J. Jones: The Third Place

‘So, Herr Otto. How may I be of service to you?’

Herr Otto glanced momentarily at the young man next to him before speaking. ‘Well, as you earlier learned, it is in regard to the death of Karl Andric. You see, Herr Advokat, his death was not an accident. It was murder.’

Werthen allowed the word to soak in for an instant before proceeding.

‘You suspect this because …?’

Herr Otto shook his head adamantly. ‘Not a suspicion. A fact.’ He looked at the young man next to him.

The young man’s hands gripped the arms of his chair even more tightly now, white showing at his knuckles. Herr Otto broke the silence. ‘This is my wife’s nephew, Herr Werthen. Rudolph Falk. I was instrumental in getting him a position at the Cafe Burg. He has something to share with you.’

The young man seemed at a loss for words.

‘Tell him, Rudi,’ Herr Otto prompted.

Finally the young man sighed. ‘I saw it all,’ he said. ‘That night, I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’ Werthen asked.

‘Herr Karl, he was walking home. It was late and cold and he went off the Ring and into the park between the museums.’

‘And you just happened to be there at this same time?’ Werthen said.

To which comment Rudi Falk reddened violently.

‘Tell him all of it,’ Herr Otto said.

‘It was like this,’ the young man said. ‘Herr Karl and me, we had words that day, last Monday. He was always at me how to serve and how to look. Never a kind word; always carping at me.’

‘He was only trying to make a better waiter out of you, Rudi,’ Herr Otto said.

‘It didn’t feel like that to me, did it? Felt like persecution, like he had it out for me for some reason.’

‘And so you were following him that night,’ Werthen said, ‘to talk to him or threaten him?’

Rudi Falk sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘See?’ he said to Herr Otto. ‘I told you they would start accusing me. That’s why I didn’t go to the police.’

‘Relax, Herr Falk,’ Werthen said. ‘I was only trying to get to the bottom of this more quickly. So you followed Herr Karl from the cafe after he closed that night. Correct?’

Falk nodded sullenly.

‘And he went into the small park between the museums. Then what?’

‘Well, he was walking by that big monument with the woman up there-’

‘The Empress Maria Theresa,’ Herr Otto told him with the voice of a disappointed school master.

‘Right, some famous woman, and Herr Karl – this was sort of funny – he made to salute her like he was a loyal soldier, but he never got closer to the army than his collection of toy soldiers, they say.’

‘And then what happened?’ Werthen prodded.

‘Then suddenly this other figure appeared from behind one of the stone pillars right in back of Herr Karl. He wore a long coat and hat and Herr Karl never even knew what hit him. The man swung something a few feet long and round like a pipe and crushed the back of Herr Karl’s head. He folded like a dead weight. Then the man, he pulls Herr Karl’s body close to one of the pillars and cracks the back of his head against it. Made a sickening sound. He left the body there by the pillar, slipped the pipe up the sleeve of his coat and off he went.’

‘And where were you all this time?’ Werthen asked.

‘When Herr Karl stopped to salute, I jumped behind a bush. Almost came out though, figuring this was as good a place as any to talk with him. And then this figure suddenly appeared and I stayed put. There was no time to warn him – it all happened so fast.’

‘And when the assailant left the scene?’

‘I went to Herr Karl, naturally. I could see right off that he was dead. And then I panicked. I mean, if I went to the police, I figured they’d suspect me. Like you asked, what was I doing following my boss? And everybody at the Burg knew we didn’t get along.’

‘But you did finally tell your uncle.’

‘It was just too much for me today at the funeral,’ Falk said. ‘I had to tell somebody.’

‘Did you see the assailant clearly?’

He shook his head. ‘It was dark. Too dark.’

Werthen pictured the scene; the nearest street lamp was on the Ring. The young man was right. Too dark for identification.

‘You said it was a “he.” Could you actually tell if it was a man or woman that attacked Herr Karl?’

Falk shrugged. ‘What woman’s going to kill him?’

Werthen ignored this. ‘Man or woman?’

‘I don’t know. I just figured it was a man who would kill like that.’

‘A large figure or small figure?’

Another confused shake of the head. ‘Medium. About the size of Herr Karl, but he was not a big man, either.’

‘Can you help us, Herr Werthen?’ Herr Otto finally asked.

‘I assume you mean can I investigate and not involve the police?’

‘It could put an end to Rudi’s career. We can pay. I have spoken with the head of our Waiters’ Association. We have a fund. Herr Karl was one of ours.’

Werthen held his head in his hand and tapped a reflective forefinger against his cheek. It would mean withholding evidence from the police, but it was not as if he had not done so before.

‘I’ll need a list of names of associates, friends – anyone connected with Herr Karl,’ Werthen said by way of answer.

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ Berthe said as they stood in front of a woodcut by Emil Orlik at the Galerie Pisko later that evening. They were having a rare evening out with Frau Blatschky taking care of their young daughter, Frieda.

‘It will take your mind off the Vogelsang affair,’ she added. ‘Though I really do believe you should get that man hanged before you attempt any other cases. I never could abide his arrogant, preening rooster attitude on the court.’

Werthen said nothing for a moment. He understood his wife’s flippancy. She was attempting to be charmingly insouciant but he knew she was put off by the Herr Karl commission. It would involve investigating a bloody, violent murder committed by someone who – having so carefully staged the killing as an accident – would not take kindly to Werthen digging and prying into the death. Added to that, Werthen would be doing it behind the back, as it were, of the police.

‘It’s very Japanese,’ he said, eager to change the subject.

‘Not at all,’ Berthe insisted, misunderstanding his referent. ‘From what I have read of the Japanese, they are a most humble people. Quite modest, especially in public.’

‘The woodcut, not Vogelsang. It’s got a Japanese feel to it. Like a Hiroshige woodblock print.’

Orlik, he knew, had only recently returned from a prolonged sojourn in Japan.

‘It is quite lovely,’ she allowed, turning to him and suddenly taking his hand in hers.

They ended the evening at the Cafe Imperial, near the Galerie Pisko. It was not Werthen’s sort of place, but the evening had turned wet and proximity was more important than atmosphere. Entering the low-lit room, they were surprised to find Karl Kraus occupying a window table. He brightened when he saw them and gestured for them to join him.

Kraus was the uncrowned king and champion of rectitude in the written word and the avenger and scourge of hypocrisy in his journal, The Torch. Tidy, gnome-like, misshapen and bespectacled, Kraus dressed like a banker and thought like an anarchist. Best of all, he had his ear to the ground, was privy to the secrets of Vienna and occasionally shared these with Werthen.

It was, however, a surprise to see him here at the somewhat stodgy Cafe Imperial, home to musicians perhaps, but not known for its writers. The Cafe Central was his usual haunt.

‘Good to see you, Kraus,’ Werthen said, pumping the small man’s delicate hand with eagerness. Kraus winced – not so much at the pressure but at the physical contact. ‘What draws you out of the hallowed halls of the Central?’