The Third Place Page 6

  ‘How may I help you, sir?’ It was an art form to be able to turn what should be a courteous question into a threat.

  ‘I would like to see Oberstabelmeister Czerny.’

  The clerk, whose name by the tag on his coat was called Plauder, seemed to have trouble understanding him.

  ‘Czerny,’ Werthen said again, louder this time. ‘I would like to schedule an appointment.’

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ Herr Plauder said, squinting at Werthen. ‘In regards to what? This is a rather busy time of the year for the Herr Oberstabelmeister with Easter approaching.’

  Werthen felt the hairs at the back of his head bristle at the man’s imperiousness.

  ‘In regards to a private inquiry,’ he said, setting down one of his business cards on the counter separating him from the clerk.

  The man stared at it incredulously. Werthen gazed around the sterile and lifeless-looking office. In apartments all around him in the Hofburg was opulence and luxury: Gobelin tapestries, star parquet floors, crystal chandeliers. Not a trace of it here, however. He could be in the provincial offices of a postmaster. A photograph of Franz Joseph in the regalia of office and striding at the head of a procession was the one ornament in the room.

  Plauder looked up at Werthen. ‘Herr Oberstabelmeister Czerny has no availability until after Easter.’

  ‘You might tell him it is in regards to his old friend, Herr Karl Andric.’

  ‘I do not tell the Oberstabelmeister anything. He is in command.’

  ‘Relay a message, then,’ Werthen insisted. ‘It is rather urgent.’

  The man sniffed once, turned the card over and then back to its face, slipping it across the counter to Werthen. ‘Write the message on the back. I will put it in his box.’

  Werthen did so then handed the card back to the clerk, who made no move to pick it up.

  As he left the office, Werthen decided that he perhaps might need to consult an old ally with a bit of influence with the Hofburg, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, for whom he and his wife Berthe had already accepted a number of commissions.

  At the office, Fräulein Metzinger was at her desk already and young Franzl was bundled up, a packet of letters in his hand ready to be delivered.

  ‘There is someone waiting for you,’ she said, looking a bit flustered. Fräulein Metzinger was not the flustered type.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘He wouldn’t give his name, only his rank. A lieutenant major.’

  ‘He looks grand in his uniform,’ Franzl piped in.

  ‘I am sure he does,’ Werthen said, taking a stock of correspondence his secretary had placed in his in-tray.

  Werthen opened the door to his office, a knot of expectation in his stomach. He knew from long experience that it is only the criminal class who do not feel such expectation when meeting with authorities; this knowledge, however, did little to calm him.

  The officer was seated in the chair facing Werthen’s desk, a black helmet fitted with a gilt double-eagle insignia held in his lap. He wore a smart-looking red tunic with shiny brass buttons, white buckskin breeches, high black boots and a long sword at his side, all of which bespoke a member of the Trabant Life Guards, the bodyguards of the emperor. The uniform bore the high stiff collar that covered most of the neck – another sign of the personal staff, for such a collar had become regulation attire after it had deflected an assassin’s knife half a century before when a Hungarian nationalist had attacked the young emperor.

  The man immediately stood, ramrod stiff, the helmet – its four-inch pike on top – tucked automatically under his arm now. He nodded briskly at Werthen.

  ‘Herr Advokat, my apologies for coming unannounced like this. It is, however, a matter of some urgency.’

  Werthen motioned toward the chair. ‘Please, sit and tell me what it is, Lieutenant Major …’

  ‘Simmreich, sir. Lieutenant Major Bernhard Simmreich. And if it is all the same to you, I would rather we discussed the matter once we are underway.’

  ‘Underway? Where to?’

  ‘Schönbrunn.’

  Simmreich said nothing else – that one word let Werthen know this was an imperial summons. He controlled a sudden urge to laugh, something he often did when nervous. Probably not something this young and earnest officer would understand, however.

  ‘Well, then, shall we be on our way?’

  Fräulein Metzinger cast him a concerned look as he told her he had an urgent meeting and would be back later. Once on the street, the officer steered him to a coach and pair of horses waiting nearby. There was nothing ostentatious about the carriage; Werthen had not even noticed it when arriving just moments before. The driver was not dressed in uniform, but rather looked like a fiaker driver. When they were settled on the leather benches inside, the carriage rattled out of the warren of cobbled streets of the First District to the Ringstrasse and thence south to Babenburgerstrasse, turning off the Ring and reaching Mariahilferstrasse, which would lead to the country palace of the Habsburgs – Schönbrunn.

  Simmreich sat stiffly and said nothing.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about now?’ Werthen finally asked.

  ‘I have been instructed to tell you that Prince Montenuovo will receive you at the palace.’

  Werthen tipped his head in appreciation of this bit of information. Montenuovo was one of the most powerful men in the empire, though his rank as second to the master of the court did not reflect that. He had his hand in everything that had to do with court matters or the life of Emperor Franz Josef. Werthen had had dealings with Montenuovo before, and knew him to be as wily as a fox. That he was an arch enemy of Franz Ferdinand, nephew to the emperor and heir apparent to the Austrian throne, and a man with whom Werthen had also had dealings, sometimes complicated matters for Werthen.

  ‘I hope to find the prince in good health,’ Werthen said.

  ‘I am sure you will,’ the lieutenant major replied.

  They were the last words spoken for the duration of the trip.

  Finally arriving at the summer palace, Werthen could see that the snowfall was heavier here near the outskirts of town; crews in leather aprons were out in the immense central court in front of the palace scraping snow off the pebbled approach road. Liveried servants breathing vapor bubbles awaited the carriage, and soon Werthen found himself escorted down a long back hallway to the private apartments of this vast palace complex of fourteen hundred separate rooms. He was led into a room whose walls were covered in the red brocade of the imperial apartments, furnished with the white and gold of Blondel chairs and desk the emperor personally prescribed. Werthen’s trips to Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s headquarters at the Belvedere let him know that the archduke’s accommodations were paltry in comparison. Here was the seat of power. Real power.

  Simmreich, still without further explanation, took Werthen’s hat and coat, though he would rather have kept the coat in the glacial climes of this room. A fire burned in a baroque fireplace, but as its heat rose to the twenty-foot molded ceilings, the fire did little to take the chill off the air. The lieutenant major motioned him to be seated, and he did so as Simmreich slipped out of the room. Werthen took a deep breath, wondering what Prince Montenuovo – and by implication, the Emperor Franz Josef – could want with him. The door by which Simmreich had taken his leave opened once again and into the room came a familiar figure.

  ‘By Jesus, it is you, Werthen! They’ve got us both.’

  Werthen could not help but smile at the unexpected arrival of his colleague and sometimes partner in detection, the eminent criminologist, Dr Hanns Gross.

  Werthen stood and put out his hand as the two approached. ‘It seems they do, Gross. It must be something very urgent to call you away from your professorship in Prague.’

  Shaking hands, they both took the measure of the other.

  ‘You’re looking fit—’

  They spoke at the same time and smiled at this. It helped Werthen soothe his nerves to have G
ross on hand, as well.

  The door opened again and in walked Prince Montenuovo, a punctilious little man dressed in the eighteenth-century livery of a court councilor.

  ‘So, you have been reunited,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you both again.’

  ‘Save the pleasantries for later, Prince,’ Gross blurted out. ‘What’s this all about?’

  Werthen all but winced at the abruptness of Gross’s query. The famed criminologist was not one for decorum.

  ‘As you wish, gentlemen.’ Montenuovo smiled with his mouth, not his eyes, and sat in a chair behind a large expanse of gilt desk. He made no offer of a seat to them, but Gross was not waiting for an invitation, dropping into a chair like a man exhausted from a long march. Werthen remained standing for a moment.

  ‘Sit down, Werthen,’ Gross commanded, as if he were master of the court.

  ‘Yes,’ Prince Montenuovo intoned, unruffled by Gross’s brusqueness. ‘Do take a seat, Herr Advokat.’ He placed his delicate hands on the desk in front of him, interlocking the long fingers. ‘Now, to the matter at hand. You have been summoned on a matter of the utmost urgency and secrecy.’

  The prince paused dramatically to see what effect this pronouncement would have.

  ‘One assumes so,’ Gross said with a degree of irritation. ‘Otherwise why would I be whisked away from pressing duties in Prague, or my esteemed friend here summoned like some common lackey?’

  This comment seemed to sail over the prince’s head like an evil wind to which he paid scant attention.

  ‘I must first confirm your willingness to aid the empire in this matter. And that you will do so with the utmost discretion.’

  Werthen made to speak, but once again Gross took charge. ‘Well, of course we are, my good man. We’re both loyal subjects.’

  ‘Advokat Werthen?’ Prince Montenuovo nodded at him.

  ‘Doktor Gross in this case speaks for me, as well.’

  ‘There. You see?’ Gross thundered. ‘Now, let’s get on with it. What matter of state is there to deal with? Missing documents at the General Staff? A spy in the Ministry of War? Something we can get our teeth into, I hope.’

  Prince Montenuovo again smiled with his mouth only, an expression that looked much like a grimace. ‘Nothing quite so melodramatic, I am afraid, though nonetheless important to the empire. It is a matter of a missing letter.’

  ‘Ah, a missive from one head of state to another,’ Gross said. ‘Information that could tip the balance of power.’

  This time Montenuovo actually did grimace, Werthen noticed.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said. His hands were still interlocked on the desk in front of him, but now the knuckles were turning quite white.

  ‘Perhaps you could apprise us of the situation without further surmises on our part,’ Werthen said diplomatically, earning another scowl from Gross.

  ‘Indeed. Yes. I assume you both know of Frau Katharina Schratt?’

  ‘Wonderful actress,’ Gross said, not offering to make it easier for Prince Montenuovo.

  ‘Yes, of course. The star of the Burgtheater. But I also assume you know of her … friendship with the emperor.’

  Gross continued his little game. ‘I rather thought she was the favorite of our beloved empress, may she rest in peace.’

  ‘Yes, there was that …’ Montenuovo began.

  Werthen finally came to his aid. ‘We, like most of Vienna, know about the emperor’s friendship with the good lady for over two decades. And of rumors that such friendship may extend beyond the platonic.’

  ‘This missing letter, then,’ Gross said, ‘is from one to the other, I assume.’

  ‘From the emperor to Frau Schratt,’ Montenuovo explained.

  ‘And it contains some evidence to indicate the non-platonic nature of their friendship?’

  ‘There you have it, Doktor Gross. A missive of a delicate nature that should not fall into the wrong hands. The newspapers, for example. We have press censorship here, of course, but were the letter to be sold to a foreign newspaper …’

  ‘But the emperor must surely be forgiven a dalliance following the tragic assassination of his wife,’ Werthen said.

  The other two were silent and he slowly realized what a naïf he was.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It was written while Empress Elisabeth was still alive. Is that it?’

  Montenuovo nodded. ‘A keepsake. A memento that Frau Schratt kept locked in her desk drawer for these many years with the waxing and waning of the special friendship. She was quite put out, you know, following the empress’s death, that she was no longer protected from intrigue and calumny. Others in the royal family did not really care to see her involvement in public affairs nor her influence over the emperor.’

  Montenuovo made another dramatic pause. ‘It was a difficult time for the emperor, but lately they have made up. And now she has discovered this missing document. Were it to fall into the wrong hands it could prove more than a mere embarrassment.’

  ‘What’s in it, for God sake?’ Gross said.

  ‘The emperor does not say, merely that it must be found.’

  ‘And you expect us to retrieve it?’ Gross asked. ‘When did it go missing?’

  The prince shrugged. ‘Frau Schratt is rather vague about the timing. It appears she last saw it about a week ago. Then, having cause yesterday to examine files in the locked drawer where the prized letter was kept, she discovered it had disappeared.’

  ‘Not merely mislaid?’ Werthen asked.

  Montenuovo shook his head. ‘She is sure of that. Apparently she went through the documents several times. It is missing. Purloined, one assumes.’

  Werthen was a realist; there seemed little chance of finding the letter after several days had transpired, let alone a week.

  ‘Why us?’ Gross inquired, interrupting Werthen’s thoughts.

  Prince Montenuovo looked surprised. ‘Well, because you have proven yourself in the past to be of service to the royal house.’

  ‘Why not the emperor’s own security detail. Or the police?’

  ‘The emperor is fearful that such a delicate matter will get out. The more who know of the missing letter, the greater the likelihood that it will become known. Loose lips.’

  Werthen was about to say that there was a greater likelihood of the letter being made public by whomever stole it, but Prince Montenuovo explained further.

  ‘Also, quite frankly, I believe that he does not want to lose face with his inner circle. He is their father figure, the old emperor. He has no desire to display to them feet of clay.’

  Gross nodded at this, but seemed unconvinced.

  ‘And there has been no letter to the court to extort money for the return of the letter?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘None. Truth be told, we would be willing to pay far more than any newspaper. Thus …’

  ‘The supposition is,’ Gross said, finishing the prince’s thought, ‘that whoever stole the letter is not after money, but mischief. He or she wishes to inflict pain and embarrassment on the emperor.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Was there any sign of a break-in at Frau Schratt’s residence?’ Werthen asked.

  ‘That we leave for you gentlemen to discover,’ Montenuovo responded. ‘The good frau is expecting you at her Gloriettegasse residence this very morning. You can ascertain such information as you require. You will accept the commission?’

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ Gross asked sarcastically.

  ‘Of course we will, Prince Montenuovo,’ Werthen said for them both.

  ‘That is well. As I have said, it is a matter of the utmost urgency. The emperor will see to your university leave, Doktor Gross. And you will be recompensed for any case work you must leave for the time being, Advokat Werthen.’

  Which meant, Werthen told himself, that the matter of Herr Karl’s death would be placed on the back burner for now. But there was nothing for it; the emperor, perforce, came first, even if it seemed a paltry domestic matter. After
all, it was the twentieth century. Who cared? Everyone knew men had affairs; most certainly powerful men. What damning information could the letter contain? he wondered.

  ‘Well, it seems you have things all arranged, Prince,’ Gross said, rising without waiting to be dismissed. ‘I suppose we will be on our way.’

  Montenuovo remained seated. ‘We will expect daily briefings, beginning this afternoon. You may use my private telephone for messages.’

  He handed across an embossed card with the double eagle prominent on it.

  ‘You take it, Werthen,’ Gross said. ‘You know how I am with bits of paper.’

  The prince blanched at this comment, but Gross was oblivious to the offense he gave.

  ‘You will also each need an authorizing letter from me as proof of your royal commission.’

  He handed each such a letter now, and this time Gross said nothing, merely tucking it into his coat pocket.

  The lieutenant major again saw them out. There was a private fiaker now awaiting them at the front of the palace.

  ‘At least the good frau had the decency to find a home in close proximity to the summer palace,’ Gross said with heavy irony as he heaved his bulk into the carriage. It was well known that the emperor had purchased the villa for Frau Schratt exactly because of this proximity. He had a special door cut in the walls around his grounds so that he could easily visit the actress for a breakfast tête-à-tête.

  EIGHT

  They made small talk as the fiaker left the palace grounds, turning right on Hietzinger Hauptstrasse and over the bridge into the cottage district beyond, and past the famed Dommayer’s Casino where Johann Strauss debuted. Gross was elaborating on his latest article on the use of fingerprints in a Prague murder case as the fiaker turned right onto Gloriettegasse, a quiet, tree-lined lane full of green-shuttered baroque villas. Frau Schratt’s was at number nine, painted in Habsburg yellow, as were most of the other villas on the street.

  There were definite benefits to being the special friend of the emperor, Werthen thought, as he and Gross descended the carriage and approached the front door of the villa. The actress could hardly afford such a place on her ten thousand gulden per year pension from the Burgtheater.