The Melancholy Countess (Short Story) by Frank Tallis Read Free Book Online

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 beenprecipitate. 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 thedoor 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