Fever (7 page)

Why? With an apparently casual air the sergeant stuffed the folded sheet in his breast pocket. The paper felt thick. It had not struck him in Basel when he had coolly pocketed the temperature chart under the nose of the uniformed policeman.

So Father Matthias had recognized the temperature chart? Where had he seen it before? In the room of his “clairvoyant corporal”?

And for the first time Sergeant Studer entertained the possibility that the story of the clairvoyant corporal, which he had dismissed as pure invention, might have some meaning – not an occult, metaphysical, clairvoyant meaning, no. You had to look at the story of the clairvoyant corporal as you would an apparently stupid move by a clever opponent at chess. You dismiss the move with a shrug of the shoulders but, surprise, surprise, six or seven moves later you realize you've fallen into a trap.

It would be a good idea to check everything connected with this clairvoyant corporal as thoroughly
and carefully as possible. That would be difficult here in Bern. But he had good friends in Paris, didn't he? Commissaire Madelin, whom a dozen inspectors called “
patron
”? Godofrey, the walking encyclopedia? Of course, you couldn't build a theory merely on a man going pale. Anyway, theories! First and foremost he must familiarize himself with the funny relationships in the Cleman family. Yes,
familiarize
himself. Then he'd see.

And at the bottom of the entry in his notebook on Cleman, Victor Alois Studer wrote the words “mass grave” and underlined them twice.

The priest was standing at the window looking out into the courtyard.

“A smallpox epidemic,” he said. “I demanded to see my brother's case notes. All the case notes for 1917 were there, even those of an anonymous negro, which said, ‘Mulatto, five years old, admitted on . . . died on . . .' My brother's case notes had gone missing. Yes, Inspector, missing. ‘We don't know . . .' – ‘We're sorry . . .' Three months after his death his case notes couldn't be traced.

“Unlikely, don't you think?

“And fourteen years later a man with clairvoyant faculties tells me, after I've woken him from his trance, ‘The dead man is going to come to fetch the women. He wants revenge. The dead man is going to come to fetch the women . . .' Collani repeated that, then he described my brother, his curly beard, his spectacles. I know you can't imagine the effect it had on me, for that you'd have to know Géryville. You'd have to have seen my room, the greenish twilight, the town all around the house, the
bled. Bled
– it means land in Arabic, but we use the word for the plains, the endless plains with the dry esparto grass; it's never sappy, it
grows as hay. And it's so silent on the high plateau. Silent! I'm used to silence, I've lived long enough in the great hush of the desert. But Géryville's different. Nearby there's the tomb of a saint, a marabout, the desert tribes go on pilgrimage to it – in silence. Even the bugle calls when the guard is changed in the barracks are swallowed up in the great silence. The drums don't boom, all the drumsticks produce is a dull murmur. And now try to imagine it: my room in the greenish light and an unknown man describing my brother, speaking with his voice . . .” Father Matthias drew out the last word and let it fade away. Suddenly he turned round. Three long strides and he was standing directly in front of the sergeant. There was urgency in his voice and he was breathing heavily as he asked:

“What do you think, Inspector? Do you think my brother's still alive? Do you think it's him behind these two dark murders? That they are murders I'm sure you won't deny now. Tell me honestly, what do you think?”

Studer sat there, forearms on his thighs, hands clasped. He made a massive figure, hard and heavy, like the boulders you find in Alpine meadows.

“Nothing.” Studer had reverted to his native Swiss German.

After the priest's lengthy outpouring, the single word had the effect of a full stop.

Then the sergeant stood up. He took his empty coffee cup over to the sink, but as he deposited it there he was seized with a fit of coughing so loud it sounded as if a whole pack of mongrels had been let loose in the little kitchen. Turning away from the sink, he took out his handkerchief – and when he put it back in the side pocket of his raincoat it was wrapped round a hard object.

It was wrapped round the cup in which he had
found Somnifen mixed in with the coffee grounds on the bottom. But the cup had been rinsed out.

By whom?

It had taken him scarcely ten minutes to check the apartment – and when he had finished, Father Matthias had been sitting in the leather armchair, playing with his
sheshia
.

Ten minutes. More than enough time to rinse out a cup.

But might they perhaps be able to find fingerprints on the cup?

“Better now, Inspector?” Father Matthias asked. “You should do something about that cough.”

Studer nodded. His face was red and there was a glint of tears in his eyes. He waved the priest's advice aside and seemed to be about to say something, but was saved from the necessity by a knock at the door.

The short man in the blue raincoat and the tall man

At the door was a very thin lady with a birdlike head and a page-boy hairstyle. She introduced herself as the director of the dance school that had its premises in the same building, and did so with such a pronounced English accent that the sergeant had the feeling that in this investigation – even if it was the “Big Case” every detective hoped for – his Bernese German was rather underused: one moment he was speaking French, then formal German, then listening to the Basel gargle, and now it was the turn of English. There's something highly un-Swiss about the whole affair, was the vague thought going through Studer's mind, even if all those involved are Swiss – with the exception of the clairvoyant corporal, of course, the priest never said what his nationality was . . . Un-Swiss or, to be more precise, expatriate Swiss, a rather clumsy expression, it didn't exactly trip off the tongue . . .

“I have some information,” the lady said, twisting and turning her slim body – Studer found himself looking round for the Indian fakir playing the flute to charm this cobra. “I live below . . .” An arm snaked its way downwards and an index finger pointed at the floor, but then the lady suddenly broke off and stared in amazement at the priest, who was back in the leather armchair, playing with his
sheshia
.

The sergeant just stood there, like a statue, hands on hips, his raincoat pushed back. He looked like a tortoise standing on its hind legs, the way you sometimes
see them in picture books. His slim head and skinny neck only served to emphasize the similarity.

“Well,” he asked brusquely.

“Someone rang at the door last night,” the thin lady said in her strong English accent. “It was a short man wearing a blue raincoat. When he spoke it was not very clear since he was wearing a
scarf
. . . a
cache-nez
, oh, what's the German? A long woollen thing wrapped round his neck and covering the lower half of his face.”

A dry cough as she cleared her throat, then, “He had pulled his hat down over his forehead. He asked for Frau Hornuss. ‘The next floor,' I said. The man thanked me and left. It was quite quiet in the building, so I could hear him ring the doorbell up here.”

“What time was that?”

“About . . . about eleven o'clock, perhaps a little later. I had just given a lesson, it finished at five to eleven. Then I had a shower —”

“Aha,” said Father Matthias, settling even deeper in his armchair. “So you took a shower. Hm?”

“That's of no interest,” Studer snapped.

The lady seemed not to notice the impoliteness of the two men, she was staring spellbound at the priest's
sheshia
, which was going round and round, now slower, now quicker.

“And then? Did you hear anything else?” Studer asked impatiently.

“Yes . . . Wait . . . So I heard him ring – our apartment is directly underneath this one. I hadn't closed the door, I wanted to see if Frau Hornuss would come to the door, perhaps she had already gone to bed . . . but she seemed to be expecting the visitor, he had hardly rung than I heard the old woman's voice. ‘At last!' she said. It sounded like relief. ‘Do come in.' Then the door was closed.”

“Can you remember Frau . . . Frau . . .”

“Frau Tschumi.”

That was all he needed, thought Studer. An English-woman with a Bernese surname!

“Well, Frau Tschumi, can you tell me how Frau Hornuss addressed this man. I mean, did she use the familiar form, or the formal
Sie
?”

“In England we only have the one word, so I imagine she said
Sie
.”

“But you're not sure, Frau Tschumi?”

“Sure? My God! You must remember I was tired. Are you the police?” the thin lady suddenly asked.

“Yes . . . Sergeant Studer. And you didn't hear anything else?”

“Oh yes,” said the lady with a smile, “quite a lot . . . I'm sorry, Mr . . . Herr Studer” – there was no point in trying to do anything about it: the French called him “Studère” and the English lady said something like “Styoodah”, like the purring of a contented pussy-cat – “but do you think that gentleman could stop playing with his hat? It's getting on my nerves.”

Father Matthias blushed like a little schoolboy caught in some misdemeanour, quickly popped his
sheshia
back on his head and stuck his arms up the sleeves of his habit.

“I heard steps in the kitchen,” said the lady, writhing like a snake. “Then some heavy object being dragged right across the apartment, then the murmur of voices; it went on for a long time, a very long time, almost an hour. I said to my husband, ‘What do you think is going on? The old lady has never had a visitor that late before, what can it be?' You must know, Inspector” – it came out as “Inspectah” – “we liked the old lady. She was all alone and sometimes we went to visit her and sometimes she came to our apartment. She was always sad . . .”

“Yes, yes,” said Studer impatiently. “Get on with it.”

“Suddenly it went silent in the kitchen. Someone crossed the apartment above very quietly, so quietly it sounded as if they were deliberately trying not to make any noise. We can hear what's going on upstairs very clearly, the floor must be hollow. Then the door opened . . . and I opened ours. Curiosity, you know, Inspector, curiosity! . . . I heard the key being turned in the lock of the apartment door, then it went quiet. Completely quiet, you understand, no steps going away, nothing. I said to my husband – he was standing beside me – ‘What can her visitor be doing up there?' But hardly had I stopped whispering than I heard steps creeping down the stairs. They were dark, the man didn't put the light on, perhaps he didn't know where the switch was. He was creeping down the stairs in the darkness, coming towards us, when he saw the chink of light. He stopped, waiting. Then, quite suddenly, he took a few long strides and ran past – no, he didn't run . . . he jumped . . .”

Such a dramatic account! Why was it women always had to put on an act? In a matter-of-fact voice Studer asked, “Did he seem frightened?”

“Yes, very, very frightened. He dropped something. It didn't make a noise when it landed on the floor, but I could see it in the light from our door. I heard the man hurrying down the stairs in leaps and bounds. And then the front door slammed shut.”

“Doesn't it get locked at ten?” Studer asked.

“No, not until eleven, because of my dancing classes, and even then it's often forgotten. There's a man on the ground floor who's always forgetting his house key. He lives alone and when he gets home too late he rings our bell. That's why we usually leave the door open . . .”

“Hmm,” Studer muttered. “And what was it he dropped, madame?”

“This here,” the thin lady said, holding out her hand to Studer, palm upwards. On it was a thin piece of string rolled up into a figure of eight with a knot round the middle. Studer glanced at the man with the bare, sinewy calves before he picked it up, then again when he had the string in his fingers. There was a smile playing round his lips that was difficult to interpret. Enigmatic? Mocking, perhaps? No, not mocking, the expression in his eyes ruled that out, they were wide and sad, a grey sea with clouds above – and an occasional, very occasional glint of sunlight on the smooth surface.

Studer undid the knot. There was a loop at one end. He climbed up on to the stool and placed the loop round the lever, after he had returned it to the horizontal position, then moved the stool so that he could pass the string over the gas pipe above the door, letting the end dangle down. Having threaded that end through the keyhole, he went out into the corridor and, holding the door shut with his left hand, began gently to pull on the string with his other. After a while he could feel no more resistance and the whole string came out, with the loop at the end that he had so carefully placed round the lever. Only then did he go back into the kitchen.

The mains tap on the gas meter was at an angle of forty-five degrees.

“
Quod erat demonstrandum
,” said the priest. “Do you remember? QED. That was what they put at the end of the theorems – Pythagoras's theorem, for example – in the geometry books we had at secondary school. Only the way the murder here was committed is easier to prove than Pythagoras's aforementioned theorem.
For that theorem, Inspector, is not just something for the schoolchildren . . .”