The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) Read Free Page B

But not a very important one. I have been given to understand that her family lost much of its influence by the fourteenth century. Her first husband, however, was a minor noble with an estate located in the Transylvanian marches.”
    When they reached the autopsy table, Mathias put on an apron and tied a neat bow at the base of his spine with practiced ease. “Naked, but for her necklace and rings.” Mathias stroked the countess’s wrinkled skin. “Did she drown in her own bath?”
    “Very good, Professor,” said Rheinhardt. “She was found this morning by a maid at the Corvinus Hotel. Her second husband, a former cavalry officer, was asleep in the next room.”
    “I’ll drain the lungs and perform the standard procedures,” said Mathias, “but you don’t need a pathologist to tell you how she died if she was found submerged in a bath.”
    “The point of issue,” Rheinhardt replied, “is not so much the cause of death, but rather, the context.”
    “I see,” said Mathias.
    Beneath the harsh light, the countess’s body looked profoundly unattractive. She was horribly thin. Her white thighs were reticulated with purple veins, and her pubic hair was sparse and grizzled. Her breasts were flat, and the nipples so lacking in pigment that they barely showed.
    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?”

4
    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