Fever (13 page)

“May I?” Studer asked, went over to the desk and dialled.

“Now listen, Fridu,” Studer said, speaking in his broad Bernese dialect again. After a pause he went on. “Has a monk in a white habit been seen at the station? . . . Yes? . . . When? . . . The three twenty-two to Geneva? . . . Aha . . . Exactly . . . No luggage? . . . Just a haversack . . . Thanks, Fridu.” The head of the police unit at Bern railway station must have made a joke, since Studer laughed. It was a forced laugh, it didn't come from the heart. Then the sergeant replaced the receiver. He turned round and in an impassive voice informed the manager that one of his guests had left in a hurry. Yes, the missionary. He hadn't paid his bill? . . . Not to worry, the sum would arrive in the next few days, probably by postal order, and with a tip included. Father Matthias hadn't looked like a man who would leave without paying, had he? . . . No, no, definitely not, he'd probably just received a telegram . . . No telegram for him had been delivered to the hotel? That didn't mean anything, he'd probably collected it at a private address . . .

Studer grinned to himself at the reaction of the bandy-legged little man. Rubbing his hands, he trotted
to and fro, circling the desk and coming closer and closer to the chair concealed behind the bulky figure of the sergeant. Finally . . . finally the little man slipped under Studer's arm and flopped down in the seat with a sigh of relief.

“I think,” the manager said, taking a fountain pen out of the elaborate stand on the desk, “that I have sufficiently demonstrated my willingness to cooperate with the authorities. Might I ask you to leave my office now, Sergeant?”

Studer snorted. A real little office Napoleon, this manager. The revolving desk-chair was his throne, once on it the pot belly suddenly became inviolable – ruler, dictator, emperor – a little emperor. It was the chair that gave him his dignity, his sense of security.

“Of course, sir.” Studer made an exaggeratedly low bow. Then all at once he was gone. The manager had not even heard him shut the rattling glass door.

The superintendent had gone home, which suited him well. It meant he could use not only the telephone, but also the white blotting pad on the desk. You can't make proper telephone calls without being able to doodle at the same time.

Studer drove the long-distance operator to despair, and he was so immersed in his occupation he was completely deaf to anything else going on around him; he heard neither the north wind whistling at the windows nor his colleagues hammering at the door. Let them knock on the door of their superintendent's holy of holies till their knuckles were raw, let the wind blow the tiles off all the roofs in the federal capital – Sergeant Studer's left hand was holding the receiver clamped to his ear, while his right hand was sketching out marvellous dream landscapes on the blotting paper. Palm trees . . . palm trees and
fantastic animals, which might have been meant to be camels but were more like hunchbacked pigs, and beside them people in flowing robes with misshapen flowerpots on their heads . . .

Along the corridors of police headquarters went the whisper: “Köbu's really gone round the bend this time.”

“Basel city police? . . . It's urgent . . . Car registration number BS 3437 . . . Find out who the owner is or who it's been rented out to – Just a minute, Fräulein, we're still speaking – find out which hotel Father Matthias stayed in – in his passport he's Max Wilhelm Koller . . . Yes, and what day he left . . . Enquire of taxi drivers and garages whether a car was hired to take a man with the following description to Bern: short, white monk's habit, red cap, sandals, greying goatee beard . . . Please reply by telephone to the cantonal police in Bern . . . Yes, Fräulein, I've finished with Basel, now listen” – he fell back into his Bernese dialect – “Paris Sûreté, priority . . . You'll ring back? . . . That's great . . .
Merci
.”

The medical directory . . . And while he was leafing through the list of doctors he was thinking about the car with the number BS 3437. He'd seen the car and the priest had told him Marie and the clairvoyant corporal were in it . . . Had the priest been lying?

The medical directory: the area round Gerechtigkeitsgasse, Junkerngasse, Metzgergasse . . . Dr Schneider . . . Dr Wüst . . . Dr Imboden.”

“Dr Schneider? Not in?
Merci
.” – “Dr Imboden? Cantonal police. Is Frau Hornuss, 44 Gerechtigkeitsgasse, a patient of yours? . . . Yes? . . . Insomnia, depression . . . What did you prescribe? . . . Somnifen? . . .
Merci
, Herr Doktor. The date of the last prescription? . . . 30 December? Now there's a thing . . . Yes, the woman who committed suicide . . . You foresaw it? . . .
Merci
, Herr Doktor. Goodbye.”

“Is that the Catholic presbytery? A question. Is it the case that an ordained priest, even if he belongs to an order, is obliged to say mass every morning? . . . He is? Then has a certain Father Matthias of the Order of the White Fathers been to see you? . . . This morning? . . . Aha . . . And at what time? . . . Six o'clock?
Merci
, Father. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Your call to Paris is through.”

“
Merci
, Fräulein. And don't interrupt us, it might last up to half an hour.”

Studer pressed an invisible lever and switched over to French. A grumpy voice at the other end of the line asked what it was about. – Would Commissaire Madelin come to the telephone? – Braying laughter in Paris. Madelin? Who was that speaking from Bern? – The laughter sent Studer wild. He bellowed into the mouthpiece. That worked. They would transfer the call to the Commissaire's office. Studer didn't even bother to say thank you.

A pause . . . There was something missing. His Brissago! But lighting it turned out to be a problem. To free his hand, he had to press the receiver to his ear with his left shoulder, but then he managed it. It had been an effort all the same, two drops of sweat fell on to the blotting pad, forming circles. And during the conversation that followed the circles became two eyes in a face. It only took a few strokes of the pencil. But the odd thing was, the face that appeared resembled Godofrey, the walking, talking encyclopedia. And when Studer realized that, he sighed. He felt the need to see the little man and resolved to get the temperature chart examined by his friend as soon as possible.

Madelin!

“ . . . Fine, thanks . . . Listen, I need a date. When was the disappearance of Jakob Koller reported? Koller,
yes . . . K for Krishnamurti, O for Orsay, L for Lutetia, E for Ernest, R for Rome . . . A stockbroker, yes . . . The middle of September . . . A certain Marie Cleman . . . Was Koller's secretary. By the way, did you know your Father Matthias is also called Koller? . . . Yes, exactly the same as the vanished stockbroker. You've got the dates? Good, I'll take them down.”

Studer took his wife's Christmas present out of his breast pocket and started to write, mumbling to himself as he did so, “Speculation in the shares of North African mining companies, losses when the Banque Algérienne collapsed in July . . . Yes, yes, I can follow. Go on . . . Bankrupt on 2 August . . . documents seized . . . Statement by Marie Cleman, 2 September: My boss was depressed, several times said he couldn't carry on any more, gave me my notice from 1 October . . . Left the apartment we shared on 13 September . . . Shared apartment? Aha . . . Aaah! . . . No, no, sorry, I just burnt myself on my cigar. Carry on. So: left our shared apartment . . . Good. Luggage? . . . No luggage! . . . Left me some money . . . How much . . . 4,000 francs . . . Aha, and you seized the papers? And Godofrey is examining them? . . . No, no, not necessary. I'll probably have to come to Paris. Have you a description of Jakob Koller? . . . You have? . . . I'll write it down: 6′2″, sallow complexion, clean-shaven, fair hair . . . No photo? . . . Pity . . . No dead bodies the description would fit? . . . That's it, then. No, just a minute. Can you enquire as to the present whereabouts of a Corporal Collani, 1st Regiment, Foreign Legion, 2nd Battalion. Collani, like Koller only with a C at the beginning, two Ls, A for Alphonse, N for Nana, I for Isidore . . . Through Bel-Abbès? You'll know better than I do . . . Of course, if you can. Radio telegraph would certainly be quicker. I'd like to know whether
Collani is still counted as a deserter, then anything that's known about him: date of enlistment, career, etc. . . . No, not by telephone, a telegram to my home address, if you think you can get an answer tonight. Oh, and another thing. How did you get to know Father Matthias? . . . Came with a recommendation from the War Ministry? . . . And from the Minister for the Colonies? Hmm. You remember what he told us in the bistro? Well it wasn't a fairy story, both the women are dead. A remarkable case . . . Gas, yes. And it looks very much like a double murder . . . The priest's been behaving oddly. He's taken himself off to Geneva, by the way . . . No, no, don't worry, I'll get him when I need to, but for the moment I'll leave him be. D'you think I want to get into an argument with the Pope? When am I coming? I don't know yet. My boss has to give it his blessing first . . . Haha . . . The Vouvray was good and my wife was delighted to get the
pâté de foie gras
, you can pass that on to Godofrey . . . Yes, Fräulein, we have finished. Now will you get me the Basel city police again . . .”

“Yes? . . . I'll write it down . . . Registration number BS 3437, Buick, the Agence Américaine Garage . . . Male, short, skinny, sallow complexion, blue raincoat, woollen scarf . . . Six p.m., 1 January, returned it today at three p.m. . . . Accompanied by a lady . . . Thank you . . . What? . . . Aha . . . Taxi driver, name of Adrian, states he was hired last night at the railway station by a priest in a white habit to take him to Bern . . . At nine o'clock. Luggage? . . . A haversack . . . The taxi driver says he was surprised a man who didn't even wear socks had so much money on him . . . In the haversack, right . . . Several 100-franc notes . . . No, nothing special. But I would suggest you have an autopsy done on the body of Josepha Cleman-Hornuss, 12 Spalenberg. Get
the chemist to analyse the stomach contents, to check for barbituric acid . . . Yes, barbituric – a sedative, if you like. How did you manage to find all this out so quickly? . . . Haha, very funny, the old jokes are the best, aren't they? Perhaps one day we Bernese will show you Baslers that we're sharper-eyed, even if we do take our time, eh? . . . The Spalenberg flat? . . . Why put a guard on it? . . . Do what you think fit . . . The rent was paid up to 1 April, was it? . . . Thanks.”

Studer rested his cheek on his hand and stared at the blotting pad. Without realizing it, he had drawn some mountains, and the mountains looked like a temperature chart. He'd made rather a mess of the blotting pad, but the bottom corner was still clear and in that empty space the sergeant began to draw stick figures: a circle for the head, a vertical line for the body, two horizontal lines for the arms and two sloping ones for the legs.

He stared at his drawing for a long time, pondering. Then he muttered, “Meaning?”

And the stick figures started to dance, shadows dancing across the blotting paper, shadows in time, shadows in space . . .

Koller or Cleman? Cleman or Koller? The stick man on the blotting paper comes trotting along, bows, then stands up straight: a beard, steel-rimmed glasses, a hammer in one hand, a spade in the other. He drops them, then falls down himself, Koller the philosophy student, Cleman the PhD . . . Falls down and into a hospital bed. Takes the temperature chart hanging over his bed and starts to draw on it. Then he writes, writes for a long time: “ . . . buried in an iron chest in a place that can easily be found with the help of the attached document . . .” His eyeballs roll up . . . A mass grave! – But no, there he is sitting in a kitchen, shuffling the cards, laying them out . . . The first card in the top row is the jack of spades! The stick man bows, lies down, flattens out and creeps into the blotting paper.

Stand up, Jakob Koller . . . Shops, elegant shops . . . a fur coat is selected, suede shoes bought, silk stockings – Stop! It's not your turn yet. It's no use. Marie has stood up. She walks along with Jakob Koller, lives in the same apartment with him . . . What about him? Fair hair, clean-shaven . . . Oh, now he's alone, thank God. Standing inside a large building, people shouting all round him, and Jakob Koller is shouting the loudest: “796 – I'm buying . . . 800 – buying.” Shouting, shouting. It quietens down. Jakob Koller lies down and the blotting pad swallows him up too.

Mist, mist, mist. Figures in the mist. A short man, a tall man. A car, number BS 3437, drives over the table, only it isn't the table, it's the Kornhaus Bridge. Should Marie stand up too? No, she's sitting in the car. Mist, mist, mist.