Read The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) for Free Online

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11
    Commissioner Brügel had just finished reading Rheinhardt’s report. He was an imposing figure whose oversize muttonchop whiskers obscured most of his face. “Are there any other suspects?”
    “None of the staff at the hotel had anything to gain from the countess’s demise,” Rheinhardt replied. “They are mostly Hungarian and doltishly loyal to the old families. A man entered the dining room and spoke to Hauke the night the countess died, but he couldn’t have tampered with her food without being noticed.”
    “Who was he?”
    “A gentleman named Pauli Tausig. He left Vienna with his family before we had a chance to interview him. It seems that he did so to escape creditors.”
    The commissioner gathered Rheinhardt’s papers together, placed them in a buff folder, and said with blunt authority, “Arrest Hauke.”
    “With respect, sir,” Rheinhardt began, “we can’t be sure that—”
    Brügel did not permit him to continue. “This rogue probably murdered his first two wives. Let’s not let him get away with a third, eh?”
    “Sir,” Rheinhardt tried again, “Hauke is a bad man. Of that, I am not in doubt; however, so far, all the evidence we have gathered against him is circumstantial. I believed every word that Frau Albert spoke. But none of her speculations can be proved.”
    Brügel shook his head. “The countess will have relatives, and we must not forget that her first husband was a Nadazdy. As soon as these nobles learn that one of their number died in doubtful circumstances, questions will be asked. Rheinhardt, you don’t seem to appreciate the wider implications of this case.” Brügel gestured toward the large portrait of the emperor that hung behind his desk. “Hauke was a cavalry officer. Discharged with honors, no less. That won’t reflect well on the palace. Moreover, if we don’t arrest Hauke quickly, the Hungarians might allege that we werereluctant to do so. They will say that we value the liberty of our military heroes more than the life of a Hungarian countess. This could get very political.”
    “Dr. Liebermann is not convinced that Herr Hauke murdered his wife.”
    Brügel’s expression darkened. “I really don’t give a hoot what Liebermann thinks. He doesn’t have to deal with palace aides. I have the reputation of the security office to protect—and so do you!”

12
    “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