J. Jones - The Third Place

Klavan hovered menacingly over Berthe, the pistol pointed straight at her head.

‘You don’t have to do this, Klavan,’ Werthen pleaded. ‘There is still time for you to get away before the archduke’s men arrive.’

‘You don’t understand, Advokat.’ He looked from his intended victim to Werthen with an expression approaching sexual ecstasy. ‘Your kind never would. This is what it is all about. This moment. This supreme moment.’

Keep talking, you bastard, Berthe thought, loosening the knot further.

‘You’ve won,’ Werthen said. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

Klavan let out a howl of laughter. ‘You call this winning? I failed to kill that decrepit old man you call emperor, and now you tell me that the plague bacilli was also a failure. This is my victory.’

He nudged the gun closer to Berthe’s head. The others lined up against the wall made grunting protests through their gags.

Werthen knew it was a lie, that Klavan would kill them all. But part of him also doubted. If he jumped him, Klavan would squeeze his damned ball. But what if that was a bluff?

What if? What if?

His mind reeled. It was time for action, not thought. He would not let Klavan kill his wife. That was all there was to it. No more balancing of one life against another. This was Berthe’s life and obviously Duncan was unable to get a clear shot.

It was up to him now. He braced himself as he watched Klavan’s finger tighten on the pistol.

Berthe slipped her right hand out of the rope and brought it up suddenly with the middle knuckle foremost between Klavan’s spread legs, digging it into his scrotum with satisfying fury. He let out a strangled cry, stumbling backward, and suddenly dark liquid matted the front of his loden jacket followed immediately by a cracking sound from outside as if a whip were snapping. Werthen was immediately by his side, kicking the pistol clear and pulling the rubber tube out of the ball just as Klavan squeezed it in a death grip.

He looked up at Werthen with eyes already growing glassy and transfixed. A smile crossed his face, and he was dead.

They were all gathered in Prince Montenuovo’s office at the Hofburg two days later as arranged. It had been Franz Ferdinand who had talked his uncle, the emperor, into this final act. The old man owed Werthen and Gross, and by extension, Werthen’s wife, Berthe. She had remembered something, a small comment, an unguarded utterance that changed everything.

Besides Berthe, Werthen, Gross, Franz Ferdinand and Prince Montenuovo – looking angry and annoyed – and Inspector Drechsler, there were others present who were also involved in the case. There was Herr Karl’s hausfrau, Frau Polnay; his old friend, Czerny; the failed lawyer, Bachman, who was once a suspect in the death of Herr Karl; Herr Otto, who had initiated the investigation by bringing Falk to Werthen; and there was also the nephew of the murdered Frau Geldner, August Kaufmann.

These guests had no idea why they had been summoned to the Hofburg, but an imperial summons was not to be ignored.

Berthe waited until they were all seated in chairs added to the office for this very purpose. She would be the master of ceremonies. ‘Your discovery, your unveiling,’ her husband had insisted.

She took a deep breath.

‘This all started with the death of a head waiter,’ she said. ‘An insignificant sort of man, except to his loyal customers for whom he provided a comfortable, gemutlich third place. His murder would have escaped attention, listed as accidental, were it not for an eye witness, Herr Falk, who also subsequently was murdered. One assumes the ruthless Herr Klavan – who apparently talked with the unfortunate Herr Karl on the very day he was murdered – was fearful lest Falk might remember him, might somehow identify him if ever Karl’s death were suspected to be a homicide. So Falk had to die, too. Or was there another reason for Falk’s death? But we will get to that presently.’

As she spoke, Berthe eyed each of the guests in turn, searching their faces for a reaction, any change of expression. And she thought she saw one, then plunged on with her description.

‘Herr Falk subsequently came to my husband with the information of what he had witnessed. He feared going to the police, thinking they would suspect him. My husband looked into the matter, searching for people who might want Herr Karl out of the way. Motive seemed a problem, until it was discovered that Herr Karl was not all he seemed. Indeed, he was involved in a series of kickback schemes with his fellow workers and cafe suppliers. But would that be something kill for? Then, other events impinged. The investigation of Herr Karl’s death took second place to a more pressing matter. Someone was trying to kill the emperor.’

Another dramatic pause.

‘It must have been during that conversation with Herr Karl that Klavan produced this little slip of paper.’ She held up the paper with ‘Postling’ scrawled on it. ‘It is clear that he demanded of Herr Karl that he convince his old friend, Oberstabelmeister Czerny,’ she nodded at him, ‘to add Herr Postling to the list of pensioners for the Maundy Thursday ceremony. Herr Czerny himself confirmed that this was the case.’

She smiled in his direction, and Czerny solemnly nodded his head at her.

‘Yes,’ she said evenly, ‘that all makes perfect sense. One assumes that the dogged Klavan was able not only to learn of the close friends the Oberstabelmeister might have, but also to dredge up any dirt he could on them. And as we know, Herr Karl could be compromised in this respect with his numerous kickback schemes-’

‘I really do not know where this is going, Frau Meisner,’ Prince Montenuovo complained. ‘It would suffice to include it in a written report. I am sure none of us can spare our valuable time-’

‘Give the woman a moment,’ Franz Ferdinand said in a voice that commanded respect.

Drechsler shot Werthen a nervous glance, but the lawyer merely smiled in return.

‘As I was saying,’ Berthe continued, ‘Klavan likely blackmailed Herr Karl into talking his old friend into adding Herr Postling to the list for the foot-washing. Initially, Klavan planned to substitute Postling with a dying man sent from Serbia who would be in disguise and then detonate a small bomb just as the emperor was washing his feet, killing all those around him. Money was to be paid to the family of this man who was dying already of consumption. His death, however, came too soon, and Klavan had to change his plan to spreading the plague at the ceremony.’

She paused, again casting her eyes around the room, from the face of the prince, wearing an exasperated expression, to Gross smiling like a basilisk.

‘We know how that all ended. It was part good luck and part bravado.’ She smiled at Werthen.

‘And we know what became of Klavan. But in all the storm and thunder, the death of Herr Karl has been neglected. We assumed it must have been Klavan who killed him, again covering his tracks or to stop him from an attack of conscience. But now we see that is not really possible. You see, Herr Karl was killed before he could even speak with his old friend. Before he could solicit the name of Hermann Postling.’

‘What?’ Prince Montenuovo said, irritation oozing from him.

‘Ridiculous,’ Czerny spluttered. ‘He spoke with me on the phone about it the afternoon before he died.’

‘That is true, but he did not mention Postling’s name during that call.’ Berthe lifted a file and held it for all to see. ‘This is the testimony of one Ignatz Plauder, formerly the head clerk at the office of the Oberstabelmeister, as sent to the offices of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.’