Fever (10 page)

“I . . . I can't remember. By someone on the ship, I think.”

“You didn't know the hotel before?”

“Before? Before what? I've been in Morocco for over twenty years.”

“Twenty years? And before that?”

“Before I went to Morocco I was in the Order's house, it's near Oran, in Algeria. I entered the Order when I was eighteen.”

“And you've never heard of a girl called Ulrike Neumann? Eh? A girl who used to stay at the Hotel zum Wilden Mann?”

Studer was just in time to catch the priest as he fell – God, was the man skinny! – and stood there holding the slim figure in his arms, looking at a face that had gone green while the hairs of the sparse goatee literally stood on end.

“Hey-up,” said the sergeant. It was a call he had used while herding the cattle as a boy. “Hey-up,” he repeated. “Steady on. Are you ill?” he asked, adding, “I've been stupid, Father Matthias, you must forgive me, I never thought . . .”

“It's all right,” said the White Father. Fortunately he could say that without moving his lips much, for they were stiff and white.

Cries could be heard: “ 'S'e ill?” – “What's up?” – “Poor old soul!” – “ 'E must be frozen stiff with them bare feet.” – “'E's used to it, blockhead.”

Angrily, Studer told the well-meaning onlookers to go to the devil, he could see to the old man himself. He lived nearby and . . .

“Let's get on, Inspector,” said Father Matthias in a loud, clear voice. “And forgive me all this fuss. I can manage if you just support me a little. And when we get to your place I can warm myself up, can't I?”

Just at that moment Studer would have done anything for the skinny little man. Even lit the stove in the living room, the monster he could never get to draw properly. Still, who would have thought the name of Ulrike Neumann would have such a devastating effect on the priest – a name the sergeant had heard for the first time that morning? Had the man become a priest to . . . what was the word? . . . to . . . atone, yes, that was it, to atone for the murder of the young girl?

But the thumb in Herr Rosenzweig's photograph had had a scar, and the priest's thumbs were smooth.

Cleman – Koller . . . Koller – Cleman . . . A son from his mother's first marriage. What was it the sergeant had said in Basel? Funny family relationships. You could say that again. The relationships in the Koller family – or should it be the Cleman family? – were more than just funny, they were strange, remarkable, complicated – clear as mud.

And the north wind was whipping across the bridge. It was hardly better when they turned into Thunstrasse. Studer supported Father Matthias. They were not just walking through the streets of Bern side by side, no, they were arm in arm. But the sergeant had no time to be embarrassed at the idea of acquaintances seeing them.

When they reached the door to his apartment, Studer sniffed the air. Fried onions! Hedy was back! The sergeant was delighted. Things were back to normal and the green monster in the living room would be sure to be giving off heat.

Frau Studer was already there when the sergeant opened the door. She showed no surprise at the visitor he'd brought along, just waited patiently for an explanation, her hands loosely clasped over her starched white apron. When she saw that the odd little man in the white habit with his bare feet sticking out from under it was clinging on to the sergeant so as not to fall down, she hurried up to them and asked, in a soothing, motherly voice, “Is he ill? Can I do anything to help?”

Not waiting for an answer, she grasped the priest under the arms, helped him into the living room and laid him on the couch. In no time at all blankets appeared, a pillow in a fresh pillowcase, a hot-water bottle and a stool beside the couch with a steaming cup of limeflower tea. Next to each other on the floor were the sandals; the straps were thin and worn, the soles curved up at the front.

“You can see they've been a few miles, can't you,
Vatti
?”

Studer muttered something. He hated it when his wife called him
Vatti
in front of strangers. Father! It made him sound old. Still, she immediately made up for it when she went on, “You know, Köbu, I rang the office twice yesterday evening and once this morning, but they couldn't find you anywhere.”

He'd had a lot to do, Studer said, and finally found time to give her a kiss on the forehead. A forehead that was high and smooth. The hair above it, divided by a parting and tied in a bun at the back, was brown and shone like chestnuts that had just popped out of the
shell. No one, thought Studer, would take her for a grandmother.

The
sheshia
, the misshapen red flowerpot, lay beside the sick man. Absentmindedly, Frau Studer picked it up, put it over her right index finger and prodded with her left hand until it started to spin round. When she looked up, she saw a shy smile on the priest's lips. Studer couldn't help laughing.

“You see, Inspector,” said Father Matthias, “it really is the only thing a cap like that's any use for. That thin English lady was quite wrong to let it get on her nerves. You must forgive me, Inspector, forgive me, madame, for putting you to all this trouble. I was taken with a fever out in the street, the change of climate probably, the cold.” And the little face with the shining, feverish eyes appeared to confirm that version of events.

“A fever. Huh!” muttered Studer once his wife had left the room. “A fever's a good excuse. Why should a name —”

“Please, Inspector, no more just now,” said Father Matthias, and he spoke with vigour, like a man who knows what he wants. “It's unchristian to torment a sick man – and perhaps I haven't entirely forfeited your trust, perhaps you still believe I'm not just putting on an act . . .”

“Hmm,” Studer growled, still not entirely won over, not entirely convinced. But an appeal to his humanity was never without effect. “Here in Switzerland,” he said softly, “we have not yet introduced the methods employed by neighbouring states. Do you want to go into hospital, Herr Koll— . . . er . . . Father Matthias?”

“No, no, it'll pass. Just a minute, I must have some quinine powder somewhere . . . Or did I leave it in the
hotel? . . . No, here it is.” He took a round tin, the kind usually containing cough sweets, out of another of his deep pockets, tipped a little of the brown powder into the herb tea, stirred it and drank it down. Suddenly there was a loud clatter as he put the cup down and stared at a small sewing table by the window. There was fear in his eyes.

Frau Studer's voice came from the kitchen, telling the sergeant there was a letter for him, on the little table by the window.

Father Matthias followed the sergeant's every movement with his eyes as Studer picked up the letter and examined it. A women's handwriting, unknown. The postmark: “Transit”. Posted at the station, or handed in directly to the mail train.

He tore open the envelope.

A single sheet:

Dear Cousin Jakob,

I enclose my find. I think it will interest you. You didn't look through the telephone book carefully enough. As you will see, the empty envelope I'm sending came from Algeria. It was posted on 20 July last year in Géryville. On 20 July! The anniversary of my father's death – even if the temperature chart says something different. I've heard of the death of my aunt in Bern. How? That I cannot tell you. I'm afraid, and that's why I'm going to disappear for a while. Don't come looking for me, Cousin Jakob, there's no point, I've already told you everything I may tell you. Now it's up to you to solve the case. I'm sure you don't believe they were both suicides either. I know you will see my Uncle Matthias; give him my best wishes. If it's of any interest, he had dinner with me in the second-class station buffet and set off for Bern around twelve in a taxi. I wish you luck.

Yours

Marie Cleman

The envelope accompanying the letter was fairly crumpled. It was addressed to
Madame Veuve Cleman-Hornuss, 12 Spalenberg, Bâle
. On the back was the address of the sender:
Caporal Collani, 1er Régiment Étranger, 2ème Bataillon, Géryville, Algérie.
And the postmark was indeed dated 20 July.

When Studer looked up his eyes met the priest's apprehensive expression. And his voice was apprehensive too, when he asked, “Is it my niece who's written to you?”

Studer just nodded silently. He sat by the window, in his favourite position, legs apart, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped. If this really is the “Big Case” I've been dreaming of all these years, he thought, it's a real mess. A mess? There's a jinx on it. But we'll crack it somehow, even if we have to go to Algeria or Morocco. Just like kings and other crowned heads, when Studer talked to himself he didn't think of himself as “I”, he used the royal “we”.

Frau Studer came in with a tureen of soup.

“It won't bother you if we have our lunch, Friar?”

Father Matthias smiled and Studer informed his wife that he wasn't a monk, but a priest. Frau Studer apologized, then sat down opposite her husband and ladled out the soup. Just as the sergeant was about to take his first spoonful, he heard murmuring from the couch. Surprised, he looked up. Father Matthias had put his hands together and was murmuring a Latin prayer. “
Benedicite . . .
”

The man and woman at the table were so embarrassed, they clumsily folded their hands by their soup plates.

The will

At two o'clock in the afternoon Studer entered the office of the chief inspector of the Bern city police. He knew it well; it had been his own office for fifteen years before the business with the bank had driven him out. But Studer had managed to remain on friendly terms with his successor.

Chief Inspector Werner Gisler consisted of a bald head, which looked as it if were polished with emery paper every morning, on top of a squat body clothed in suits of peasant cloth. His feet were large and the corresponding lace-up boots made to measure, for Gisler had flat feet. He was always telling people how delicate his feet were, an inexhaustible topic with him since he was convinced that having delicate feet was proof of his aristocratic ancestry. Nothing wrong in that: some people have a thing about their stomach, others their digestion or their circulation – and with the superintendent it was his feet.

As Studer entered his office, Gisler was tying his bootlaces. Tying his bootlaces with much grunting and groaning, since his pot belly got in the way. He greeted the sergeant, then said, “If only you knew how difficult it is, Studer. You put your boots on in the morning, you're in a hurry, you're not really paying attention, and before you know it, the tongue's got a crease in it. You didn't smooth it out properly, so now you've got a crease that's pinching your foot, and it keeps pinching all day. You're always concentrating on getting the top
of the boot right and that takes so much time you never get round to smoothing out the tongue. It's uncomfortable, but you put up with it, you assume you'll have a minute or two sometime during the day to smooth it out. You can't get down to your work properly, you keep getting distracted by the crease in the tongue of your boot. Now I've got a moment to myself and what happens? You come breezing in! You'll have to wait a minute . . . I have such difficult feet, you know.”

Studer offered his deepest commiseration. He was adept at letting other people's – colleagues', friends', prisoners' – complaints about their afflictions wash over him. People needed to talk, to unload their troubles; once they'd got things off their chest he found he could talk to them about more serious matters.

“I'm here,” he said, sitting down, “about that business in Gerechtigkeitsgasse.”

“Gerechtig . . . keits . . . gasse,” groaned Gisler as he struggled with his bootlaces. His bald head had gone purple and there were little beads of sweat glistening on it.

“Yes,” said Studer patiently – you have to be patient with people, especially if they're fat and have to do their bootlaces up. “Forty-four Gerechtigkeitsgasse. Sophie Hornuss . . . Gas . . . I've been to the apartment myself. I must apologize for starting an investigation off my own bat.”

“Puuf . . . ahh . . . puuf,” groaned the inspector, then straightened up at last, subjected his boots to a suspicious scrutiny, waggled his toes and finally said, “I think that'll do – as long as the sock hasn't got any wrinkles.”

It didn't seem to have since Gisler placed his flat feet
on the floor, looked around innocently out of his pale blue eyes, said, “To be sure,” and nodded meaningfully. “Forty-four Gerechtigkeitsgasse. Sophie Hornuss. Yes . . . yes . . .” So the sergeant had been in the apartment already, had conducted a private investigation, as you might say – hahaha. No one was going to take that amiss, he'd been quite right to go ahead, and it showed a true spirit of cooperation that he had come to see him, Chief Inspector Gisler of the city police, to inform him of the result of his investigation. Which was?

“That it is a case of murder.”

“Aha,” sighed Gisler, “murder. Reinhard said something similar . . . Indeed . . . And so you think . . . that is . . . you think it's . . . er . . . murder, Studer?”