Fever (27 page)

What did he have to say in his defence? the captain wanted to know.

“A lot,” was the sergeant's brief reply.

“Then tell us.”

So Studer began. Oddly enough, he began with a question. Turning to the old man beside him, he asked, pointing at the White Father, “Do you know that man there?”

The old man stroked his cheeks, then asked shyly whether it was permitted for him to look at the man from closer to? His request was granted by Captain Lartigue.

So the old man went over to the priest and looked at him for a long time. The priest returned his steady gaze. The old man said, “I know him from Géryville. He took my confession.”

“You don't know him from earlier on?” Studer asked.

The old man shook his head.

“Listen,” Studer said in friendly tones, “you can tell us the truth now. What is your real name?”

“I've had lots of names. First I was called Koller, then I called myself Cleman. I was rich then. Finally I got bored with being rich, so I bought some papers off a man and enlisted in the Legion as Giovanni Collani. But originally I was called Koller. Victor Alois Koller. That's my real name.”

“Right. Now listen,” said Studer, “the man before you claims to be your brother, says his name is Max Koller . . .”

The old man shook his head, a long, emphatic shake of the head.

“It's true Max became a papist,” he said. “Our parents never forgave him. But that's not Max. I made confession to him in Géryville . . . though that's not quite right, either. He asked me questions and I told him about laying out the cards and how I have to tell the truth when I lay out the cards – what I told you just now, Jakob. Then I had to lay out the cards for him. It was at the beginning of September last year. By then I'd already sent off the letter to Josepha. Fifteen years after my death. I wanted to show Josepha my gratitude and after fifteen years Sophie, the old witch in Bern, couldn't do anything about it. That's what I told this man here. I don't know what he did, but one evening my brother Jakob suddenly appeared and forced me to go with him. I was to get the temperature chart from Josepha, the chart that showed where the treasure was buried —”

Studer interrupted him. “Just a minute,” he said. “I would like this gentleman's luggage to be searched.” And the sergeant pointed at Father Matthias.

The priest leapt up. He protested long and loud, his voice cracked, sometimes it sounded as if he were about to burst into tears. Studer cast aside politeness.

“You've tried to pull the wool over our eyes often enough with your tears,” he snapped. “I demand that your luggage be searched.”

Calmly the captain gave the order.

Two suitcases were brought into the hut. Captain Lartigue demanded the keys. Reluctantly the priest handed them over. One suitcase contained vestments
and other articles for celebrating mass. In the other, underneath a habit and various items of underwear, an iron box was found. It was rusty. The captain opened it and emptied the contents out on to the table.

Documents, documents . . . Some had seals dangling from them. Others were written in a strange script. The captain picked up one of the latter.

“Deeds of sale,” he said as he read through it. “Purchases of land . . . Certified by the Arab Office . . . Definitely valid in law. Sold to a certain Victor Alois Cleman.”

“That's me,” said the old man. “And I've bequeathed the land to my daughter, Marie, who has my second surname, and to my home canton of Bern . . . Yes . . . He was trying to steal it!” The old man pointed his finger at Father Matthias.

The White Father stepped forward.

“This land,” he said, “was purchased with stolen money. The Minister of War has given our order the task of finding the papers. The mission was entrusted to me because I already knew something about the case. Max Koller, who entered our order as a young man, was my friend. He told me a lot. That was why I was given permission to use his papers. I had to find the temperature chart. The genuine one, since this man here,” Father Matthias pointed at the old man, “had told me the original chart also contained his will. The one he gave to me was a copy. A copy of the chart without the will.”

“Silence!” Studer thundered, as if he, the accused, had suddenly become the prosecutor. “It was not stolen money. The Mannesmann brothers gave the money to their geologist, Cleman.” He turned to the old man. “Was it you who betrayed them?”

The man who had had so many names shook his head. “They betrayed themselves,” he said.

“And I presume the two women killed themselves?” Father Matthias asked maliciously. “And you're not a murderer, Collani?”

Everything happened so quickly, no one had time to intervene. Studer was the only one who had perhaps expected something of the kind, but he didn't lift a finger until it was all over.

The old man, who looked so feeble, had snatched the rifle out of the hand of the legionnaire beside him – a rifle that had a bayonet fixed to the end of the barrel. And one had to admit that the old man remembered what he had learnt in bayonet practice very well. The gun, with just his right hand grasping the butt, shot forward – and back. The blackish iron was covered in a thin film of blood and Father Matthias was lying on the floor. A red stain on the front of his habit slowly grew bigger and bigger.

“Now I
am
a murderer,” said the old man. “Now you can do what you like with me.”

But Captain Lartigue just shrugged his shoulders. “It's probably the best solution,” he said.

And the four members of the court, who had remained as immobile as he had, nodded. Only Marie, in her armchair, was holding her clasped hands in front of her face.

The old man seemed to be waiting for something. Since no one touched him, however, he went – with short, uncertain steps, a real old man's walk – over to the girl. Very gently he placed a hand on her clenched hands.

“You know I didn't kill your mother, Marie?” he said.

Marie's answer was quiet. “I've known that for a long time, Father. You told me before. When we were in the
car, driving to Bern with your brother. It wasn't your fault Mother was so afraid of gas . . .”

Studer was standing all by himself in the middle of the room. Not far away was the body of the priest on the floor. In his mind's eye the sergeant could see his apartment in Bern, could see the little man with the goatee lying on the couch, just as motionless as he was now, with a cup of limeflower tea beside him, the tea Hedy had made.

It hadn't been the “Big Case” after all, Studer thought. He'd got it wrong again. It was the cards that were to blame. You shouldn't try to tell the future from the cards. There were lots of things you shouldn't do, he thought. Like pushing yourself forward, for example, trying to play a leading role, to get a fortune back for a girl, to secure millions for your canton . . .

The man who had had all the different names was sitting on the arm of the chair, leaning against Marie's shoulder. He was bent forward, whispering to himself, but the silence in the spacious hut was so profound, every word was audible.

“You know, Marie, I wanted to celebrate New Year with your mother. She asked me to stay up with her until she fell asleep. I held her hand. Then she wanted me to lay out the cards for her. And the jack of spades was the first card to come out. Then we made ourselves a coffee – and she wanted her sedative. I gave it to her. She said she didn't want to go to bed, she wanted to sleep in her armchair and I was to hold her hand until she was asleep. Then I was to turn off the gas at the mains. But to do that I'd have had to get up on a chair. So she said I could tie a string round the lever and take it out through the keyhole. Then all I'd need to do was to pull it and it would shut off the gas. And I wouldn't wake her up.

“I'm not used to gas. I tried out the taps – did I forget to shut one off? Outside, on the landing, I pulled the string – and Josepha died. I didn't know . . .”

Silence. The old man was hunched up on the arm of the chair.

“Your mother was so looking forward to seeing you, Marie. Why didn't you come? And Jakob wanted me to get the temperature chart. I looked for it, but I couldn't find it. Your mother wasn't expecting me. She already had her outdoor shoes on, she was going to see the New Year in with a friend. And then I arrived. She laughed and told me she'd lost her keys that very day . . . She wanted to show me all the souvenirs she'd kept, but the drawer was locked. I forced it open . . .”

Studer nodded, kept on nodding. He'd thought he had uncovered a fiendishly cunning murder – and it had all been down to chance. A chance the priest had exploited. Guilty! If you were trying to apportion blame, then it was the priest alone who was to blame, the priest who had put on an act from beginning to end. But wasn't it irresponsible of him to have been taken in by an act like that? A double murder suited the priest perfectly. If the police think there's been a double murder, then they look for a murderer. A cunning ploy to draw suspicion on to yourself when you know very well you've got an alibi. How the man must have laughed at the “Inspector” as he insisted on calling him!

“Do you know, Captain,” Studer said, “Marie's aunt, the aunt who lived in Bern, knew that the man she'd divorced wasn't dead? Her sister in Basel wrote to her about the temperature chart.” He turned to the old man. “That's right, isn't it?”

The old man nodded. Then he said, “Jakob, my
brother, wanted me to go and see Sophie. He wanted to get the temperature chart . . .”

The old man stood up and came to stand beside Studer, facing the seated officers.

“Gentlemen of the court, I have to answer for what I have done. It is the man I killed who is to blame. He started everything off again. He told my brother in Paris about it. They wanted to find the treasure and that man, the priest, promised my brother half. There's a lot of oil round here and soon, very soon, it's going to be worth a lot. The man lying there went to see the Minister of War, he told me so himself. He wanted to destroy my will, that's why he roused me from my fifteen-year sleep . . . With the cards! He wouldn't leave me in peace in Géryville, he told people I was a clairvoyant . . . You must excuse me, gentlemen, I'm getting everything mixed up. But I'm an old man and I've had a hard life. All I wanted was for my daughter and the land of my birth to inherit my wealth. For myself, I just wanted to sleep on. He started everything up again. He went to see Sophie and told her I was still alive. And he forced Jakob, my brother Jakob, to drive me to Bern. Sophie threatened me, she said she would tell the police everything, have me arrested. But she also cried. I wanted to talk to her, persuade her . . . Sophie was afraid of the gas, too. I remembered how I did it in Basel with the lever on the gas mains and the string. I dragged her armchair into the kitchen and made some coffee. I still had the bottle with Josepha's sedative and I poured some in her coffee – a lot. She didn't notice it because I poured some kirsch in as well. And then – as a joke, I said it was a joke – I climbed up on a chair and tied the string to the lever, just as in Basel. And I killed Sophie. She was an evil woman. She took everything I had. She didn't want
Josepha to have anything. She wanted to give me away. Gentlemen,
mon capitaine
, I haven't got much longer to live. I know that you love Marie . . . and you too, Jakob,” he turned to Studer, “you're a better Jakob than my brother . . . Both of you make sure Marie gets what is hers by right, and the land of my birth, too. That is all I have to say.”

For a long time it was quiet in the room. Then Marie stood up, went over to her father and led him back to the chair she had been sitting in. “Sit down, Father,” she said in German. The old man sat down and leant back.

“Inspector Studère,” the captain asked, “why did I have to arrest you, anyway?”

“Two reasons. First, the priest would have realized I was suspicious of him and fled, or at least hidden the strongbox. The second is that I wanted to be able to talk to the old man in the cell undisturbed.”

“Yes,” said the captain, “that makes sense. But you must admit you were fortunate. If I hadn't been engaged to Marie . . .”

“Then I'd have had a hard time of it,” said Studer. “But sometimes you have to count on imponderables.”

“Imponderables!” the captain exclaimed. “Just listen to him, talking like a professor.”

But Marie went to the sergeant. “Thank you, Cousin Jakob,” she said.

The little lieutenant, who was still sitting there with his blank sheets of paper, asked, “What shall I write in the report?”

“Whatever you like,” said Captain Lartigue. “How about: the priest arrived at the fort seriously wounded and died here. Everyone agreed?”

The four members of the court-martial, the corporal of the guard and his four men all nodded silently.

“Where is he to be buried?” the corporal of the guard asked.

“He's dug his own grave,” Sergeant Studer said. “Under the cork-oak. You know, by the red rock that looks like a man.”

The captain nodded.