J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Yes, I should be leaving. I thank you very much for your time.’

‘Not at all. Glad to be of assistance.’

Berthe was about to leave, but thought of one more thing. ‘On the phone you mentioned a ceremony tomorrow. What would that be?’

‘Why, Maundy Thursday, of course. On Holy Thursday the emperor washes the feet of a dozen old men at the Hofburg and launches the four days of Court celebration of Easter. And I tell you it has been a headache this year.’

‘How so?’

‘The selection of the old men, as usual. I mean to say, there is usually competition for this, jockeying for position. It seems everyone in Vienna has a near-indigent great uncle at this time of the year.’

‘Well, it must be a huge honor.’

‘The twenty silver coins each receives following the ceremony is also an incentive,’ he replied with a sardonic smile. ‘Anybody with a little Beziehung – pull, was plumping for their favorite old man. Herr Karl even got in the game this year. Quite a surprise.’

‘You didn’t mention this.’

‘No, sorry. It slipped my mind. But yes, he did come up with his own name. Said it was a poor old fellow used to beg by his cafe. Just the type, he said. And you know, he was right. We interviewed the chap, and with that long beard of his, he looks almost biblical. It should make for a fine photograph for the newspapers.’

‘So you accepted his nominee?’

Czerny nodded so briskly that his jowls jiggled. ‘Very much so. Chap named Hermann … Wait, let me see.’ He checked a sheaf of papers on his desk. ‘Right. Hermann Postling. Resides at the Kubit Men’s Hostel on Neulerchen?felderstrasse. We are due to pick him up there in a royal coach at ten tomorrow morning.’

The name sounded familiar. Where had she heard that before? Perhaps she had not heard it but read it. Berthe had brought along Karl’s leather notebook with his notes regarding the Herr Karl investigation. She pulled it out of her handbag, shuffled through the pages, and then, turning one leaf, she discovered the little slip of paper her husband had retrieved at the dead man’s flat. She handed the paper to Czerny.

‘Yes, that’s the name,’ he said. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘In Herr Karl’s belongings.’

‘Hmm.’ Czerny held the paper up to the light. ‘Odd that.’

‘What?’

‘Why carry around a slip of paper with the old man’s name on it? It’s as if he had to remind himself of the name. I thought he knew the old fellow.’

‘Bravo, Berthe,’ Werthen said when she shared her information with them. They had gathered at Werthen’s office in the afternoon as arranged to discuss their next move. ‘This Postling fellow could be very important.’

‘He is scheduled to come into direct contact with the emperor tomorrow,’ Gross said. ‘I suggest a visit to the gentleman.’

‘But what could he do to the emperor?’ Berthe said. ‘Is he infected with the plague? Is that the plan?’

‘That, my dear, is why I believe you should remain home,’ Werthen said.

‘Not this time. I missed all the fun last night with Princess Dumbroski. I’m not staying home again.’

‘A beard of biblical proportions, you say,’ Gross said suddenly.

‘Yes. That is how Herr Czerny described it to me.’

‘And Werthen, you remember the false beard we found in Dimitrov’s things at the Pension Geldner?’

‘Yes, of course, Gross. You’ve struck on it. Dimitrov was going to take the old man’s place at the ceremony. He was dying anyway. He would give his life to kill the emperor. Shoot him, stab him …’

‘Blow him up,’ Gross offered.

‘And with Dimitrov dead, Klavan needed to figure out a new plan,’ Berthe said. ‘Hence the theft of the plague bacilli.’

‘There is no time to lose,’ Gross said.

On their way out they saw Franzl proudly displaying a charcoal portrait he had just completed to the secretary, Erika Metzinger.

She held it up for the others to see. ‘Not bad, is it?’

Franzl’s face reddened as she said this.

Indeed, it was not bad at all.

‘Reminds me of a charcoal I saw by Michelangelo once in Florence,’ Berthe said.

‘You’re only saying that.’ But Franzl threw his shoulders back at the compliment.

‘Saying it and meaning it,’ she said as she ruffled his hair.

‘Where are you three off to?’ Erika asked as they hurried out of the office.

‘To see a beggar,’ Berthe said gaily.

It took almost an hour to travel to the men’s hostel from the Inner City. There was work on one of the streetcar lines that halted them several times. They could have walked there faster. At the entrance Gross stopped and gave both Werthen and Berthe a fierce look.

‘I am going to go in there on my own,’ he said, ‘and I want no arguments from either of you. This is not a lark, this could be deadly if the old man is somehow contaminated.’

‘Now, Gross-’ Werthen began, but the criminologist was adamant.

‘You did not hear Professor Doktor Nothnagel this morning describing how deadly this form of plague is. If you had, you would know better than to argue with me. You have a young child. Now do as I say and wait here!’

A workingman passing by shot them a worried look, hearing the tone of voice, and hurried on his way.

‘This is a one-person job anyway.’

He turned from them abruptly and made for the door of the hostel.

‘Be careful, Gross,’ Berthe called after him.

Gross went to the registration desk in the foyer where an attendant sat on a high stool, busy with the illustrated sports newspaper. The page was full of pugilists in tights.

‘I would like to see Herr Hermann Postling, if you don’t mind,’ Gross said.

The man – about forty and not going anywhere fast in his career – looked up from his newspaper. ‘My condolences.’

Gross scowled at him but the man had obviously deflected worse in his life.

‘If he’s in, he’ll be at his usual table upstairs. Third on the right from the window. He’s the one that’ll be by himself. Sign in here.’ He tapped a spatulate finger on a ledger book and returned to his paper.

Gross inscribed his name and then took the stairs to the second floor. He easily found the table in question, but it was unoccupied. He glanced around the room, looking for another elderly man with a long gray beard. He was again without luck.

Gross stumped back down the stairs to the front desk.

‘He was not there,’ Gross said.

Up came the eyes again from the paper. The attendant had moved on to the cycling news.

‘Lucky us. Hermann is a busy fellow. Got his begging to do. Lord knows all he gets up to. He’s usually here for the food, though. Doesn’t like to miss his meals, our Hermann.’

‘And when is meal time?’

‘Hungry, are you?’

‘Look now, I have about lost my patience with you. Keep a civil tongue in that mouth of yours or I’ll let your superiors know.’

‘Six o’clock,’ the man said without emotion. ‘You’ve got over an hour to wait.’

Gross sighed mightily, turned on his heels and went back outside where Berthe and Werthen were carrying on an animated conversation with a beggar who seemed somehow familiar. Gross was about to send the old fellow on his way when he had a sudden inspiration.

‘Herr Postling?’ he said, coming up to the trio.

‘Who wants to know?’ The old man now turned on him suspiciously.

‘This is the colleague we mentioned,’ Werthen quickly informed the man.

‘Pah,’ Postling muttered. ‘Looks like another resident of the hostel to me.’

Gross felt his temper rising. ‘Now, see here …’