J. Jones - The Third Place

‘Lord knows what the boy was thinking of. He could have killed Frau Schratt and her entire household.’

‘No,’ Werthen interrupted, anger gripping. ‘ Klavan could have killed them all. It was he that turned the cologne into a deadly weapon.’

‘Well, yes,’ the prince allowed. ‘But it was damned cheeky passing on the cologne like that.’

Gross intervened before Werthen had a chance to well and truly outrage Montenuovo.

‘It was a close one,’ he said, ‘but I feel this also presents us with a golden opportunity.’

‘How do you come to such a bizarre conclusion, Doktor Gross? You may have tripped the man up, but you have not knocked him down for good.’

Now it was Gross’s turn to take umbrage at the prince’s testiness.

‘There is no reason to let Klavan think he has been tripped up. He may show his hand if he thinks he’s succeeded in his damnable scheme.’

‘But he hasn’t succeeded. We’ve stopped the old man.’

Gross exchanged a glance with Werthen at his use of ‘we’.

‘But I am proposing that we leave Herr Postling in place. Police are guarding the men’s hostel. There is no way for Klavan to discover that the cologne has been taken. So, I say we go ahead with the ceremony as planned. I am sure we can secure another bottle of the actual cologne for Postling to give to the emperor.’

‘But what if the old man was in on it?’

‘I assure you, Prince Montenuovo,’ Gross said, ‘Herr Postling’s only incentive in this manner is the twenty silver coins to be awarded by the emperor. He was taken in by Klavan. I think we can use him now. It might make Klavan lower his guard.’

Montenuovo shook his head. ‘Too dangerous. Why, the man might already be infected with the plague. My God, we should have him isolated.’

‘The cologne was still sealed when we took it into possession,’ Werthen said.

‘Still …’

‘Prince Montenuovo, I firmly believe this would work,’ Gross said.

But Montenuovo was adamant. ‘Now to find a replacement for the old man.’

He gave Gross an appraising look, then shook his head. ‘I need to contact Czerny immediately. I am sure you will excuse me, gentlemen. I have work to do now.’

‘The pompous ass,’ Gross railed later as they were seated around the table and enjoying Frau Blatschky’s liver-dumpling soup. ‘Passing up a golden opportunity. Klavan would surely want to check with Postling later to make sure the gift had been passed on. Idiot.’

His ire did not affect Gross’s appetite, however. Once the soup was taken away, he indulged in a healthy helping of Esterhazyrostbraten – roast beef with root vegetables in a cream sauce of bacon, capers, tarragon, white wine, sour cream, and lemon peel.

There were just the three of them, as Berthe had put Frieda to bed before dinner.

‘How will he even know if Postling isn’t among the twelve tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘You’re right,’ Werthen said, setting down his fork. ‘We should keep a guard on the hostel in case Klavan shows up. Plain clothes.’

Gross considered this. ‘I feel that our Herr Klavan will somehow know if Postling is among the old men tomorrow. But yes, I concur. It would do no harm. Duncan, I should think. Perhaps he could arrange a small group from the Belvedere to establish a casual surveillance following the ceremony. The police are hopeless undercover, regardless of what clothing they don. They might as well wear a sign around their necks declaring their profession.’

Werthen eyed the criminologist. ‘You say you think that Klavan will somehow know if Postling is there, which means you suspect he may be at the Hofburg tomorrow.’

Gross took time to finish masticating the mound of beef he had wedged into his mouth before bothering to nod. Then a final bite and swallow. ‘Yes. Astute of you, Werthen.’

‘Are we planning to have a watch at the Hofburg then?’

‘It had crossed my mind.’ Gross pointed a greedy finger at the bottle of Bordeaux lazing about on the table and put it to work once Berthe had passed it to him. ‘Duncan is once again arranging things.’

‘I am going to be there, as well,’ Werthen said with determination. ‘I am sick of this Klavan attempting to bring death to the office. First the bomb from last year, now the bottle of plague bacilli.’

Berthe was contemplative. ‘You know, things begin to make more sense now. I mean, all the deaths are connected, aren’t they?’

‘Ah,’ Gross said, helping himself to another slice of beef and sauce. ‘I was waiting for someone to broach that. Yes, my good woman, connected, indeed.’

Werthen had been working on this, as well. ‘It all started when Klavan had the idea to place a living bomb at the Maundy Thursday ceremony.’

The others nodded.

Werthen went on: ‘We cannot know what came first, the idea or the candidate for foot washing, Hermann Postling. But whichever, Klavan then needed to get the ear of the Hofburg.’

‘Czerny,’ Berthe said.

‘Right.’ Werthen poured some wine for himself; Berthe put her hand over her glass.

‘One assumes he scrutinized Herr Czerny,’ Gross said, picking up the thread. ‘Looking for a weak point, perhaps some way to blackmail the man into accepting Hermann Postling. But better yet, he uncovered the man’s lifelong friendship with the head waiter, Herr Karl. And it would take a man of Klavan’s skill no time at all to discover the head waiter’s dirty little secret of bribery and graft. Much better to blackmail the friend than Czerny directly.’

‘But then Herr Karl must have thought better of it,’ Berthe added. ‘The urgent meeting he made with Herr Czerny.’

‘Yes. That would appear to be the reason for Herr Karl’s death. Was the waiter naive enough to inform Klavan of his intentions to speak to Czerny about the old man? If so, that sealed his fate. Klavan killed him before he could get to Czerny and spoil his wonderful plan.’

‘And Falk’s murder would be a matter of insurance for a man like Klavan,’ Werthen said, ‘in case the under waiter remembered seeing him at the Cafe Burg. The irony is that Falk did remember and had already told me. So Falk died for nothing.’

‘Not for nothing,’ Berthe interjected. ‘His death brought our attention back to Herr Karl and the whole sordid affair. It led us to Czerny.’

‘What an evil bastard,’ Werthen said. ‘I hope I see him there tomorrow.’

Berthe said nothing, but she fervently hoped that her husband would not do so.

The day dawned, sunny and fine. Sun poured in through the open curtains on Werthen’s face, waking him from a dream of passing through endless doors in an old house and discovering room after room, unexpected and unexplored. One door beckoned and he felt a sudden fear as he opened it. Waiting for him on the other side was a small man with massive hands, the little fingers jutting out from both like daggers. He thrust these at Werthen’s eyes.

His heart was racing as he woke to the sunshine. Berthe was already up. He could smell freshly brewed coffee.

And then he remembered what day it was. He glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Past nine in the morning. He never slept in. And today of all days.

He got up and hurriedly washed and dressed in his finest wool suit. He needed to look presentable.

He was going to the Hofburg.

The ceremony began promptly at eleven in the magnificent Ceremonial Hall at the Hofburg, site of weddings and balls. Today it would be the site of the ceremonial foot-washing in celebration of Maundy Thursday, an event the Habsburgs had sponsored for generations, a holdover from Christ’s ritual cleansing of the feet of his disciples at the Last Supper. The very name of the holiday came from the Latin mandatum , or Jesus’ commandment at that final meal – after Judas had departed – to love one another. The priests in attendance today seemed very intent on that principle as they readied the emperor for his task. Franz Josef was looking rather frail, Werthen thought, even though he was decked out in the full regalia of his office, his left chest bedecked by medals. Gathered in the great hall were the mighty and powerful of the empire and from abroad as well.