The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) (5 page)

“I beg your pardon?” said Liebermann into the mouthpiece of the telephone.

There was a long pause and the line crackled.

“I’ve had him arrested,” said Rheinhardt. “He’s in a cell at the Schottenring station.” Rheinhardt recounted the conversation he had had with Brügel that morning. When he finished, Liebermann grumbled something incomprehensible, the tone of which communicated his dissatisfaction. “Come now, Max,” Rheinhardt continued. “It was inevitable, really. I would have preferred to wait a little longer, but Brügel’s argument was not entirely specious. A pattern is emerging. And Hauke is incorrigible. Haussmann saw him yesterday afternoon at the Imperial, sharing a table with a mature lady of august appearance. She was wrapped in furs and dripping with diamonds.”

“Hauke might well have poisoned his first two wives, and I agree that he has few, if any, redeeming qualities; however, the fact remains that the evidence against him with respect to the poisoning of the Countess Zigana is purely circumstantial.”

“May I remind you that there is such a thing as convergent evidence.”

“Indeed, but it is no substitute for direct evidence.”

The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable. Rheinhardt did not want to argue with his friend, and tried to change the subject. “How is that academic paper progressing? You know, the one about the woman who thinks that she is a wolf and eats the moon?”

“It’s still not finished,” said Liebermann tartly. “Oskar, I’d like to see Hauke again.”

Rheinhardt sighed. “Brügel will object.”

“Then tell him I intend to get Hauke to make a confession.”

“Well, he’s not going to believe that.”

“Oskar, your powers of persuasion are second to none. I have every confidence in you.”

Before Rheinhardt could answer, the line went dead.

Liebermann entered the cell and sat down next to Hauke, who was lying on a thin, grubby mattress that rested on a simple iron frame. A chamber pot was visible in the corner. Hauke turned his head slowly and raised his hand, delivering a lymphatic greeting. Liebermann waited, saying nothing, as he sometimes did with his patients. Eventually, Hauke cleared his throat and said, “I have been informed, Herr Doctor, that you are here today in order to extract from me a confession of guilt, by means of subtle psychological devices. Spare yourself the effort. A more efficient alternative would be to supply me with some good schnapps. That’ll loosen my tongue, I promise you.”

“I’m afraid that alcohol isn’t permitted. But I can offer you a cigar.”

Hauke extended his arm. “Thank you.”

Liebermann leaned forward and lit the end of the Trabuco. “I haven’t come here to extract a confession.”

“Then what are you here for?” Hauke inhaled deeply and coughed. “To ascertain whether or not I am of sound mind? Presumably it will be more difficult to put a noose around my neck if I am declared insane. Would you believe me if I told you that my maternal grandfather thought he was a pumpkin. They say it’s hereditary, don’t they—madness.”

“Well, they are probably mistaken.”

“Shame. I really do have two aunts in a mental institution.”

Hauke tapped some ash onto the floor.

“Why did you try to leave Vienna, Herr Hauke?”

“I wanted to avoid a character named Gernot Strub.”

“For what reason?”

“I owe him some money. Unfortunately, he is not the kind of man with whom one can settle differences easily. He is not very rational.”

Liebermann changed position and was momentarily distracted by the appearance of a cockroach from behind the chamber pot. “Did you poison your wife, Herr Hauke?”

“Which one, Herr Doctor?”

“Is that supposed to be amusing?”

“Mildly amusing, perhaps.” Hauke’s expression hardened. “No, Herr Doctor. I did not poison my wife.”

“Then who do you think did?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Why would anyone want to kill her? Can you think of a motive?”

“No one would want to kill her; she was entirely harmless.”

“What happened the night she died?”

“I have already had this conversation with Inspector Rheinhardt.”

“And when he questioned you, your responses were rather vague.”

“That’s because I couldn’t remember very much. I had drunk three bottles of Tokay.”

“Then let me recapitulate. You had dinner with your wife and she retired early. Later you followed, but you were so drunk that, on entering your bedroom, you collapsed. You did not regain consciousness until the next day, when the hotel manager, Herr Farkas, woke you up.”

“That is correct.”

“Why did your wife retire early?”

“I don’t know. She was probably tired. She was always tired.”

“There was a man who came to your table. I understand that the pianist overheard you quarreling.”

“Herr Doctor, Rheinhardt knows all about this.” Hauke sounded a little irritated. “The man’s name is Tausig. Pauli Tausig.”

“And you owed him money too?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A significant sum.”

Hauke finished the cigar and, without looking, tossed the smoking stub aside. It landed next to Liebermann’s shoe.

“Herr Hauke, could Tausig have poisoned your wife?”

“Why would he do that?”

“To ensure your future cooperation.”

“That’s more Strub’s style than Tausig’s.”

“What did Herr Tausig say to you?”

Hauke’s brow furrowed. “Something about his business being close to ruin, I think. I honestly can’t remember.”

Liebermann consulted his wristwatch. He did not have unlimited time. “Have you ever been hypnotized, Herr Hauke?”

“No.”

“It is sometimes possible to recall things under hypnosis that would otherwise be entirely inaccessible. Would you permit me to hypnotize you, Herr Hauke?”

“If you think it will help, I am, as they say, completely at your disposal.”

Liebermann dimmed the paraffin lamp. “I want you to stare up at a fixed point on the ceiling. Where those two cracks meet will do. As you concentrate on that fixed point, you will find that your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier.” Liebermann spoke softly, allowing his voice to become a soothing monotone. “You are feeling tired. You are sinking into a deep, deep, relaxing sleep.” After two or three minutes, Liebermann’s words began to take effect, and after ten minutes, Hauke’s eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow.

“Herr Hauke, you are sitting in the dining room at the Corvinus Hotel. It is the night of Saturday the third of February. What can you see?”

“Zigana.” Hauke’s lip curled. “Playing with her food.”

“What are your feelings toward her?”

“Revulsion. She is so … inert. I can’t stand the way she eats. She reminds me of a tortoise or a grub.”

“As you look at her, what are you thinking, Herr Hauke?”

“I’m thinking about her earrings.”

“What about them?”

“Their value.”

“What’s happening now?”

“I can see Tausig. He looks wet. It’s obviously raining outside. He comes to the table and apologizes to Zigana. I have to get him over to the piano in order to deal with him. He wants his money back. I let him believe that I am offended and that I will demand satisfaction. He hasn’t picked up a sabre in years, and I can see that actually he’s quite frightened. Before he runs off, I advise him to get an umbrella from the concierge. When I return to my table, the second course has already arrived.”

“What does your wife say?”

“Nothing. She lifts the noodles up and then lets them drop off her fork. My steak is rather tough, and I notice that Zigana’s meal looks rather good. I say, ‘If you’re not very hungry, I’ll have your goulash.’ And so, I reach across the table and swap our orders. She doesn’t object. She never does.”

Rheinhardt had given Farkas no prior notice of their visit. Consequently, when the inspector and Liebermann arrived at the Corvinus, the manager was understandably surprised. “You want to interview them all now?” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “Herr Bodor, Robi Danko, and Herr Rác.”

The chef, Bodor, and his young assistant, Danko, were already in the kitchen. Rác had to be summoned. When they were all assembled, Rheinhardt positioned himself in the middle of the floor and said, “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Once again, we are here with respect to matters pertaining to the sad demise of the Countess Zigana.”

“I read that the villain has been arrested,” said Bodor, a plump man with mottled cheeks and lank hair.

“That is true. Herr Hauke is being detained at the Schottenring station.”

“What a scoundrel,” said Rác. “To drown his own wife. It’s unspeakable. And she was such a fragile thing. The brute.”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “However, new evidence has come to light that suggests that we may have acted rashly. I am hoping that you”—Rheinhardt swept an inclusive hand around the kitchen—“may be able to help us clarify certain points at issue.”

“New evidence?” said Farkas. “What new evidence?”

Rheinhardt walked over to the oven and turned with unexpected grace on his heel. “Herr Rác, do you remember what Herr Hauke and the countess ordered to eat?”

“You mean, on that Saturday?” The waiter shrugged. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I do,” said Bodor. “The starter courses were soup and goose liver, and the main courses were goulash and steak. That’s right, isn’t it, Robi?” The chef looked at his assistant, Danko. “You made the mushroom sauce for the steak.”

The young man nodded but said nothing.

“Ah, yes,” said Rác. “Now I remember.”

Liebermann was observing the group closely. When Bodor had asked Danko about the mushroom sauce, the young man had glanced, ever so briefly, at Farkas.

The manager raised his finger to attract Rheinhardt’s attention.

“Inspector,” said Farkas, “you mentioned new evidence?”

“I did,” Rheinhardt replied. “That the Countess Zigana died in her bath is an indisputable fact. But she did not drown.” A penchant for histrionic gestures got the better of him, and Rheinhardt paused for effect. “She died as a result of respiratory failure.”

“She died naturally?” Rác sounded surprised.

“No,” Liebermann intervened. “She died because the muscles of her body—and particularly those necessary for the regulation of breath—had gone into spasm.”

“But why?” Rác persisted.

“Because of something she ate,” said Rheinhardt.

There was a short silence before Bodor exploded: “What? Are you accusing me of being negligent, Inspector? That is outrageous! Look at these surfaces, look how clean they are! All the food we serve at the Corvinus is fresh and of the highest quality. I go to the Naschmarkt every morning and select it myself from reputable stallholders!”

“You misunderstand me, Herr Bodor.” Rheinhardt offered an appeasing but rather fixed smile. “The countess did not die of food poisoning. Rather, there was poison in her food. Strychnine, to be precise.”

Liebermann watched Robi Danko shift uncomfortably. Again the youth glanced at Farkas.

The manager was impassive. He pulled at his thick black beard and said, “Are you sure, Inspector?”

“Quite sure.”

“Forgive me, Inspector,” said Farkas, “but I am rather confused. A few moments ago you seemed to be suggesting that Herr Hauke’s arrest might have been
precipitate. Why so? If the countess was poisoned, doesn’t this fact represent further incriminating evidence against him?”

“No,” said Rheinhardt. “We do not believe that Herr Hauke poisoned his wife.”

Farkas appeared frustrated. “Then what do you believe?” He spun his hand in the air, inviting Rheinhardt to elaborate. “I would be most grateful if you would speak plainly.”

“Herr Danko,” said Liebermann, stepping forward and addressing the chef’s assistant. “Did you have any reason to dislike Herr Hauke?”

“No,” the young man replied.

“Did you ever speak to him?”

“No. He never came into the kitchen.”

“And yet …” Liebermann took another step forward. “And yet it was you who prepared his steak sauce.”

“The sauce was poisoned?” Bodor looked from his assistant to Rheinhardt, and back again.

“Yes.” Rheinhardt replied.

“How can you be so sure?” Bodor asked.

“There are ways,” Liebermann interjected, with studied nonchalance.

“This isn’t really making very much sense,” said Rác. “If Herr Hauke’s steak sauce was poisoned, why was it the countess who died? The Countess Zigana had the goulash!”

“No,” said Liebermann. “She didn’t. Herr Hauke swapped their plates around.” He took another step closer to the chef’s assistant. Danko’s hands had begun to tremble, and beads of perspiration had appeared on his forehead.

“Robi?” whispered Bodor.

The young man opened his mouth and was just about to speak, when Farkas suddenly moved. He opened the door, leaped out of the kitchen, and slammed the
door shut. A distinctive combination of sounds followed: the scrape of two bolts and the loud click of a locking mechanism.

“Out of the way,” Rheinhardt shouted. He positioned himself centrally and kicked the scuffed wood several times, but the door did not yield to his violence.

“The door is reinforced,” said Bodor. “Because of the risk of fire. The guests must be protected. You won’t kick that door down.”

“In which case,” said Rheinhardt, addressing his fellow prisoners, “I would be most grateful if you would all join with me and shout ‘Help’ on the count of three.”

Farkas dashed to his office, removed a revolver from the safe, and dropped the weapon into his coat pocket. He then grabbed his briefcase and exited the hotel through the tradesman’s entrance. Near the university, he stopped off at a firm of lawyers and asked the clerk for the senior partner’s card. The clerk was more than happy to oblige. When Farkas arrived at the Schottenring station, he placed the same card on the duty officer’s desk and said, “I have an appointment to see my client, Herr Hauke.”

“We were not expecting you,” the officer replied, placing his finger under the printed name and reading out aloud,
“Herr Doctor Zamenhof.”