Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Ruprecht’s agitation drove him from his seat.
“And…?”
“The photo I showed was of Herr Anton Sykora…
You follow my reasoning. It may not have been
Sykora himself, but certainly someone very like him.
All confirmed he was a giant, broad-shouldered, bull-
necked. You recently met Anton Sykora. Didn’t you
notice a resemblance… to someone…?”
Ruprecht stared into Schiereisen’s steel-blue eyes.
“To Lorenz…” he said. “Yes, certainly—to Lorenz.
Only now…”
Schiereisen nodded, pleased. “It often happens we
see connections only afterward, when someone points
them out. So, Hellpach’s companion was either
Sykora—or more likely—Lorenz. Either way, let’s
note Frau Helmina was a widow and heiress. Soon
after Hellpach’s death, Sykora appears in Vienna
with ample funds, buys two houses, and sets up his
matchmaking agency. Here at Vorderschluder Castle,
Frau Helmina takes on a new servant: our Lorenz.”
Before Ruprecht’s eyes, events flickered like a
cinematograph film.
“The following winter, Frau Helmina spends in
Vienna, making new acquaintances, much courted.
Finally, Herr Hickel, a wealthy Hungarian
landowner, emerges as victor and her second
husband. She persuades him to sell his estates and
dabble in stock ventures under her guidance. His luck
is even briefer. I learned little about this marriage—
short and stormy. After a fierce quarrel with
Helmina, Lorenz found her husband dead in his
room, struck by a stroke.”
“Do you see a crime here too?”
Schiereisen shrugged. “I told you, I found nothing
certain. Old Johann joined the castle with Helmina’s
third husband. Before that marriage, she was a widow
for two years.”
Ruprecht exhaled.
“Helmina’s ties to Sykora never broke. He visited
the castle during Dankwardt’s time as his
acquaintance. Meanwhile, Sykora worked to find a
new husband for his protégé. Three serious suitors
were considered.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I recently used Sykora’s services myself,
indulging in some indiscretions. I obtained copies of
his lists from that critical period. A small, unnoticed
theft, a night of frantic work—by morning, the lists
were back. You can imagine I was thorough. I
investigated each candidate, tracing many mundane
life stories. Three end in mystery for me.”
“You’re not saying it’s possible… we’re
surrounded by… I don’t know why I’m listening?
Your deductions are wrong.”
“Have a little more patience. I’m nearly done. You
mean it’s impossible in our orderly states for people
to vanish. Oh, it’s not so hard. Suppose someone is
entangled in a vital matter requiring absolute silence.
They must travel for it, sworn to use a false name,
forbidden to tell even their circle where they’re
going. The three candidates on Sykora’s list whose
trails fade are foreigners—a Frenchman and two
North Germans. All wealthy, older men who didn’t
need a matchmaking agency. But Sykora’s a shrewd
businessman. I admire him. He sought clients on his
travels. Imagine he has a charming woman among his
prospects, sparking an older man’s passion. But she’s
refined, not to be compromised. Her acquaintance
requires utmost caution. Then, one must prove
financial means, for this beauty is accustomed to
spending… she wants assurance of no lack.”
“You see, I’m calm. Tell me your remaining
hypotheses.”
Schiereisen fell silent, heavy-hearted. He hesitated
to conclude. The joy of building his bridges was
gone. But it had to be. “I traced those three
candidates from their starting points. Knowing their
destination, I followed them. Their paths lead to
Vorderschluder, and here they vanish.”
Ruprecht remained calm and cold. In moments of
great danger, his nerves sang like thin steel. “So you
lost their trail here?”
“I didn’t lose it. It ends here. Three people
vanished at your castle, Herr Baron. Precisely those
from Herr Anton Sykora’s list destined for Frau
Helmina. Funds were withdrawn for them days after
their departure… when they must already have been
dead. On checks in their handwriting, perfectly
executed. That’s the secret of your castle, Herr
Baron.”
Schiereisen rose and walked past Ruprecht to the
Buddha in the corner. With his back to Ruprecht, he
said softly, stroking the bronze figure’s skin, “We’ve
now reached the same point from another angle,
where we left our inquiry earlier. The secret we touch
here is the same one that cost Jana his life. They
eliminated a dangerous snoop. My path is complete,
the connection made. I leave the final conclusions to
you.”
The stifled air of the Indian temple felt hard to
breathe, laced with a malignant, greenish-gleaming
gas. Ruprecht opened a window between two painted
palm trunks. Noon had long passed. The shadow of
the sundial’s pointer on the gate tower climbed the
dial again. A light wind drove gray cloud clumps
across the sky. When a shadow passed over the
castle, the thin black rod among Roman numerals
faded into nothingness. A bright, faint sound drifted
from the summer meadows—scythes sharpened with
a whetstone. Haymaking! The world’s wedding
jubilee! Fragrant unfolding! Drinking with every
pore!
Ruprecht thought nothing, drew no conclusions.
He sank into these summer sounds and colors, as if in
a bright liquid.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
Schiereisen stood there. “Don’t take it so hard,
dear Baron. I hesitated long before speaking. After
meeting you, I briefly regretted taking this task. Then
I was glad again… Another might…”
“Why tell me at all?”
“To wake you from a heavy dream. I’m certain
you’ve tormented yourself with thoughts about the
strange coincidences that struck you. This can’t go
on. I hear someone moaning in their sleep beside me.
I shake their shoulder. That’s it. When you’ve
composed yourself, I expect you to fulfill my duty. I
expect your support.”
“In what way?”
“Only to answer one question. We haven’t spoken
of Herr Dankwardt, your immediate predecessor.
From Johann’s descriptions, I’ve pictured his death.
He died with symptoms exactly like the illness that
afflicted you some time ago. Tell me what kind…”
Ruprecht leaned back on the windowsill, meeting
Schiereisen’s gaze calmly. “I trust you’ll find it
natural that I refuse to answer.”
Schiereisen nodded. “I expected as much.”
“No law can force me. I feel no obligation within
me. That’s more important than legal compulsion!
And besides—I… I don’t believe your suspicions.
Your conclusions are shaky. Your deductions are
flawed. You offer no certainties.”
That would’ve stung Schiereisen, had he not
known it was a hastily raised defense. He admired
this man’s resilience, the bold courage withstanding
these revelations. Another would’ve collapsed;
Ruprecht stood tall. He had the strength to say: I
don’t believe you.
“I understand,” Schiereisen replied after a pause.
“You love your wife. But I wanted to free you from
such a dangerous, painful passion.”
In that moment, a storm seemed to shake
Ruprecht’s composure. The word free hit like a blow.
Something shattered within him; he glimpsed a bright
landscape, as if a wall had fallen in a dark room.
Shock, a lock breaking, light—pushing, urging him.
Here was the turning point, the decision. If he spoke
now, he’d be free.
But he clutched at his own flesh with both hands.
He recoiled, fearing surrender unless he did
something drastic. His headshake told Schiereisen
he’d find no ally in Ruprecht.
“So it must be,” the detective said. “You… can’t
do otherwise, being the man I admire. I was foolish
enough to hope for a moment. Forgive me if I see it
through. I must fulfill my duty. I’ve laid myself bare,
shown all my cards. Act as you see fit. I’ll have to
accept the added burden on my further inquiries.”
He hesitantly offered his hand.
Ruprecht clasped it firmly, meeting Schiereisen’s
eyes. Then he turned away, and the detective left the
Indian room.