J. Jones - The Third Place

What he was looking at was a re-enactment of the 1805 Battle of Austerlitz, in which wily Napoleon destroyed the Third Coalition, taking Austria out of the war and effectively putting an end to the Holy Roman Empire.

Werthen smiled at himself, surprised that his schoolboy history lessons had stuck this long.

‘Herr Karl seems to have had a singular focus,’ Werthen said.

‘Yes, he did enjoy his little hobby. Spent hours with his “comrades” as he called his toy soldiers. If he were setting up a new order of battle, I might not see him for days.’

‘Did friends ever come to visit?’

‘Herr Andric had his clients at the cafe. He always said that was enough socializing for him. He would go to Association meetings, occasional dinners with the other head waiters. And there was the Oberstabelmeister, of course.’

She dropped this bomb with smug aplomb.

‘The Master of the Staff,’ Werthen said, incredulously, ‘for the emperor?’

She nodded importantly. ‘Yes, Oberstabelmeister Johann Czerny. The very one. He and Herr Andric were school chums, it turns out. Both went out in the world as young boys and made something of themselves. Well, one more than the other, but still …’

‘And there were no other friends? I mean, someone who might feel they have a claim in the estate?’

She shook her head at this as if it were a fantastical proposition. ‘We would sit sometimes together of an evening. He was a sly one, Herr Andric. Seemed solemn as a corpse, but he could tell a tale or two of things his customers got up to. Made me laugh till my sides hurt sometimes. There was this one fellow he caught cheating at cards, if you can believe it. Made his living at Tarock. Had to ban the man from the cafe. Made quite a scene, Herr Andric said.’

Werthen perked up at this mention, remembering Kraus’s list of possible suspects.

‘Did Herr Andric mention him again? Was the man causing any problems for him?’

She shrugged. ‘Not that he mentioned.’ She tilted her head and squinted an eye at him. ‘Curious type, aren’t you?’

‘It’s the curse of being a lawyer. Always wanting to get to the bottom of things.’

Werthen quickly checked his notes from last night and found the name of the card sharp, Herr Bachman. He made a note, pushing him to the top of the list.

How one could have a ‘soiree’ in the middle of the afternoon was a mystery to Berthe, but that was what Princess Dumbroski chose to call this little gathering. Granted, with the brocade curtains closed in the drawing room of her Ringstrasse apartment, it did seem like nighttime. The medium needed the darkness; it was explained to the assembled guests.

Among these was Rosa Mayreder, who invited Berthe to accompany her at the last moment. And with Karl’s parents in town and eager to spend time with Frieda, Berthe felt no compunctions about accepting. The room was quite full of other guests, as well, several of whom Berthe recognized and others whom Frau Mayreder needed to identify for her. In the former category was the journalist, Herr Sonnenthal, suitor of Karl’s secretary, Erika Metzinger. He was in earnest conversation with the artist whose work they’d viewed last night, Emile Orlik, and he in turn was accompanied by the artist Gustav Klimt, who had once been a client of theirs. Dressed in a long, flowing caftan, he winked a hello to Berthe. At his side, and fairly towering over the stumpy, burly artist, was his mistress and muse, the designer, Emilie Floge, also attired in one of her caftan creations, in bold, flowing patterns. The two of them were like exotic flowers amid the somberly attired remaining guests.

Among the other assorted people gathered at Princess Dumbroski’s was a young and rather handsome man in proper frock coat, whose rosy cheeks made him look as though he were still studying at the gymnasium.

‘Baron Anton Kiss,’ Frau Mayreder informed her when Berthe pointed him out. ‘Son of the gnadige Frau. ’

The ‘dear lady’ in question was, as all Vienna knew, Katharina Schratt, Burgtheater actress and special friend of the emperor for over twenty years.

Guests helped themselves to a sideboard with sherry and Madeira in cut-glass carafes and canapes from Demel’s. Princess Dumbroski fashioned herself a cosmopolitan, flitting from one property to the next in London, Paris and Vienna, where she had made her home for the past year. No one knew the definitive story of the mysterious princess who had so suddenly appeared on the international social scene. Some said that she was of Ruthenian aristocracy; others that she was heiress to a rail fortune, and still others that she had been the most highly paid courtesan in Petersburg. The one thing that was clear was that Princess Dumbroski was very wealthy and could well afford such extravagance.

Truth be told, Berthe decided to attend the soiree not for the promised seance but to see the notorious dueling princess up close. She had scandalized all of Vienna upon her arrival, fighting a duel with a minor countess over the flower arrangements for a musical event. The two women had fought topless with swords, it was reported, and all the seconds as well as medical attendants had been women. Needless to say, Princess Dumbroski had won the duel, injuring the countess in the arm after having herself sustaining a cut to her face, a scar she proudly bore now as a badge of honor.

Just then, the princess swept into the room, accompanied by a tall, handsome woman with a placid expression on her face.

‘ Mes cher amis ,’ the princess began, her voice carrying to every corner of the room. The buzz of conversation abruptly ended; eyes turned toward the hostess.

‘I am so pleased you could all come today, for we are in for a treat, I promise. I am sure our illustrious guest, Madame Helene Smith, needs no introduction. She has channeled messages from Mars, allowed us to communicate with Victor Hugo and other greats on the other side. And today she has agreed to channel a voice from beyond for one of us. So, without further ceremony, I give you Madame Helene Smith.’

There was a polite but subdued round of applause. Berthe wondered if the guests had been aware that they might become more than curious observers to this performance. The medium nodded her head slightly at this applause, but said nothing. She sat at a small table placed in front of a wall of books in leather bindings and began taking deep breaths. A servant turned down the gas lamps in the room until the medium was barely visible. A nervous cough as though at a musical performance, then those gathered also became quiet. All eyes fixed on Helene Smith, who continued to take deep breaths.

Suddenly her head slumped forward as if she had been violently struck. Someone let out a gasp. Her head lolled like that for a moment, then began to move in small circles. A thumping sound startled Berthe. Smith must have kicked one of the table legs, but it was too dark to see clearly.

A hoarse, gruff male voice emitted from the woman’s mouth: ‘ Ki vagy te? ’

Frau Mayreder and Berthe exchanged glances. ‘Hungarian?’ Frau Mayreder whispered.

‘ Ki vagy te? ’ Said more imploringly this time. ‘ Honnan valo vagy? ’

Guests standing nearby stirred nervously at the otherworldly sound of this voice.

Then it was as if Smith split in two, for her somnolent self straightened, turning her head to the right, eyes closed. ‘I am a friend,’ she said in heavily accented German. ‘ Barat vagyok. ’ After a moment’s pause: ‘ Beszelsz nemet? ’

Berthe, from a trip to Budapest, knew this phrase. It meant, ‘ Do you speak German? ’

Smith turned her head to the left as if replying to her own question: ‘ Igen ,’ the raspy voice replied. ‘Yes. Why have you awoken me?’