The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) (3 page)

Mathias traced two triangles on her face with his forefinger, one on either side of her nose. “Good bone structure. She would have been very pretty when she was younger, so don’t sneer.”

“I wasn’t sneering.”

“Yes, you were.”

Rheinhardt huffed, lit a cigar, and gestured at the areas of discoloration. “Bruises?”

Mathias picked up a magnifying glass and examined each in turn.

“Yes.”

“She suffered from melancholia. Her husband says she committed suicide.” Rheinhardt squeezed the upturned ends of his mustache to make sure that they were still sharp.

“But you think he held her down?”

“They were known to have had arguments. The maids at the hotel heard raised voices. Insults. And he is a man of singular peculiarity. He seemed completely unmoved by his wife’s death.”

“Well, it’s perfectly possible that these bruises were made by the husband. See here, the pattern is quite distinctive. This is where he grabbed her. The marks correspond with each digit.” Mathias demonstrated.

“And when were they produced?”

“The small hours of this morning. Or last night.” Mathias bit his lower lip. “Or sometime during the preceding two or three days.”

Rheinhardt exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You cannot be more specific?”

Mathias placed his magnifying glass down on the autopsy table. “No.”

Rheinhardt considered the old man’s answer and then said, “Professor, may I use your telephone?”

Rheinhardt entered the General Hospital and walked briskly through its carbolic-scented thoroughfares until he came to the Department of Psychiatry. He found his young friend, Dr. Max Liebermann, sitting in a small, smoky office.

“I’m glad I caught you,” said Rheinhardt. “And thank you so much for waiting.”

Liebermann indicated the surface of his desk, which was covered with screwed-up balls of paper, textbooks, and academic journals.

“Not at all. I’m writing up a case study for publication. Or trying to, at least—an eighteen-year-old woman who believes that she is a
varcolac
.”

“A what?”

“A wolflike being that eats the moon.”

“Ah,” said Rheinhardt. He decided that this versatile monosyllable would have to suffice. “May I sit?” Liebermann cleared a space for him, and the portly inspector lowered himself onto a plain wooden stool. “I’d like you to interview someone for me.” Rheinhardt recounted what had transpired that morning and passed his friend some photographs. “Countess Zigana Nadazdy-Hauke. Age fifty-eight. She married her first husband in 1867. They had a son, Istvan, who died in a riding accident three years ago, and shortly after that, she lost her husband to scarlet fever. While visiting the thermal baths at Merano in 1902, she met Oktav Hauke, whom she married after a brief but passionate romance.” Rheinhardt handed his friend another photograph.

“Was this taken recently?” Liebermann asked.

“This morning.”

“Herr Hauke is very young.”

“Thirty-three.”

“There is some connection, no doubt, between the loss of the countess’s son and her subsequent marriage to a man of similar age.”

“Hauke says that she was suffering from melancholia and committed suicide. But there are bruises on her body and the marriage was not happy. Moreover, Hauke had been married twice before.”

Liebermann smiled. “To mature women of independent means?”

“Both of whom died prematurely. His first wife was the widow of a successful importer of leather goods, and her children, two daughters, contested their mother’s will. There was a whiff of scandal surrounding the proceedings, but the sisters’ challenge was not upheld. The second wife was also a widow. This time, a childless baroness.”

“How did you come by this information?”

“The newspaper archive.”

“Where can I find Hauke now?” Liebermann handed the photographs back to Rheinhardt.

“He’s still staying at the Corvinus. I have told him to remain there for the time being and not to leave Vienna.”

A plaintive cry resonated down the corridor. This was followed by footsteps and the rattle and chime of bottles on a cart. Liebermann was not distracted. “How did he live before he embarked upon his career as a fortune hunter? Do we know?”

“He was a cavalry officer. Honorably discharged after being shot in the leg during an operation in Serbia.”

Rheinhardt offered his friend a cigar. Liebermann took it, and they both smoked for a while.

“There was something about Hauke that troubled me,” Rheinhardt continued, “and it wasn’t until some time after talking to him that I was able to put my finger on it. He struck me as a callous, vain man, but his coldness and arrogance seemed to exceed the limits of normality. His lack of natural feeling was almost … pathological.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair. “Such individuals have been written about since ancient times. Theophrastus, a disciple of Aristotle, wrote of unscrupulous
men; Lombroso has described born criminals; and in England they speak of moral imbecility. But I am not convinced that a lack of conscience can be classed as an illness, as such.”

Rheinhardt was not inclined to be drawn into a philosophical discussion about diagnosis. He scrawled the address of the Corvinus on a scrap of paper and handed it to his friend. “If you could see Hauke tomorrow, I would be most grateful.”

It was one o’clock in the morning. Oktav Hauke was sitting in a wingback leather armchair at his club, sipping a chilled Unicum. The spirit glass was frosted and contained a dark concoction that possessed an arresting, bittersweet taste. Hauke had developed a weakness for it since the early days of his marriage to the countess. In Hungary, Unicum herb liqueur was something of an institution and was supposed to have medicinal properties. Court physicians had been known to prescribe it as a remedy for ailing kings.

The flavor of the liquor revived memories of the countess’s castle and seigniory. It all belonged to him now. Unfortunately, he had rather neglected the maintenance of the castle, particularly the roof and plumbing, and as for the land, a great deal of it had already been sold off to service his debts. In fact, he wasn’t sure whether the countess’s estate represented an asset or a liability anymore. She, of course, had been blissfully unaware of their precarious financial situation. He had made sure of that.
Don’t worry your pretty little head
, he had said disarmingly.
I’ll take care of things
. And she had smiled and expressed her appreciation with a feeble squeeze of his hand.

Perhaps he should go back and sort it all out? Auction the contents of the castle? Write some more promissory notes? Getting away from Vienna would also serve another purpose. It would interpose a substantial distance between himself and idiots like Tausig, bourgeois parvenus who had been too easily impressed by his aristocratic connection and too eager to invest in baseless schemes and enterprises.

What had happened to all that money?

It was remarkable how much could be frittered away on a baize table, at the races, or by making opportunistic wagers with like-minded individuals. And there were so many other costly activities. Actresses and singers had such high expectations these days. They always wanted the very best. He had become accustomed to their wit and beauty, their modern outlook, their worldly “talents,” so much so that he
would never again find the company of foolish shopgirls diverting—even less the painted harlots who loitered beneath the gas lamps of Spittelberg.

He was roused from his thoughts by Van Campen, a fellow club member who had relieved him of five hundred kronen only the other day.

“I am so sorry, Herr Hauke,” said Van Campen. “I just heard.”

“Well,” said Hauke, doing his utmost to simulate the manner of a man stricken by grief but bravely accepting the exigencies of fate. “There it is.”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting your wife, the countess,” Van Campen continued, “but I know that a light has gone out.”

“Indeed,” Hauke replied.

An awkward silence ensued.

Hauke took out his wallet and counted the notes inside. He cleared his throat and said, in a slightly higher register, “I was wondering: Would you be interested in giving me the opportunity to win back some of my losses?”

“At this sad time?”

“It’ll distract me. Think of it as a favor, an act of kindness.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes. Quite sure. I’ve been sitting here thinking about the meaning of misfortune like a philosopher. What good does such thinking do? In the end, life has no purpose. But a game of cards …” Hauke raised himself from his seat, tipped the remainder of his Unicum down his throat, and looked eagerly toward the gaming room. “That is another matter!”

Although it was past midday and the smells of fragrant preparations were rising up from the kitchen, Hauke was still in his dressing gown. He had not attended to his toilet, and his chin was covered in stubble. His hair was an unruly mass of blond curls, and his sclera were so inflamed, they might have been infected.

Liebermann introduced himself and explained that he was a colleague of Inspector Rheinhardt. There was a brief exchange of civilities, and Hauke gestured for Liebermann to enter. “Forgive me, Herr Doctor,” said Hauke, massaging his temples. “I have a splitting headache. If you mean to question me, might I lie down?”

“As you wish,” Liebermann replied.

He followed Hauke into the bedroom. Hauke climbed onto the mattress, made himself comfortable, and closed his eyes. Liebermann found a chair and placed it next to the headboard. He was quite accustomed to conducting psychoanalytic treatment sessions with supine patients, so he was not in any way perturbed by Hauke’s odd behavior.

After some preliminary remarks, Liebermann said, “Herr Hauke, did you dream last night?”

“What?”

“Did you have any dreams?”

“I don’t have dreams.” Hauke’s speech was slow and listless.

“Everybody has dreams.”

“Not me. I used to have dreams as a child, but they became less and less frequent as I got older. I don’t dream at all now. Anyway, what’s dreaming got to do with anything?” An eddy of peevish irritability animated his question.

Liebermann was forced to adopt a more conventional approach.

“I understand that your wife suffered from melancholia.”

“That is correct.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as we were acquainted.”

“You knew that her spirits were low, yet you still chose to marry her?”

“She seemed happy enough when we met, and very eager to please. I liked that. However, when we returned from our honeymoon in Monte Carlo, she was tearful and curiously passive.”

“You told Inspector Rheinhardt that you took her to see a doctor.”

“Yes. Alfred Sartorius. Do you know him? He has a practice in the ninth district. He gave her suspensions, recommended long walks, and talked a great deal. None of it did any good, and his bills were quite stupendous. If I’d know when I was younger what a doctor can get away with charging, I might have considered going into medicine myself.” Hauke drummed his fingers on the eiderdown as if he were getting bored.

“Did you know that your wife’s body was covered in bruises?”

“No. I didn’t.” The drumming stopped.

“How do you think she got them?”

“She probably got them from me.”

Liebermann waited, expecting Hauke to qualify this frank admission, but nothing was forthcoming. In due course, Liebermann spoke again. “When you say that your wife got the bruises from you, what do you mean exactly?”

“A few days ago we had an argument. A rather heated argument, as it happens. She lost control, and things became rather physical. It was necessary to restrain her in order to avoid an accident. I was thinking of her safety as much as my own. Afterward, she apologized and we made love. You know how it is with women.”

“What was the cause of your argument?”

“I had sold some of her jewelry. A pendant that had been in her former husband’s family for some time … a gold bracelet from Prague.”

“And she was angry with you?”

“No, I wouldn’t say she was angry with me. I would say she was furious.” Hauke emitted a low chuckle, but his expression did not soften.

“Why did you sell her heirlooms, Herr Hauke?”

“I needed the money.”

“What for?”

“To pay a debt.”

“To whom?”

Hauke dismissed the question with a wave of his hand and clearly felt no obligation to provide an answer.

“There was a substantial age difference, between you and the countess.”

“Twenty-five years.”

“And your previous wives were also older.”

“You know about them, do you?”

“Yes.”

“I have a particular fondness for older women. They have experience, good taste, considered opinions. They are less giddy than young girls, less irritating, and, of course, more established.”

“Established?”

Hauke opened his eyes and glanced at Liebermann. “Come, Herr Doctor, you know exactly what I mean.”

After the young doctor had departed, Hauke shaved and got dressed. He was still splashing a rather heady cologne onto his face when there was a knock on the door. A bellboy was waiting outside.

“Herr Hauke?”

“Yes.”

The boy handed him a visiting card. Hauke took it and read the name Gernot Strub.

“He’s waiting for you in the lobby, sir.”

Hauke gave the boy a coin. “Tell him I’ll be down in ten minutes. Ask him to wait for me in the Mátyás lounge.”

The boy nodded, marched off, and began to run as he approached the stairs. Hauke closed the door and took a deep breath.

Gernot Strub was not like his other “investors.” He was a different kind of businessman, and on reflection, it had probably been very unwise to take his money. He had a neck the circumference of a tree trunk, a broken nose, and trafficked girls from Galicia.

Hauke pushed the curtain aside and looked down at the street below. A streetcar rolled by, and there was a steady flow of pedestrians on the pavement opposite the hotel. It did not take him long to make his decision. Hauke opened a drawer and collected together the few remaining items of his wife’s jewelry. He put on his coat, grabbed his cane, and hurried down the hallway. When he reached the first-floor landing, he paused to ensure that Strub was no longer waiting for him in the lobby.