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useful information from Röderer, he did not have a single idea how to pursue his investigation.
Well, von Falkenburg thought, if he had only a week to live, at least he could live it with Helena. My God, what a woman! Schmidt should have brought her answer to his note by now.
And Schmidt had. Eagerly, von Falkenburg tore open the little envelope that the orderly had propped up on the mantelpiece next to the clock. The note inside was short and to the point: “The Princess Helena von Rauffenstein regrets that she is unable to accede to the captain’s request for an interview, now or at any other time.”
Von Falkenburg gazed at the note with something of the same mixture of rage and astonishment with which he had heard the major’s accusation of treason the day before.
“Bitch!” he exclaimed as he crumpled up the note and threw it into the fire. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”
Von Falkenburg had been rejected by some women before, but never
after
he had made love to them. He stamped up and down the room, ablaze with anger and shame.
Then he stopped in front of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.
“Failure!” he said to his reflection through clenched teeth. He had failed to get any information from Röderer, and he had also apparently failed with Helena. What had happened? Had his lifetime supply of luck suddenly run out?
But self-pity, he knew full well, never accomplished anything. Helena, he told himself with a surge of resolve, would have just been a distraction from his investigation, and he was determined to bring that investigation to a successful conclusion. He had a whole life to win for himself, and there would be far better women in it than she!
Von Falkenburg called the commandant of the prison to say that he wished to talk to Röderer the next day. Perhaps by then the man would be somewhat detoxified, and he could get some sense out of him.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the commandant said. “Lieutenant Röderer has just shot himself.”
The contempt with which the commandant had mentioned Röderer’s name earlier that day was now lacking. The man had, after all, made use of the revolver with one bullet that was customarily left in the cell of an officer under arrest on serious charges. Röderer had finally “taken the honorable way out.”
So now his sole possible lead was gone, von Falkenburg realized as he laid down the receiver. The fact that the witness against him was also gone was now unimportant, given the existence of von Falkenburg’s signed confession.
Outside, it was beginning to grow dark. Von Falkenburg realized that the first of his seven days was drawing to a close, and that he had achieved nothing. All he had succeeded in doing was to lose a woman he thought that he had. He knew now that he faced a useless, lonely week and a lonely, bitter death.
Chapter Four
Von Falkenburg sat in the Café Landtmann next to one of the windows that looked out on the
Rathaus,
the City Hall with its Gothic spire. The sun was streaming in, and outside the weather suggested that spring really might have arrived. Von Falkenburg sipped his breakfast coffee and thought about Röderer.
The man had killed himself at the worst possible moment: after he had fingered von Falkenburg, but before von Falkenburg had been able to get any information out of him.
“Damn him,” von Falkenburg said to himself, “why the devil did his timing have to be so bad?”
Bad for von Falkenburg, anyway.
Von Falkenburg held the cup half way to his mouth as he reflected on the point. Röderer’s timing had been disastrous for von Falkenburg, which conversely meant that it had been perfect for von Falkenburg’s enemies.
Could they have had a hand in Röderer’s death? But how would they have gotten Röderer to shoot himself?
No, it looked like von Falkenburg’s idea led nowhere.
Unless….
This time, von Falkenburg sensed that he was on the right track. He paid for his coffee and left, looking around the
Well, von Falkenburg thought, if he had only a week to live, at least he could live it with Helena. My God, what a woman! Schmidt should have brought her answer to his note by now.
And Schmidt had. Eagerly, von Falkenburg tore open the little envelope that the orderly had propped up on the mantelpiece next to the clock. The note inside was short and to the point: “The Princess Helena von Rauffenstein regrets that she is unable to accede to the captain’s request for an interview, now or at any other time.”
Von Falkenburg gazed at the note with something of the same mixture of rage and astonishment with which he had heard the major’s accusation of treason the day before.
“Bitch!” he exclaimed as he crumpled up the note and threw it into the fire. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”
Von Falkenburg had been rejected by some women before, but never
after
he had made love to them. He stamped up and down the room, ablaze with anger and shame.
Then he stopped in front of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.
“Failure!” he said to his reflection through clenched teeth. He had failed to get any information from Röderer, and he had also apparently failed with Helena. What had happened? Had his lifetime supply of luck suddenly run out?
But self-pity, he knew full well, never accomplished anything. Helena, he told himself with a surge of resolve, would have just been a distraction from his investigation, and he was determined to bring that investigation to a successful conclusion. He had a whole life to win for himself, and there would be far better women in it than she!
Von Falkenburg called the commandant of the prison to say that he wished to talk to Röderer the next day. Perhaps by then the man would be somewhat detoxified, and he could get some sense out of him.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” the commandant said. “Lieutenant Röderer has just shot himself.”
The contempt with which the commandant had mentioned Röderer’s name earlier that day was now lacking. The man had, after all, made use of the revolver with one bullet that was customarily left in the cell of an officer under arrest on serious charges. Röderer had finally “taken the honorable way out.”
So now his sole possible lead was gone, von Falkenburg realized as he laid down the receiver. The fact that the witness against him was also gone was now unimportant, given the existence of von Falkenburg’s signed confession.
Outside, it was beginning to grow dark. Von Falkenburg realized that the first of his seven days was drawing to a close, and that he had achieved nothing. All he had succeeded in doing was to lose a woman he thought that he had. He knew now that he faced a useless, lonely week and a lonely, bitter death.
Chapter Four
Von Falkenburg sat in the Café Landtmann next to one of the windows that looked out on the
Rathaus,
the City Hall with its Gothic spire. The sun was streaming in, and outside the weather suggested that spring really might have arrived. Von Falkenburg sipped his breakfast coffee and thought about Röderer.
The man had killed himself at the worst possible moment: after he had fingered von Falkenburg, but before von Falkenburg had been able to get any information out of him.
“Damn him,” von Falkenburg said to himself, “why the devil did his timing have to be so bad?”
Bad for von Falkenburg, anyway.
Von Falkenburg held the cup half way to his mouth as he reflected on the point. Röderer’s timing had been disastrous for von Falkenburg, which conversely meant that it had been perfect for von Falkenburg’s enemies.
Could they have had a hand in Röderer’s death? But how would they have gotten Röderer to shoot himself?
No, it looked like von Falkenburg’s idea led nowhere.
Unless….
This time, von Falkenburg sensed that he was on the right track. He paid for his coffee and left, looking around the
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