Fever (11 page)

Yes, said Studer, that was what he thought.

“So perhaps we should call Reinhard in? Or not?”

“Yes, we could call Reinhard in. And perhaps Murmann, too. He was there when the body was found.”

“Oh, that's right, yes, Murmann.”

So Inspector Gisler picked up the receiver, summoned Detective Constable Murmann of the cantonal police and Detective Corporal Reinhard of the city police, replaced the receiver and wiped the beads of sweat from his bald pate.

A council of war . . . Strangely enough, no one laughed Studer out of court, probably because little Reinhard supported him from the very beginning. At first Murmann did try to ridicule the suggestion, saying it was just another of Köbu's crazy ideas, but all he got for that was a tongue-lashing from Reinhard. He too, he said, had had the feeling there was something not quite right about the Hornuss case. And he'd noted all the odd features in his report: the cards laid out
on the table, the leather armchair in the kitchen, the half-open lever on the gas meter . . .

Who was it had reported it to the police? Studer wanted to know, and Reinhard, taking a long drag on his Parisienne, explained that a labourer who sublet from Sophie Hornuss – a furnished attic – had noticed the smell of gas as he passed and had rung the police, so the two of them – he and Murmann – had gone to Gerechtigkeitsgasse.

Here Murmann interrupted him to tell them how excited the sergeant had been, that morning, when – But Murmann was talking far too slowly for the lively Reinhard and felt the rough edge of his tongue again, telling him to shut up and let the sergeant do the talking. The inspector agreed with Reinhard. He had lit his pipe and was sitting at his desk, casting the occasional worried glance at his boots.

And Studer told them the whole story, told them about Cleman, the geologist who had worked for the Mannesmann brothers in Morocco and then betrayed his employers; he told them about Cleman's second wife, who had been killed in similar fashion in Basel, about the Somnifen in the bottom of the cup in the sink and about Herr Rosenzweig's strange conjectures about the thumbprint. He told them how he had met Father Matthias, who in reality was called Koller, and he didn't forget to mention the story of the clairvoyant corporal either, though just as an aside, to indicate that the case had ramifications that spread to distant countries. Then he got back on to Basel and told them he hadn't said anything there. After all, he was a detective with the Bern force and the Basel police should realize —

“That they can't see further than the nose on their face,” little Reinhard broke in.

“Exactly,” agreed the inspector and, “Goes without saying,” muttered Murmann.

They were all agreed that this was the “Big Case”. And they were all agreed that the Old Man, that is the chief of police for the Canton of Bern, had to be prodded into action. Bern mustn't miss out on this! Hahaha . . . the very idea . . . ridiculous! And, anyway, those Baslers . . .

There was no holding Chief Inspector Gisler. He rang the bar next door and ordered four bottles of beer.

“Cheers, Studer.”

“Köbu's the man!”

Balm to the soul!

They all agreed unreservedly that Studer was the man to solve the case. Who had the knowledge of foreign languages, the connections with the French authorities? Who could call a
commissaire
of the Police Judiciaire his friend?

Köbu Studer.

There you are!

“What?” said the massive figure of Murmann. “An unusual murder's been committed in Bern and we should hand over the case to Basel? Who just sent a uniform along instead of an experienced detective?”

But how could they convince the Old Man?

For what was clear as cow piss, said Reinhard, was that it would be an extensive investigation. They'd have to make enquiries in Basel, ring Paris . . . perhaps it would even prove necessary to go to Géryville to check up on a certain clairvoyant corporal . . . maybe even as far as Morocco?

And it was still within the bounds of possibility that Father Matthias, the monk, the White Priest, Chief Inspector Gisler added, getting into a slight
muddle, was the murderer. But if he wasn't, and the Bern police arrested him, what fools they'd look – they all had a healthy respect for the Old Man's outbursts of fury. And the good people of Lucerne and Schwyz would take the opportunity to drag Bern through the mud, there'd be vitriolic editorials in the
Vaterland
.

No, there was only one possible course of action: Studer had to take the case on. He'd put the priest up in his flat, left him in his wife's care, and the priest was at the centre of it all, he was – the Chief Inspector had completed high school – the
nervus rerum
, the crux of the matter.

Immediate instructions were given to the young policeman in the outside office to get changed into plain clothes as quickly as possible and go and guard the sergeant's flat in Thunstrasse.

They still had to convince the Old Man. But how?

The air in the room was thick with blue smoke, but none of the men thought of opening a window. They stared into space, trying to work out how they could get Studer some room to manoeuvre.

What they had heard was enough for them – but only for them, for the three men Studer had convinced. Three men who did not carry much weight: a chief inspector in the city police, a corporal and a constable. Not men whose voices counted for much in the counsels of the mighty; modest professionals, intelligent, true, experienced in their work . . . But that was all.

It was Herr Rosenzweig who solved their problem. He came into the office and immediately drew back.

“Spring is here, let in the air,” he sang, until he was forced to stop by a fit of coughing. Since none of the men showed any intention of moving, he had to carry
out his melodious suggestion himself, and a wave of dusty city air cleared the atmosphere.

One minute later Chief Inspector Gisler, whose delicate feet could not stand the cold, was demanding that the status quo be restored, and Reinhard closed the window.

“I rang your apartment, Sergeant,” said Herr Rosenzweig in his best standard Swiss German, “but I was told you weren't there, you'd probably be at the city police. I've got something remarkable to show you, very, very remarkable.”

Murmann grunted and said it would be sure to be something very special, but Rosenzweig ignored him. He took two sheets of paper out of his pocket and placed them gently on Studer's thighs.

“What do you say to that?” he asked, leaning against the wall since there was nowhere left to sit. Studer picked up the two pieces of paper – one thick, one thin – and examined them. The thicker piece was the temperature chart. The other was covered in writing and signed. In the top corner was a stamp. Studer glanced through the document. Then, holding it up close to his eyes, he read it a second time, more attentively, and it was some time before he had finished reading it.

The air in the office was clear, transparent. From outside came the honking of horns from passing cars, interrupted from time to time by the slow clip-clop of horses' hooves on the tarmac. Otherwise all was quiet. Inspector Gisler was busying himself with the cover of a file, little Reinhard had lit another Parisienne, and Murmann was taking his time filling his pipe.

But all three heads shot up when a strange sound came from where Studer was sitting. It was something between a sigh, a clearing of the throat and suppressed swearing.

“What's wrong?” asked Gisler, looking at him in surprise.

Old Rosenzweig, who was leaning against the wall, grinned, revealing a set of sparkling teeth with many gold fillings. After a time he switched off his beaming smile and started asking questions, though only rhetorical ones, to which he clearly didn't expect an answer:

“You didn't suspect that, did you, eh, Sergeant? Sensational, isn't it, eh? Even puts my unique photograph in the shade, eh?”

He fell silent, enjoying keeping the policemen in suspense. But when none of the four said anything – they were from Bern, they were very good at hiding their excitement behind a show of indifference – he chattered on.

“Of course, you'll be wondering how I came by the document, Sergeant. It's quite simple. You asked me to see if I could find any fingerprints on the temperature chart. Now there are two methods: iodine vapour and ultraviolet rays. I tried it out on my latest machine – and what did I see? Not just two fingerprints – they were also similar to the print with which I started my collection, by the way – no, I saw something else. Writing appeared! Handwriting!”

Herr Rosenzweig paused, obviously expecting a flicker of curiosity from at least one of his audience. But none of them showed any response. Murmann was balancing on the corner of the desk, Reinhard was staring at the glowing tip of his cigarette, Studer was making heavy weather of relighting his Brissago and Inspector Gisler was busy annotating the margin of a file. There was a note of disappointment in the retired lawyer's voice as he continued.

“Handwriting! Where could the writing be? On one side of the sheet was the temperature chart, the other
side was blank. I felt the edge with my finger: two documents had been stuck together. Apply steam, dry them out and you can read the will.”

That brought the four policemen to life.

“The will?” Gisler asked.

“
Chabis
!” said Murmann.

“That couldn't . . .” said Reinhard, but he didn't finish the sentence.

Studer handed the document to Chief Inspector Gisler. One head appeared on the left, one on the right, three heads in all bent over the piece of paper, and, though it was hardly necessary, Gisler insisted on reading it out in a low voice:

My Last Will and Testament

I the undersigned, Victor Alois Cleman, geologist, from Frutigen, Canton of Bern, make the following disposition: my estate, consisting of eight hectares of land around the village of Gourama in the south of Morocco, I leave jointly and equally to my daughter, Marie Cleman, born 12. 2. 1907 in Basel, and to the Canton of Bern. By accepting this bequest, the Canton of Bern commits itself to ensuring that half of any proceeds that may accrue from the sale of the aforementioned property be transferred to my daughter named above for her free disposal.

The purchase of the aforementioned land has been certified according both to French law and to the Islamic law in force in Gourama. I have established the presence of oil on this piece of land, the boundaries of which are defined in the relevant documents; I estimate that the value of the land in fifteen years time will be some two or three million francs. The documents confirming my right to the land have been buried in an iron chest in a place which can easily be found with the help of the attached document. I have given instructions that this document, together with my last will and testament, shall be sent to my wife, Frau Josepha Cleman-Hornuss, 12 Rheinschanze, Basel, fifteen years after my death. If by that
time my wife should have died, I have made arrangements for the documents to be given into the possession of my daughter.

Signed: Victor Alois Cleman

Fez, 18 July 1917

Chief Inspector Gisler leant back and started to tap his teeth with his pencil; Murmann straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest; little Reinhard took a bright yellow packet out of his trouser pocket and, deep in thought, tamped the cigarette on his thumbnail.

The silence was broken by Rosenzweig saying, “I don't know if you gentlemen are aware of it” – gentlemen, he said! – “but both Shell and Standard Oil are engaged in a struggle for new oilfields, a struggle as desperate as that between God and the devil for souls in the Middle Ages. Consequently a rough estimate would suggest that the oilfields purchased by Herr Cleman are probably worth three or four times what he forecast, not two millions but six or eight – and Swiss francs. That would mean three to four million for Bern, and since the canton is named as executor, the sum would be increased by the fees it could claim. Four and a half million. Not bad, eh?”

“And is the will valid?” Gisler asked.

“As valid as can be in French law. It's a holograph – in the testator's own hand, signed and dated. And since from the point of view of international law it is the attitude of the French that will carry most weight, I don't think we need worry. I imagine the canton could do with the money.”

“You can say that again,” said Murmann dryly and lit his pipe.

That document, Reinhard said, would make the Old Man see reason.

Studer said nothing. Various vague thoughts were going through his mind: Marie, who would now be rich; an old proverb about a donkey going dancing on the ice when things went too well – and he saw himself as the donkey; the business with the bank that had cost him his job: wouldn't it be nice to get his revenge by securing a small fortune for Bern? That would stop the malicious tongues wagging and guarantee his promotion to inspector. But a lot of water would have to flow under the bridge over the Aare before that happened. It wasn't straightforward . . .

A sharp knock at the door startled him out of his musing. The young policeman was reporting back. He had been to Studer's flat, he said, and Frau Studer had told him Father Matthias had left at half past two. His fever had gone.