J. Jones - The Third Place

Well, Werthen would soon see how entertaining the man was.

It was a fair day, though blustery, and Werthen decided to walk, making his way through the First District and crossing over the Danube Canal at Ferdinandsbrucke to reach the Second District. Putting the investigation of Herr Karl’s death out of his mind for the time being, Werthen instead focused on the past pleasant weekend. Not that long ago, Werthen would hardly have used the word ‘pleasant’ to describe his parents’ visits, but the birth of Frieda had made a real difference, turning often interfering parents into doting grandparents. On Saturday evening Berthe had entertained the table with her description of the seance she’d attended. And then yesterday they had made a trip to the woods to see the progress of his parents’ new home. With winter all but passed, construction had begun again at the site, and it was beginning to take shape. It was less than a mile from Werthen’s own country house in Laab im Walde. At first this had rankled, but even that feeling of annoyance at being hemmed in had disappeared, and he was happy for their proximity.

I must be getting old, he thought as he proceeded down the busy Praterstrasse to the first street on the right. He consulted the address he had written down at the archive: Asperngasse 12/3. It almost took him back to the canal.

The street door was unlocked, so he did not bother to ring for the portier. It was an old and shabby baroque building, three stories high, but there were no stairs for him to climb, as apartment three was at the back of the ground floor, little more than a tram-sized slice of the building by the looks of it, with a grimy window on the gloomy courtyard. Werthen turned the mechanical bell on the door several times but no one responded. He went out to the courtyard and peered in the window.

‘He’ll be at the Wurstelprater,’ said a squeak of a voice from behind him.

Turning, he saw a thin little woman wearing the long white canvas housecoat of the Viennese portier. She stared at him with rheumy eyes.

‘Is this Herr Bachman’s apartment?’

She snorted at this. ‘Glorified clothespress, more like. But it’s all he can afford. So if you are another one of those debt collectors, I advise you to look for better pickings.’

‘No,’ Werthen said. ‘Actually, I have come with good news for Herr Bachman. He is the recipient of a legacy from a recently deceased uncle.’

This made her sallow face light up. ‘My. Herr Bachman an heir. Who would’ve thought? Maybe he can pay last month’s rent now.’

‘So he still lives here?’

She nodded but said nothing.

‘You mentioned the Prater,’ he said.

‘No. The Wurstelprater. But how do I know you aren’t a bill collector? He has to pay me first, you know.’

Werthen handed her his business card with ‘Wills and Trusts’ displayed more prominently than ‘Criminal Law and Private Inquiries’, and that did the trick.

‘He’s at the old Hanswurst puppet theater next to the Kino Lux. Unless he’s taking time out for a game or two in the taverns.’

She made a wiggling motion with her hand around an imaginary glass to indicate Herr Bachman enjoyed his wine.

Werthen returned to Praterstrasse and made his way along the street past the Carl theater and the Admiral Tegethoff monument to the Praterstern, the star-like confluence of six main avenues and the entrance to the former hunting grounds of the Prater. To his right was the Haupt Allee, leading to the noble Prater, where the first society liked to drive their equipages of an afternoon to see and be seen. Straight ahead was the entrance to the people’s Prater, or Wurstelprater, named after the Hanswurst puppet shows once so popular. Werthen’s first case as a private inquiries agent came to a climax in this precinct; he still remembered the shame and terror he’d felt for having put Berthe, then his fiancee, into the gravest danger. He passed the giant Ferris wheel, built for the 1898 Jubilee celebrations of Franz Josef’s fiftieth year on the throne. Just beyond that was the amusement park of Venice in Vienna – Werthen felt a special twinge at remembering the events of his earlier case – and then came the Kino Lux. Beyond that began a scattering of smaller wooden booths offering everything from pretzels to off-tune singers warbling about the Vienna Woods.

Werthen quickly found the small puppet theater amid these. Bachman – he assumed the man behind the makeshift stage was the person he sought – was in the midst of shuffling cards with a good deal of artistry, making them flow as a waterfall from one hand to the next. A nursemaid with her charge asleep in a pram was staring wide-eyed at the cards and the dexterity with which Bachman maneuvered them. She had the fresh looks of a country girl. Werthen doubted that her employers – most likely residents of the more fashionable Praterstrasse – intended her to take their child on a stroll in the rowdy Wurstelprater. She was on a lark and meant to enjoy herself.

Bachman suddenly stopped shuffling, slapping the cards onto the small waist-high stage, making a staccato beat as he spoke. ‘Aces,’ he said. ‘Where are you my charming aces, the noblest of cards? I shall find you, I know.’

With the pack almost dealt out, he finished the trick dramatically by suddenly calling out, ‘Here you are, my lovelies!’

Then, with his eyes closed and the cards face down in his hands, he slapped down four in a row – all aces.

The nursemaid’s eyes grew even wider at the bit of legerdemain; she could not help but clap her hands in glee, at which the baby in the pram awoke, crying. She suddenly remembered her duty and hurried the child off toward the less carnival-like regions of the Prater.

‘That was very fine of you to leave a bit of trinkgeld ,’ Bachman shouted sarcastically at her. Then, noticing Werthen watching him at a distance, he said, ‘I won’t bite, you know. You can come closer. I enjoy performing for free.’

Werthen tipped his homburg at the card sharp and approached. ‘Herr Bachman?’

This made the man look up from the deck he was again shuffling. ‘Never heard of the man.’

‘Don’t worry. I haven’t come to collect a debt.’

Bachman eyed him closely. ‘No, I suppose you haven’t. By the looks of you, you’ve come about other quasi-legal matters, though. The hat, the coat, the way you carry yourself. Let me guess. A mortician.’ He laughed at his little joke, and the laughter turned into a deep, wracking cough that brought tears to the man’s eyes.

Recovering, Bachman said, ‘A lawyer, to be sure. I can’t afford lawyers.’

‘I haven’t come to offer my services. I’ve come to ask you about Herr Karl.’

‘Does he have a last name?’

‘I think you know who I mean.’

Bachman set the cards down. ‘You really don’t remember me, do you, Advokat Werthen?’

This took Werthen aback. ‘Do I know you?’

‘It was a number of years ago, now, but there you have it. Story of my life. I remember people, but I’m not the sort people remember.’

Except for his red, pitted, bulbous nose, Bachman was right: he was nondescript. For the life of him, Werthen could not place the man.

‘Graz,’ Bachman hinted. ‘The criminal justice system, to be specific.’

Had he been a client? Werthen would surely remember … And then he had it.

‘Bachman. Advokat Bachman.’

‘The very one,’ Bachman said. ‘Though they did take my license away, if you remember. I’m not a lawyer any longer.’

‘Yes,’ Werthen said, now remembering that Bachman had been caught improperly influencing a witness in an attempt to get a wealthy client off. He had been lucky to escape with expulsion from the Lawyers’ Chamber and not a prison term himself.