Anarchistbanjo's World

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Twelfth Chapter
Herr Schiereisen held a delicate web in his hands.
He saw Frau Helmina already ensnared. A thread led
to Vienna. It was necessary to follow it and tie it to
the right end. The matter was gaining weight,
growing beyond the single case. Schiereisen’s keen
instincts sensed something vast.
On his second day in Vienna, he visited Section
Councilor von Zaugg at the Railway Ministry. The
refined, pale, slightly stooped gentleman received
him with unusual animation. “What can you report?”
he asked eagerly. “Have you found something?”
Schiereisen disliked giving accounts before his
material was complete. He asked the councilor to
forgo details and trust that all was progressing well.
“You have faith in me, don’t you?” he smiled.
Zaugg leaned forward in his club chair, inspecting
his fingertips. “I consider you Vienna’s finest
detective,” he said warmly. “If anyone can shed light
on this dark affair, it’s you. I defer to you entirely.”
“I didn’t shave my fine beard and oil my rusty
prehistory knowledge for nothing. Rest assured, your
commission is a matter of honor, and I’ll do
everything to see it through.”
“Thank you! You know, it’s not so much my
brother-in-law’s estate, though I deeply regret the
total loss of my father-in-law’s bequests to my wife.
Above all, I want to know if a crime was committed.
My wife insists on it. She never quite took to this
Frau Helmina with her strange past. I want to give
her certainty to calm her nerves. But I urge you again
to proceed with utmost caution. We don’t want to
tarnish the woman who once bore the name
Dankwardt with a scandal if our suspicions are
unfounded. An exhumation of my brother-in-law’s
body could be arranged, but that’s a last resort, only
if the chain of evidence is otherwise complete…”
Schiereisen accepted a ceremonial Havana of
unusual shape and was dismissed. He set to work at
once, his full acumen engaged. Never had he pursued
a case with such zeal. A personal stake had
emerged—a splendid man was in danger. The work
of avenging justice was also one of rescue.
During this time, Schiereisen did something his
Vorderschluder acquaintances wouldn’t have
expected. He suddenly craved marriage and
approached a renowned matchmaking agency. He
visited the head of “Fortuna,” Herr Anton Sykora,
outlining his wishes: a modest household, a sensible,
not-too-young woman capable of managing it, a few
thousand crowns’ dowry welcome but not essential.
More important was a compatible personality for
emotional harmony. Schiereisen enrolled as Johann
Nähammer, retired bank clerk. Negotiations lasted
over a week, with near-daily visits to Fortuna. When
Sykora was absent, he dealt with the secretary,
showing keen interest in the operation. No match was
found, and after a fortnight, Nähammer left Vienna.
The Kamp valley burst with spring’s jubilation
and sunlit joy when he returned. All was green, the
river roaring between rocky banks. Young birches
leaned dreamily against Gars’s ancient walls like
maidens. Forest beeches stood like bands of youthful
athletes, bright-eyed, sap coursing through their
veins.
Rotrehl greeted his tenant with genuine joy, then
grew grave. “Heard the news? A tragedy at the castle.
The Indian killed himself.”
Schiereisen recoiled. “Killed? The Malay? How
did it happen?”
“Fell somewhere… from the tower or such… old
Johann’s all muddled… can’t make sense of his
story.”
“When—when did it happen?”
“Day before yesterday. The commission’s already
been up.”
“Dead instantly?”
“Stone dead. Nothing to be done…”
The guardian was gone. Schiereisen knew at once
this was no accident. The Malay had stood watchfully
before Ruprecht; he had to be removed.
An hour later, Schiereisen was at the castle,
finding Ruprecht in his study. Herr von Boschan sat
at his desk, arms propped, face buried in his hands.
He didn’t look up as Schiereisen entered. The visitor
approached slowly, stopping behind him. He noticed
a reddened patch on Ruprecht’s bowed head, sparsely
haired, as if disease had caused hair loss.
Ruprecht seemed unaware of anyone’s presence.
A loud throat-clearing startled him; he spun, hand
jerking as if to yank open a half-ajar desk drawer.
“Oh, it’s you… Herr… Schiereisen,” he said, as if
groping for the name.
Schiereisen stood shaken. He saw a weary, slack
face with dull eyes and sagging cheeks. The brow
was furrowed, mouth muscles softened, sunken,
making the nose jut sharply. “My God,” he said,
grasping Ruprecht’s hand, “you look awful. It’s hit
you hard. It’s dreadful…”
Ruprecht nodded slowly, stiffly, as if his neck
tendons resisted his will. “You’ve heard, then!” His
speech, too, had changed—words formed heavily,
emerging haltingly.
“I was told,” Schiereisen said, “but I don’t know
how it happened… He was so devoted to you, poor
man… I’m quite shaken myself… How did you find
him?”
Head drooping, Ruprecht scanned the desk’s
surface. “Yes… found? We found him in the garden,
between the old tower and the… side… the side
wing. Head smashed, limbs broken…”
“Horrible… how could it happen?” Schiereisen
saw Ruprecht’s struggle to answer but couldn’t spare
him now.
“He… fell… plunged down…”
“From where… the tower?”
“Well, from the gallery… There’s a wooden
gallery from the castle to the tower.”
“Oh, I recall seeing it. Your servant fell from
there? But it’s covered. How’s that possible?” No
caution was needed. He could ask bluntly without
Ruprecht noticing. Today, his thoughts were
muddled, clouded by grief, blinding him to his
surroundings. He stood shrouded in a fog of pain,
answering questions from outside with effort.
Perhaps, in this state, a vague fear stirred, a hint of
something terrible.
Ruprecht gathered himself. “How it… was poss…
possible? Simple… Jana broke through… through the
gallery floor… it must’ve been rotten. Hundreds of
years, right?”
“Yes, yes—of course!”
“Maybe he went without… light—without a lamp.
Didn’t see the floor was rotten… and broke
through… easy to understand. The comm…
commission ruled it so.”
“The commission ruled it so? Well, no one’s to
blame, then. But, Herr Baron, could I see the accident
site?”
Ruprecht’s head had sunk to his chest. He lifted it,
meeting Schiereisen’s gaze with dull eyes. “Why see
it? What’s the point?”
Schiereisen let unease flicker in his look. “Well…
such things are awful… but intriguing,” he hedged.
“A man doesn’t shy from a bit of blood.”
“Fine—if you want… let’s go!” Rising, Ruprecht
wavered, pausing as if recalibrating his body’s
balance. He moved clumsily, feet shuffling. “Come,”
he said. “I have the key.”
What had happened to this man? How to explain
this state? It wasn’t just the accident’s effect. A
physical change was evident, a clear weakening.
Schiereisen shuddered. Had they already gotten to
Ruprecht?
It was high time to act. No regard for his client
could hold him back from striking, even if the chain
of evidence wasn’t yet seamless.
“You know,” Schiereisen said, following
Ruprecht, “these are atavistic instincts. Each of us is
a thwarted savage. Interest in accidents stems from
ancient urges. These drives fuel the success of lurid
tabloids, feeding the public images of the latest
murders and atrocities. People savor them with a
pleasant shudder. It’s part of life’s comfort for most.”
That this spiel clashed with the bustling, slightly
awkward culture scholar didn’t faze Schiereisen. He
needed to talk, to numb Ruprecht, to keep him from
thinking.
They climbed to the upper floor, heading to the
side wing. No one crossed their path on corridors or
stairs, as if all life in the castle shunned the accident
site. Through an open window came the river’s
spring song and a wind-borne snippet of a tune from
nearby hills. The castle’s silence grew only darker,
more menacing.
Ruprecht unlocked an iron door, struggling to turn
the key. They entered the gallery. Sunlight pierced
two small, dust-clouded windows on the left; from
the rear, clear light poured through a large hole in the
floor.
“Watch out,” Ruprecht warned. “You must be
careful!”
Schiereisen knelt, crawling closer to the hole. The
gallery’s support beams were worm-eaten but seemed
sturdy enough. The plank floor, despite some
damaged spots, appeared generally sound.
Schiereisen noted decayed, eaten fibers here and
there, but nowhere enough to overcome the healthy
wood’s resistance. The seventh and eighth planks
from the floor were gone, with only splinters clinging
to the beams. They were unmistakably rotten, dusted
with worm meal. Those planks had indeed been
perilously weak.
Suddenly, Ruprecht saw Schiereisen lean far out,
probing a spot on a beam. Schiereisen drew back,
inspecting his fingertip. What clung there was fine
yellowish dust—sawdust, from work on sound wood.
The difference between this dust and the powdery
worm meal of wood ground by beetles was
unmistakable. Schiereisen drew out a paper, carefully
sweeping the sawdust into it, folding it like a small
letter, and slipping it into his notebook.
Ruprecht watched silently.
Schiereisen didn’t leave yet. He examined every
inch of the gallery’s woodwork. In the sunlight, it
gleamed a warm, golden brown beneath its dust.
Schiereisen ran his hand over it, feeling a velvety
softness. Dust flocked under his fingers, leaving
traces of his probing. Then he felt smooth, dust-free
wood. Looking closer, he saw the golden brown
shine brighter, fresher, with a faint gloss. A large
patch was cleared—wiped or washed.