Fever (25 page)

Marie broke off, startled, as Studer grasped her by the upper arms and held them tight, staring her in the face. When, alarmed, she asked what was wrong, she found herself under a hail of questions, questions asked with such quiet urgency that she felt dizzy.

“Just think. Try to remember. How often did Father Matthias come to see your father?”

“Never. Never.”

“Why?”

“Because Uncle Matthias had converted to Catholicism.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It's the only one I know.”

“How old were you when the postman brought the registered letter?”

“Eight.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course.”

“When were you born?”

“In 1909.”

“Sure?”

“Yes!”

Silence, if only briefly. In his mind's eye Studer could see the kitchen in Gerechtigkeitsgasse, could see the priest playing with his
sheshia
. He heard himself asking, “When did your brother get his divorce?” And the answer: “In 1908. He got married again the next year. Marie was born in 1910.” In 1910! He didn't need Hedy's new ring binder, it was engraved on his mind. In 1910! And what had Marie said – and she really ought to know? Marie said: in 1909. A mistake on the
part of the priest? A slip of the tongue. Not the kind of slip of the tongue one usually made.

“OK. In 1909. When was the first time you saw your uncle?”

“After Father's death.”

“In the same year?”

“I think so.”

“You're not sure?”

“No-o-o.”

“Once? Twice? Several times?”

“Once a year.”

“Regularly? Until very recently?”

“No. His visits stopped five years ago. But after that we still got letters.”

“Did nothing strike your mother about the letters?”

“One thing. She once said you could tell Matthias was getting old, his handwriting was getting very shaky.”

The entry in the register at the Hotel zum Wilden Mann wasn't shaky at all. Make a note of it, and move on to the next question . . .

“And you recognized your uncle, recognized him straight away when he came to see you in Paris?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Out with it, girl.”

“I . . . I didn't really recognize him. The Uncle Matthias I remembered was taller. And his face was a little different too . . .”

“Where did your mother keep the letters from your Uncle Matthias?”

“Together with her souvenirs of father.”

Studer let go of Marie so suddenly she staggered a little. But then she stood up straight and stared at the sergeant in astonishment. The expression on his face had changed. You try to smile and whistle at the same
time; the grimace you'll see in the mirror is the grimace Marie saw, and she started to laugh.

“Go on, laugh. In the police station in Bern they all say Köbu's got a screw loose. But what's all this with the captain? Are you engaged? Yes? And he likes you? A stupid question,” said Studer, answering it himself. “Who wouldn't like you, Marie?”

Marie didn't blush, she didn't toy modestly with the corner of her apron, she didn't fiddle with her hairnet. She said, “If you like me, Cousin Jakob, and Louis likes me, what more do I need? The others?” She shrugged her shoulders. And Studer commented dryly that it was nice of her to mention him before her fiancé. Everything would turn out all right, there was no need to worry.

She wasn't worried, Marie said. At least not for herself. But wasn't Cousin Jakob taking a big risk? There he was, alone and in a foreign country. She'd heard something about buried treasure. Wouldn't it be better to forget about it? After all, if she married Louis, his pay would be enough for the two of them. And all that money? It did nothing but harm. It just made people bad, wicked.

Studer was only half listening. When she stopped he said caustically that if it were only a question of her, of Marie, he wouldn't lift a little finger. But there were interests of state at stake. Interests of state! he repeated, wagging his finger under Marie's nose.

Marie went off, but the sergeant stayed rooted to the same spot, his hands clasped behind his back, shaking his head. He shook it long and hard, like a horse plagued by flies.

It was scandalous. And it was scandalous to allow himself to be fooled like that. He did have an excuse. It was the first time he had had to wrestle with such
an opponent. And it would have been no contest, if something unforeseeable, one of those imponderables – imponderables! The favourite word of a man from whom he had learnt much – had not happened. Something quite simple, really: the man who commanded the fort at Gourama had fallen in love with a girl . . .

The sergeant would have stayed standing on the same spot if he hadn't been roused by Lartigue's voice.

“What's going on, Inspector? Doing your morning exercises? You think your neck's getting too fat? Is that why you're waggling your head like that?”

Studer looked up – no he didn't look, he stared at the captain with the same empty look in his eyes he had had once before.

“One question, Captain,” he said. “Might I ask, if it's not being indiscreet, where you first met Marie?”

“We met in Paris, when I was on leave. Do you know Bullier's?” Studer nodded. He knew the dance hall in the Montparnasse district. “We danced together there. Then in the following days we met several times, until my leave was over.”

“OK. But how does Marie come to be in Gourama?”

“I got a telegram from her on 2 January,” said Captain Lartigue, producing his wallet and taking out a piece of paper, which he handed to the sergeant. Apart from the address, it contained only four words:
Need five thousand Marie
.

“The little minx!” Studer muttered to himself. When Lartigue looked at him questioningly, he said out loud, “A great girl.”

“Yes,” Lartigue agreed drily. “And I wouldn't have minded being a fly on the wall when she spoke to the Director of Medical Services for Morocco in Fez. It's certainly true that I've requested a nurse several times,
but the director has the rank of general and is a well-known misogynist . . .”

Studer laughed, a long, loud laugh, and slapped his thigh, so that the captain at his side gave him an astonished look. All at once the laugh broke off. Studer turned round and said in a voice the captain would never have believed him capable of, a voice dripping with politeness, like a slice of bread and butter too thickly spread with honey.

“You here,
mon père
? How are you? Have you seen your dear little niece already?”

“Ah, Inspector. Delighted to see you.” With only a slight quiver of the straggly goatee. “You must forgive me for disappearing from Bern like that, but I paid my debts, no one was any the worse off for it. I knew I was needed here in Morocco . . . My flock was calling me, Inspector, all my lost sheep. Could I turn a deaf ear to their pleas?”

“But, my dear Father Matthias, who would have expected you to? Did I not make it clear that we in Switzerland have always endeavoured to —”

That was all Studer managed to say. Father Matthias interrupted him with a wave of the hand.

“As I said, I am delighted to find you here. It means we can join forces in enlightening the captain about the role an unfortunate man has played in this affair, a man who joined the Legion to escape punishment. But the Legion is duty bound to hand over
murderers
, is it not, Captain Lartigue?”

It was a triumph for the Swiss sergeant to see the man who had welcomed him with a challenge to a boxing match suddenly unsure of himself.

“A murderer? In my company?” he asked.

Tears welled up in Father Matthias's eyes. “Unfortunately,” he said. “Unfortunately that is so. I
am sure the reason, the sole reason the Swiss inspector undertook this arduous journey was to shorten the extradition proceedings a little, perhaps even to take the murderer back with him as soon as permission from the ministry in Paris arrives. Is that not correct?”

A sorrowful expression appeared on Studer's face. He nodded.

Captain Lartigue, however, insisted: “But I thought, Inspector, you had come to —”

The rest of what he had to say was drowned in a violent fit of coughing that seemed to be tearing the sergeant's lungs apart. It went on and on, despite the helpful slaps on the back. Eventually he managed to gasp, “You – must – have – some – cough – medi – cine – in your – dispen – sary – Cap – tain.”

“But of course, Inspector. Come along with me.”

They left a rather surprised Father Matthias standing in the yard. Still coughing, Studer glanced back. The sergeant envied the priest. He still had a beard and moustache, essential for keeping calm in the face of a crisis.

In the sickbay Studer swiftly swallowed the pill the captain had given him. Then he said, speaking quietly and quickly, “Don't say anything about the temperature chart to the priest. Nor about the buried treasure.” Studer cast a suspicious look out of the little window, which had a fine wire-mesh covering, and saw Father Matthias hurrying over. In a couple of seconds he would be in the room.

“Yesterday you were talking about a court-martial you could call. Good idea. Do it now, this afternoon, accuse me of spying . . .”

Outside the priest was held up by a man. Studer did not know the man, but he was grateful to him and mentally promised him a bottle of wine.

“Listen, Captain. Come closer.” Studer whispered urgently in Lartigue's ear. At first the captain looked astonished, then he nodded, nodded vigorously – the door was flung open and Father Matthias came in.

The sergeant continued to play his part to perfection. He held his breath, forcing the air down into his lungs until he went bright red, then gasped for breath.

“I know an excellent remedy for a chronic cough like that,” said Father Matthias. “I remember you having a similarly violent fit in Bern. You must do something about it, Inspector. What did you prescribe for him, Captain?”

“I gave him a Dower's powder,” the captain growled, pretending to be in a bad mood. “But now I have things to do. Reports to hear, you know. Lunch is at half eleven in the officers' mess. You're both invited.”

With a brief flap of the hand at his kepi, Lartigue went out. Hardly had he left the sickroom than the sergeant, too, felt the need for fresh air.

“
Au revoir, mon père
,” he said. He could feel the priest's eyes on his hunched back and the feeling was just as uncomfortable as when Sergeant Beugnot had been following him . . .

The arrest

It was just the same as the previous day. The company gathered in the barracks square. The huts seemed to enjoy being able to take a rest for once from the noise that was usually raging inside them. They stretched themselves lazily in the sun, which was high in the sky. It beat down on them like a July sun in Switzerland. At least there was something to give you the feeling you were in Africa . . .

Studer went through the empty huts. Either side of a central aisle were rows of mattresses, thin and filled with esparto grass. There was a strong smell of cold tobacco smoke and dirty washing. One hut, two huts . . . There was the kitchen. It smelt of lentils and mutton stew.

Then, unchallenged, he was standing again by the hut that was different from the rest. There was the barred window. Studer stood up on tiptoe . . .

It was light in the hut and the man sitting on the cement block could be clearly seen. So that was the clairvoyant corporal, whose story he had heard right at the start of this tangled case. A broken man, his hair was grey, his features pinched.

Giovanni Collani or Victor Alois Cleman?

Soon, soon he would know for certain.

And once more, as on the previous day, the sergeant gave a start as close by a bugle brayed – “rang out” would not have been the right expression for that sound. Studer looked back into the cell and saw that
the man had a pack of cards in his hand again. He shuffled them, cut – with his left hand – took three cards, discarded two, took three more, picked out one . . . With a jolt Studer dropped back onto his heels and quietly slipped away. He went out through the gate. The wide plain was spread out in front of him. To his right it sloped down and there were some trees there. Not palm trees, their leaves had a silvery sheen.

Someone nudged him in the ribs. Again the sergeant gave a start. But it was only the captain's gazelle wanting to play. Studer stroked its tiny head; the animal's muzzle was moist and cool. Why am I so jumpy? he asked himself. I'm not usually. Why now? Because I'm out on my own? Because there's no one I can really trust?

For a moment he thought of leaving the fort without saying goodbye. Let those in there see how they managed to sort things out themselves. He'd done what he could. After all, he wasn't obliged to go round the world on forged passports, assuming the most ridiculous names, just to secure a few million for his home canton. Would they be grateful? Pull the other one! It was the Old Man who would take all the credit. He'd be praised for having recognized the importance of the case and taken the required measures.