J. Jones: The Third Place

They sat at his table and Kraus nodded politely at Berthe, then said to Werthen, ‘The noise. The infernal, eternal chattering, clacking of chess pieces, slapping of newspaper pages being turned. I ask you, how can one read a newspaper so aggressively?’

‘It is quieter here,’ Berthe allowed, scanning the spacious coffeehouse located in the elegant Hotel Imperial, former palace of the Duke of Wurttemberg. There was a hushed mumble of voices from the well-dressed and middle-aged clientele; none of the sudden outbursts of laughter or argument as could be heard at the Central. The waiter arrived at their table and Werthen ordered a cup of gold each for him and his wife, a melange with added milk – it was too late at night for full-strength coffee.

‘Indeed it is,’ Kraus replied. ‘I am contemplating moving here altogether. Herr Viktor indicates a regular’s table could be made available for me.’ Saying this, Kraus nodded a greeting to the head waiter standing tall and proud near the front door. ‘He has hopes I will attract the literary crowd once I am settled in.’

Werthen was dubious of that, knowing the herd instinct of writers. But he did not want to disabuse Kraus of the level of his magnetism. They spoke for a time of new stories that Kraus was covering for his magazine, and of Werthen’s disillusionment in court this morning. Soon Kraus had also learned the nature of his most recent case.

‘Ah, Herr Karl. A most robust Herr Ober, I do admit. But the poor man fell, no?’

Werthen was honor-bound not to divulge the particulars of Herr Falk’s eyewitness account. He merely smiled knowingly at Kraus.

‘Ah, I see. Murder most foul but you cannot share the details.’

‘Something like that,’ Werthen said.

‘It sounds like you knew the man, Herr Kraus,’ Berthe said, suddenly taking an interest in the case and putting concerns for safety aside. ‘Did he have any enemies?’

Kraus snorted at this. ‘Does the despot spawn usurpers?’

Werthen ignored this seeming non sequitur. ‘Which means he did have enemies?’

‘Don’t we all? But a Herr Ober has a special set of possible foes. Customers, for one. Of the disgruntled variety.’

‘Enough to kill him?’ Berthe asked skeptically.

‘A man’s cafe is his home away from home,’ Kraus pronounced. ‘We must never forget that. Deny him such comfort, and a man may take desperate measures. I recall hearing of one such instance. A Herr Bachman, I believe, who was forbidden service after it was discovered his Tarock games were played for high stakes and with a deck of cards not altogether as it should have been.’

Werthen pulled out his leather notebook and pencil from his breast pocket and began taking notes. ‘Bachman, you say. Profession?’

‘Cafe habitue, what else? I am sure someone at the Cafe Burg could enlighten you further as to the man’s full name. And there is also the question of spite or ambition. I am not old enough to recall personally that Herr Karl was preceded by the imperious Herr Siegfried, but I have heard the tale from other cafe historians.’

‘There is such a profession?’ Bertha asked.

‘Of the amateur variety. But there are several here in Vienna who would enjoy the chance of contributing to a Kaffeeklatsch column in my journal were I to institute one. They do have tales to tell.’

‘Herr Karl’s predecessor?’ Werthen nudged.

‘Yes,’ Kraus said, picking up the thread of his former conversation. ‘When Herr Siegfried died, Herr Karl was promoted to Herr Ober and made a clean sweep of any remnants of his predecessor, getting rid of any reminders of the man. Are there relatives, perhaps, who took unkindly to such a posthumous slighting? After all, the position of Herr Ober is a keenly sought one. Which brings me to the converse of this proposition-’

‘Who stands to benefit from Herr Karl’s death?’ Berthe said.

Kraus nodded at her, for him a startling sign of approval. ‘Yes. Who might be promoted to new Herr Ober at the Cafe Burg now that Herr Karl is no longer with us?’

Werthen scratched a penciled name next to Bachman: ‘Herr Falk?’

But then why would the young man come forward with a tale that could possibly incriminate him? Or was he being clever? Werthen wondered, assuming people would think exactly that way.

‘It could also be a matter of professional jealousy,’ Kraus said. ‘Jockeying for power in their Waiters’ Association. Seeking pride of place in the Viennese folklore enshrining notables in the trade … No, nothing to smile at, Frau Meisner. This is all quite serious. It’s a man’s career, after all. Who knows what lengths he will go to in order to secure prominence? The list grows long and we have yet to examine Herr Karl’s heritage or his promotion of the arts.’

Werthen and Berthe both looked blankly at Kraus, waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming.

Finally Berthe all but pleaded, ‘Not so sibylline, please, Herr Kraus.’

‘Yes.’ He held up a forefinger dramatically. ‘There is also the modern sibyl to discuss. The psychic, Helene Smith, is in town and offering a seance at Princess Dumbroski’s salon this weekend. To be a fly on the wall at that performance!’

Neither Werthen nor Berthe responded to this, waiting for Kraus to wander back to his original point.

‘Sorry.’ He tapped a forefinger to his right temple. ‘It’s filled with information of all sorts. Sometimes it’s as if I pull out the wrong file drawer. I was adding further to your list, Advokat. Do you know Herr Karl’s last name?’

Werthen had to shake his head at this.

‘I thought not. Though supreme in his leadership at the cafe, the Herr Ober has no surname. He is simply Herr Karl or Herr Viktor.’ Kraus made a dramatic pause, then, ‘Andric. His name was Karl Jakov Andric.’

‘Sounds Serbian,’ Berthe said.

‘And it is, dear lady. Bosnian Serb, actually. Herr Karl’s family arrived in Vienna not long after Franz Josef became emperor, escaping Ottoman rule. They were Christians, and only too happy to finally make it to a Christian land. Ironic, however, Herr Karl’s choice of trade, don’t you think?’

‘You mean the Turkish connection?’ Werthen said.

‘Exactly,’ Kraus said, looking at Werthen as a pleased headmaster might gaze at a bright pupil. ‘The family flees Turkish Ottoman rule only to have the son take up a trade created by the Turks. It is a pleasing story for schoolchildren. The loyal Polish trader Kolschitzky rewarded for his spying services during the Turkish siege of Vienna by making off with bags of coffee beans found in the camp of the vanquished Turks. Beans which only he knew what to do with. And like most children’s tales, it is mostly myth. The Armenians preceded Kolschitzky, but then who cares for the truth when fable is so much more alluring?’

‘But what could Herr Karl’s ancestry have to do with his death?’ Berthe said, growing exasperated at Kraus’s asides.

‘This is hearsay, Advokat,’ Kraus said, directing conversation at Werthen in silent rebuke to Berthe – a woman daring to continually badger the greatest intellect of Vienna. ‘So do not quote me, but from my unofficial cafe historians I have heard that Herr Karl’s father was something of a revolutionary while in Bosnia; eager, though a Serb, to keep that region independent of greater Serbia. It is said that perhaps his emigration was not stirred so much by dislike for the Ottomans but by fear of retribution from Serbian nationalists. Perhaps they took out revenge on his son at long last. There are rumors, after all, of a secret organization formed by the Serbian military last year. The Black Hand. Quite dramatic, don’t you think? The purpose of said secret society is assassination.’