J. Jones: The Third Place

Werthen did not bother to write down anything more than Herr Karl’s full name. This avenue of investigation seemed too incredible to warrant exploration.

‘And now we come to your comment about Herr Karl’s promotion of the arts being a possible motive,’ Werthen said.

‘This is rather more clear cut,’ Kraus said. ‘Herr Karl helped to turn the Cafe Burg into one of the more hospitable cafes for literary gentlemen. Not the Jung Wien crowd, of course, but feuilletonists for the newspapers, minor journalists, a playwright here and there, even a novelist – who shall go unnamed – overly in thrall to symbolism. Well, whatever one’s taste in words, this seems a noble enough effort. I mean, those fellows should have some place to gather. That was not the thinking of Herr Moritz Fender, however. He wrote a scathing critique of cafe literati a year or two ago, swearing it was the death of Austrian literature, that it made for sheep mentality and for seditious ideas because of all the international newspapers available at such cafes. He made special mention of the Cafe Burg, as I recall. And of its Herr Ober, whose doing it was to turn the place into a minor literary haven.’

‘Perhaps we should warn Herr Viktor before he puts himself in harm’s way,’ Berthe quipped.

‘Interesting,’ Werthen said, closing his notebook and placing it back in his breast pocket. ‘As always, Herr Kraus, you have proved to be a fountain of information.’

‘And I do hope to hear from you with any results. My little write ups of your investigations have proven to be quite popular.’

‘We really should be going,’ Werthen said, looking at Berthe. ‘Our cook is sitting with Frieda. Mustn’t be too late.’

‘Ah, yes, the pleasures of domesticity. I fear I have only articles to proofread waiting for me at my humble abode.’

They made farewell pleasantries, and as they were leaving Kraus smiled at both Werthen and Berthe. ‘This has been fun. You know, I might think of taking up detective work myself. Seems quite easy.’

Frau Polnay had left the room as it was when Herr Karl was renting it.

‘Strange he never mentioned relations,’ she said again as Werthen entered the spacious cupola room overlooking a small park.

‘Well, he wouldn’t have, would he?’ Werthen continued to improvise. ‘His cousins are in Bosnia. I gather he had no direct contact. Still, relations. They are curious to know of any legacies.’

‘Pahh. Legacies? Herr Karl? He spent every spare coin on these toy soldiers.’ She gestured to an immense table set right under the main windows. It displayed a miniature battlefield with brightly uniformed troops deployed over a vast created landscape of green rolling hills and woods, a river of glass cutting through it.

‘And Bosnian,’ the landlady said disparagingly in back of him. ‘Herr Karl?’

With a name like Polnay, the woman must surely also stem from some far distant corner of the empire, but she was Viennese to the core – even in her prejudices.

‘I believe I can deal with things from here,’ Werthen said. ‘If you’ll just give me a bit of time to detail the belongings …’

She shrugged at this, not taking the hint and not budging an inch, arms clasped over her massive bosom, her red nose a clarion call to arms. The lady clearly enjoyed her evening tipple.

So be it, he decided. He pulled out his leather notebook and pencil, pretending to note down various possessions. Herr Karl had died intestate, as Werthen had already ascertained, but there were no relatives – Bosnian or otherwise – seeking inheritance rights.

He first examined a small writing desk tucked into one corner of the room, hoping to find personal papers, a note, anything to provide a motive for the man’s death. The top of the desk was covered in a large, clean blotter; pen and ink stood next to this.

‘He liked to keep things tidy, did Herr Karl.’

‘So I see,’ Werthen said ruefully. The drawers displayed the same extreme order and tidiness. Two of them were filled with neatly filed, year-by-year records of his purchases of lead soldiers, numerous colors of paint for the uniforms and materials for designing and constructing various landscapes. Two other drawers contained well-worn volumes on war, from Herodotus on the Persian Wars to von Clausewitz.

‘Maybe you could push on then and get to the bottom of this list of possessions. I need to clean the room. New tenant coming in the first of the month.’

Werthen did a quick survey of the large wardrobe in another corner of the room. A row of waiters’ uniforms to one side and casual clothes to the left. Casual for Herr Karl Andric meant three-piece worsted suits in various shades of brown.

Frau Polnay moved to the table by the window and Werthen took the opportunity to feel the exterior of each suit for any contents in the pockets.

Nothing there.

‘I hope they have children,’ she said.

Feeling her eyes on him, he slipped the paper in his own pocket, unread, and turned to her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The relatives in Moldova-’

‘Bosnia,’ he corrected.

‘Well, wherever. I hope they have children, so they can enjoy these.’ She gestured at the miniature clash of armies laid out on the table. ‘Never could understand a grown man being so involved in such things.’

Werthen made no comment, moving on to the small alcove sleeping area off this main room: a single cot-like bed with a bedpan underneath. A night stand was placed at the head of the cot and atop it was a water bottle capped by a cloudy drinking glass turned upside down. There were bubbles in the stale water.

Werthen was amazed and somewhat depressed by the sheer scarcity of the man’s life. Almost sixty, Herr Andric had made little more of a dent into the fabric of material life than a newborn. But there were his soldiers.

‘The undertaker did send this over,’ Frau Polnay said from the main room.

Werthen returned to that room and saw her holding a small linen box.

‘What he had in the suit he was wearing when he … when he passed on.’

She handed it to Werthen and he took a moment to go through the items. There was a small leather coin purse with two crowns and twenty heller in it; a handkerchief, still crisply pressed and a small pen knife with the initials K.A. engraved on it. A pocket-sized cardboard-covered notebook held lists of needed materials for the cafe: coffee, toilet paper, cream, cleaning liquid. These were written in a fine hand.

Frau Polnay was looking over his shoulder. ‘Such wonderful penmanship he had.’ She sighed. ‘Quit school as a youngster, but he believed in self-improvement. Always reading. Always learning new words. He would try them out on me some evenings. Made me feel a right fool.’

Under the notebook lay a slip of paper with a name written on it: Hermann Postling.

‘Do you know this man?’ he asked the frau, who was still peering into the box.

‘Can’t say as I do. Not Herr Karl’s writing, that’s for sure.’

She was right: the half-printed, half-cursive letters had none of the flair of Herr Karl’s hand on the shopping list.

The name meant nothing to Werthen, either, but it was a piece of detritus from a life that seemed to accumulate very little of it, and when Frau Polnay looked away he slipped it in the back flap of his leather notebook.

Werthen handed the box of belongings back to Frau Polnay and moved to the table by the window. Here there was a world of material activity. As he stood over the table, he suddenly saw the world as Herr Andric had, in miniature and in the controlled chaos that is war.

He looked at the hundreds of tiny infantrymen and cavalry, noting first that there appeared to be three different armies. One – he was certain by the blue jackets, white trousers, black leggings and black bicorn hats – had to be French. They were accompanied by cavalry troops wearing the tall bearskin hat and cloak, also of the French of Napoleon’s army. There were other infantrymen dressed in white coats and pants with black leggings and some with dun-colored coats. All of these wore tall visored helmets ornamented in brass with a brush of quills on top. Every Viennese schoolboy could recognize these as Austrian troops from the Napoleonic wars. He made a guess that the third army, dressed in white trousers and white leggings with dark blue jackets, white bandoliers and tall shako hats must be Russian.