan would be ruined.

He put all this out of his mind for the moment, blending into the crowds of Viennese out on the streets, tipping his hat at a comely young woman who blushed at his impudence. It felt good to be a common citizen for a time. Not that he would want to make a habit of it. Such a life would be stifling. The wife and kids waiting for you to return from the factory; the soul-destroying nature of it all. He squared his narrow shoulders as he made his way through the crowds, knowing that he could kill any of these without the slightest effort. Knowing he could do it without the slightest remorse. He lived on a different plane than these Viennese, so self-satisfied with their new spring outfits, their fat cigars, their ample waistlines.

He understood Houdini – his life lived on the edge. Every performance could be his last. A simple mistake could mean death by drowning. He felt a kindred spirit in the man and had been meaning to see his performance ever since reading of Houdini’s escape from a Russian Siberian transport van. Hadn’t he effected his own such escape?

It had been worth the wait, he thought as he came into the Stephansplatz with the cathedral looming overhead. An optimistic cafe on the square had put out tables but it was hardly that mild. Still, the area was busy with pedestrians and the low hum of voices. He felt a tug at his leg and was about to kick out, thinking that a dog had grabbed his cuff. However, looking down, he saw a young boy in a sailor suit staring up at him.

‘Papa?’ the child said, bewildered.

His parents caught up with the tyke, apologizing to Klavan about their child’s mistake. But this sudden disturbance made him want to return to the solitude of the pension. Dimitrov was sure to be in an alcoholic stupor by now.

He knew something was amiss as soon as he let himself into the pension. Frau Geldner was not at her designated place by the front desk. She had been when he left, interested to hear of his planned visit to the Ronacher. He approached his room stealthily; no other guests seemed to be about tonight. Too busy enjoying the mild evening, as he had. His door was partly ajar and he could hear the muffled sound of drawers being opened and closed from inside. He felt instantly on guard, filled with the same tension he’d experienced when Houdini was locked in the milk can.

He slowly opened the door, revealing a scene he had half expected. There was Frau Geldner calmly going through his and Dimitrov’s things, picking up his notebook from the bureau and flipping through the pages, stopping to read an entry here and there. She would not understand the significance of these entries, he was sure, yet the fact she was snooping sealed her fate. And where was Dimitrov while all this was going on? In a drunken stupor?

But a quick glance at the man’s cot let him know this was no stupor.

He entered the room like a cat, quietly closing the door behind him.

She spun around, the notebook still in her hand.

‘Oh, Herr Wenno. I am so glad you came back. Your friend …’

She nodded helplessly toward the cot where Dimitrov lay, a spray of blood from hemorrhaged lungs covering the white coverlet. His face was as white as the unviolated part of the coverlet.

‘I heard a terrible gasping noise and came to see if I could be of assistance. I did not know what to do.’

He smiled at her consolingly. ‘He was a sick man. It was to be expected.’

He felt the ground slipping out from under him, his well-laid plan scuttled by this death and his privacy breeched by Frau Geldner.

But he kept the smile on his face as he approached her.

‘I didn’t know what to do,’ she repeated, putting the notebook back on the bureau. ‘I hoped to find some clue as to your whereabouts …’ She caught herself, realizing her mistake.

‘Ah, but then you knew where I was, Frau Geldner.’

‘Yes. How silly of me. It must have been the shock.’

He nodded. ‘Quite understandable.’

He was within arm’s reach of her now; she realized it as well, taking a step back and knocking the back of her legs against his cot.

‘The authorities,’ she said. ‘They’ll have to be notified.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ he said.

The movement was swift, unexpected. He bent over for an instant and suddenly came back up with a knife in his hand retrieved from the sheath on his left calf. It was all one motion, really, and it was as if he were watching it from the outside, seeing the blade fly through the air with an underhand toss to land with a dull thud followed by a hiss of the frau’s breath as she exhaled, looking in amazement at the blade sticking out of her chest, trying to make an audible sound but failing. Her eyes grew wide for a moment and then fluttered as she collapsed back onto his cot.

She was dead by the time he put a hand to her carotid artery.

And now what? he asked himself. What to do with this mess?

The first thing was to expunge any record of his presence at the pension. Assumed name or not, Klavan wanted no leads to him from the Pension Geldner. He went back to the front desk. Still there seemed to be no other guests about. He found the registration book and tore out the page with the name of Wenno on it.

He made no attempt to clean up the mess in his room nor to try and stage some dramatic contretemps between the frau and Dimitrov. Let the authorities make of it what they might. He retrieved his knife, cleaning it on the frau’s skirt before returning it to the scabbard, and then packed his belongings quickly. He took the explosive device out of Dimitrov’s suitcase: that would serve as his own insurance now if apprehended.

He spent another five minutes carefully searching the room for any trace of himself. Had other guests noticed him? That was something that he could not control.

He locked the door behind him and took the key with him as he left the pension. Two blocks away, he dropped the key in a rubbish bin.

He knew where he would have to go. It was his last trump card, but now was the time to play it.

The maid opened the door cautiously. After all, it was a bit late for visitors.

Klavan smiled reassuringly. The maid looked him up and down with disapproval.

‘Perhaps you could tell your mistress that she has a guest. Herr Schmidt. I am sure she will remember me.’