The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) Read Free

Corvinus. Her bloodline can be traced back to the ninth century. She used to stay here every winter with the old count.”
    When they reached the second floor, the manager led them down a hallway, the walls of which were hung with oppressive, penumbral landscape paintings. Eventually the men reached their destination, a door with a brass number seven fixed into the woodwork with screws. Farkas knocked three times, but there was no response, and it was necessary to employ a key to gain entry. “This way, gentlemen, please.”
    They passed through a drawing room and a bedroom, and finally came to a halt in a spacious bathroom. The colorful tiles, decorated with Oriental sigils, were clearly intended to evoke the Ottoman Empire, and beneath two projecting faucets was a tub that appeared to be made from galvanized copper. Some silk undergarments had been dropped on the floor, next to an intricately molded stove.
    The tub was filled to the brim. So much so that it must have overflowed when its occupant climbed in the previous evening. The surface of the water was still and reflective, but the submerged woman was clearly visible. She was in her late fifties, and her gray hair spread out around her face in a state of static suspension. Rheinhardt noticed that she was still wearing jewelry. “Who discovered the body?” he asked.
    “Tinka,” Farkas replied. “The countess and her husband were in the habit of rising late. Tinka was bringing them their breakfast.”
    “Husband, did you say?”
    “Herr Hauke. The countess remarried after the death of Count Nadazdy.” Rheinhardt indicated that Farkas should continue. “Tinka found the door wide open. She called, but no one answered, so she went straight in. Herr Hauke was lying on the bed, asleep, and was still wearing his dress suit. Herr Rác, who waited on him last night, tells me that Herr Hauke drank three bottles of Tokay.” Farkas showed his disapproval with a frown that connected his eyebrows. “Naturally Tinka was curious as to the whereabouts of the countess. A trail of discarded clothes led to the bathroom. The poor girl ran down to my office immediately. She was so distraught, she could hardly get her words out.”
    “Where is Herr Hauke now?”
    “I don’t know. I told him that I was going to call the police and that he should probably wait here for you, but he seemed to find this suggestion …” Farkas paused for a moment before adding, “ridiculous.”
    “What was she like, the countess?”
    “A melancholy soul, although some would say that all Hungarians are melancholy. We don’t have your flair for frivolity.”
    Haussmann glanced at his superior and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Fortunately, the hotel manager was looking elsewhere. Rheinhardt leaned over the side of the tub. There were oval patches of discoloration on the woman’s arms and shoulders.
    “Tell me, Herr Farkas, would you say that the countess and her husband were happily married?”
    “They hardly spoke to each other,” Farkas replied. “At least, not in public. Some of the maids heard Hauke shouting a few times. And using foul language.”
    “What? He was swearing at his wife?”
    “I believe so. Yes.”
    Rheinhardt went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe door. One side was full of dresses, the other, suits. A chest of drawers contained some identification papers, money, and several pairs of gold cuff links. Rheinhardt continued questioning Farkas and learned a little more of the countess’s history. The hotel manager had obviously been very fond of her first husband, “the old count,” and he also mentioned a son who had died tragically young. Farkas had a tendency to digress, for the sole purpose, it seemed, of extolling the virtues of the Hungarian aristocracy.
    “Thank you for your assistance,” said Rheinhardt, perhaps a little too abruptly. “A police photographer will be arriving shortly. I would be grateful if you would escort him up here as soon as he