In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery (15 page)

"You're going to object that there are cases more
deserving than murderers who are in prison for killing
a child. Agreed. We don't help everyone who deserves
it. It's not our fault, we do what we can, it's the circumstances that are beyond us, the circumstances - or
should I say the authorities? You can't hold me responsible for the fact that the world isn't ruled by logic ...

"What I did was to try and make things easier for
Pieterlen. He was allowed to draw, I talked with him a
lot, sometimes I invited him up here to my apartment,
I lent him books. When he asked to be allowed to work
- that was after last year's NewYear dance - and said he
would like to join the decorating unit, I gave my permission, even though I knew why he wanted to join
that particular unit. Pierre Pieterlen, the classic case,
had fallen in love. Yes ... And even though I did not
approve of his taste - I believe you've already made the
acquaintance of Nurse Wasem, so you'll understand
why - despite all that, I thought it would do him good,
he wouldn't run off into his dark realm any more, the
mountain wouldn't split open again.

"It was touching, it really was. I was kept informed, of
course, rules are rules. The nurse in charge of the decorating unit duly reported to me, the staff nurse in the
female 0 Ward turned a blind eye and the idyll went
on its merry way. And why shouldn't we have an idyll
within these red walls, once in a while? Of course,
there were some people who complained. `Laduner's
encouraging immorality,' that kind of thing. It was
narrow-minded people who said things like that, especially those our Gallic colleague calls 'olyJoes. On
Sundays Pieterlen was allowed to go out for a walk with
a nurse. I usually sent Gilgen, you know him, the jolly
one with the red hair. . . "

Studer's voice was a little hoarse when he interrupted the flow of words with, "I should say I do."

Laduner looked at his watch. "It's late. Time for
bed?" He yawned.

Studer asked, "I presume Pieterlen was jealous of
the Director?"

"Clearly. Pieterlen's wife had obtained a divorce
while he was in prison. It was his first love affair since
his illness."

Silence again. Then Laduner said, almost as an
afterthought, "Perhaps now you can understand why I
haven't officially reported Pieterlen missing so far. But
I'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow? Today, to be exact ...
It's one o'clock. Shall we close the meeting, Studer?
Unless there's something else you want?"

Studer cleared his throat. His stomach still didn't
feel quite right. The dive! He tried to answer in as
matter-of-fact a voice as possible, but didn't quite
manage it.

"Yes, Herr Doktor ... I wouldn't mind a kirsch."

Back in his room, Studer switched on the bedside light
and sat down at the window. The courtyard was black
and quiet. Perhaps the arc lamps had been on the previous night in honour of the harvest festival. From time
to time a tiny moon peeped out from behind the
clouds, then disappeared again, but even when it was
there its light was so weak it was hardly worth
mentioning.

He could feel the fire of the kirsch in his stomach.
Studer had drunk three glasses and now he was wide
awake. Strangely enough, though, he didn't feel like
smoking. He wanted to think, to think clearly. But isn't
it always the case that when you specifically require
your mind to think clearly, your thoughts are vague,
hazy and very, very disjointed? ...

The situation had changed markedly since the
morning, of that there was no doubt. It was all very well
for Dr Laduner to talk of an accident. Sure-ly, as he
would say, a murder in the clinic would cause an outrage, especially if it could be connected with Pieterlen,
the classic case ... But didn't everything seem to point
to Pieterlen? The grey square of cloth underneath his
mattress, the sandbag made of the same material, his
escape just before the moment when cries for help had
been heard ... And then his motive! Jealousy. A
powerful motive ...

Cherchez la femme. It was an old rule for detectives and
not even Dr Locard from Lyon had dared to mock it. Dr Locard, his old mentor, who, in a memorable article, had cast doubt on the reliability of all witness
statements ...

Pieterlen, then? Let's assume it was Pieterlen ...
though he had nothing to gain from the murder ...
Perhaps it would be a good idea to think back to the
reformatory in Oberhollabrunn where he had first
become acquainted with Dr Laduner ...

In particular to think back to that memorable scene
in which one boy had gone for another with a knife in
his hand and Dr Laduner had played the interested
spectator ... What had Eichhorn's rule been? The
resentment must be allowed to play itself out. All well
and good, as long as a murder wasn't committed. Dr
Laduner could go on at great length giving reasonable
psychological explanations for the murder of a child,
so reasonable it made you feel queasy, just as if you
were flying over the Alps ...

But the murder of an old man who had perhaps
come to a rendezvous all unsuspecting - didn't that
put the matter in a somewhat different light? And what
had been the point of Laduner's long lecture. He had
got carried away, sure-ly, it hadn't all been an act, he
had become fond of Pieterlen, you could feel that, but
still, you don't go on at a detective sergeant for three
hours without some kind of ulterior motive. That's the
way people are - especially people as complex as Dr
Laduner - they never have just one single motive for
the things they do. A young examining magistrate
might be stupid enough to imagine that, or a prosecutor like the one in Pieterlen's story, but not a sensible
person such as, for example, an old detective. Of
course, he might look naive, sure-ly, but he'd been
around enough, he'd got to know about people. Now
all that about the subconscious, there was a lot to it, though he wouldn't have been able to formulate it like
that ... But then the attack ... An attack, yes, that's
what it was. "Haven't we all at some time murdered a
child in our dreams?" Oh brilliant! Very clever, this Dr
Laduner...

Into line! he commanded his thoughts ... Pieterlen
the murderer? Only one fact spoke against that: the
telephone conversation. Pieterlen couldn't have rung
up at ten since he was at the harvest festival and it had
been established that the call came from inside the
clinic. That staff nurse from 0 Ward - what was his
name now? All the memorizing during the afternoon
hadn't been much use, he still had to consult his notebook -Jutzeler! Jutzeler, who had waylaid the Director
at half past twelve, he was ruled out, too. He was the
one who had answered the phone, so he couldn't have
been talking at the other end at the same time. What
was pretty clear from the witness statements was
that the Director had gone to fetch the file to talk to
someone ...

The file? ... That had disappeared, just as the wallet
with the 1,200 francs had disappeared ... Why had
Gilgen (funny how he could remember that name
without difficulty), why had Gilgen had such a worried
look on his face? Why had he come to see Studer? It
had been pointless, really, Gilgen must have known
the sergeant's influence was minimal ... Had Gilgen
been at the harvest festival? Had there been something
in the file that could endanger someone?

Gilgen, the redhead. The one person he had liked
from the very start. What he felt for him was nothing at
all like the somewhat tentative attraction he felt
towards Dr Laduner. It was more like one of those
friendships between men that are so strong because
they cannot be explained. These things exist, it's difficult to asses them objectively ... Gilgen ... Right,
Gilgen was a trail he had to follow up. But in that case
he would have to start by clearing up Pieterlen's
escape, that was essential ... Bohnenblust, the asthmatic nightwatchman with the wheezing lung was on
duty now, a chat with him seemed advisable ...

And then there was the fear in Dr Laduner's eyes. In
the morning it had been pretty clear to see, this evening it seemed to have vanished ... But there was that
long lecture on Pieterlen ... Suspicious ...

"Are you asleep, Studer?" Dr Laduner's voice came
from outside the door.

Not replying was impossible, the light was on.

"No, Herr Doktor," Studer replied in a friendly tone.

"Do you want a sedative?"

Studer had never taken a sedative in his life, so he
said thank you, but no. At this Dr Laduner said the
bathroom was free, if Studer wanted a bath, now or in
the morning, he should go ahead ... And Studer
thanked him once again. Dr Laduner clattered around
in the neighbouring room for a time, then his steps
retreated, for a while his voice could be heard in the
distance, presumably he was telling his wife something
... No wonder after a day like this.

Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment ...

Why had the song come back to mind? To get rid of
it, Studer started to unlace his boots, but then a sentence from Laduner's lecture on Pieterlen, the classic
case, occurred to him, a sentence the doctor had
spoken with a strange emphasis: "His wife was in his
power ..."

Studer tried to repeat the words the way Laduner
had spoken them. He had put the stress on "power". Power! To have someone in your power. Who? ... Dr
Laduner had had Pieterlen in his power. Anyone else?

Then the blond young man appeared in his mind's
eye. He was lying on the couch and the tears were
pouring down his cheeks. At his head sat Dr Laduner,
smoking ...

Analysis ... Fine. He'd heard of that method of
healing minds. But it was all very vague, and above all
rather embarrassing. Embarrassing, certainly! They
cured the sick - no, the neurotics, that was the word!
Studer straightened up.

They cured them by exploring their dreams and all
kinds of obscene stuff came out. Studer's friend
Munch, a lawyer, had a book about the method. There
were all sorts of things in it you wouldn't even talk
about on an evening out with the boys - and what was
said then was definitely not for sensitive ears ... So
that was analysis ... The real name was different,
though, there was another word that went with it ...
psychoanalysis, that was it! Psychoanalysis, if they
insisted, every profession had its own jargon. In criminology they talked of poroscopy, and no outsider had
any idea what it meant - and in Witzwil Labour Camp
they called the warders "screws". That's the way it was,
every profession had its own jargon, and psychologists
talked of schizophrenia, psychopathy, anxiety neurosis
and psycho ... psycho ... psychoanalysis. That's
right ...

But now it was time he was on his way. He put on a
pair of close-fitting leather slippers, which he kept on
tight with a rubber band across the instep, and put the
light out.

Glancing out of the window he saw a light moving
across the courtyard. He peered through the dark
and saw that it was a man in a white apron waving a stable lamp. Obviously a nightwatchman doing his
rounds.

Sergeant Studer slipped out on his own rounds. It
seemed as if very quiet accordion music was trickling
down through the ceiling, but he ignored it.

Sometimes a block of the parquet floor creaked in one
of the long corridors. Then it went quiet again. A lock
snapped shut. He went past doors that were so silent
you would have thought there was a corpse laid out
behind them. Then there were others that were loud,
snores came through them, words spoken in a dream,
a soft cry. Was it Matto spinning his silver threads? It
was stuffy, the windows closed, the small square panes
imprisoned in the iron bars. Another floor that
creaked, another lock that snapped shut ... A long
corridor, an eternity ... Stairs, a short corridor ...
Now there was a shimmer of blue light coming
through a keyhole. A door handle. Carefully Studer
pushed the passkey into the keyhole, feeling with the
wards, like a burglar who wants to avoid making noise
... The wards engaged and carefully - carefully! -
Studer turned the key, concentrating so hard on not
making a noise that he sucked the skin of his cheeks
in between his teeth. At the back of his mind was the
thought of Dr Laduner wanting to be covered by the
police - the police, whose representative was at that
moment making his furtive way round the sleeping
clinic ...

The dormitory. In the middle of the ceiling was a
bulb swathed in blue paper, spreading blue light over
the white beds and transforming the sleeping faces
into those of drowned men. It stank: of bodies, of
medicaments - and of floor polish, of course.

A few more steps. There was the projecting wall.
Bohnenblust, the nightwatchman, was sitting at his little table in the cubby-hole, his head against the wall,
his eyes half closed and his moustache undulating like
water-weed on the bottom of a stream.

Studer had come across many types of startled
response: The shoplifter as you gently grasp her arm
with a quiet, "Come with me, please, Fraulein." The
tears appear in the corners of her eyes and roll down,
drawing tracks across her powdered cheeks ... The
shock of the man as you place your hand on his shoulder in the street. "Come along with me now, and don't
give any trouble." His eyes open wide, his lips are pale
and thin. You can tell his mouth is dry, his throat too;
he'd like to cry out, but can't. Then there is the startled
surprise of the swindleryou wake from a deep sleep. His
hands are trembling so much it takes him five minutes
to tie his tie - and even then it's not straight ...

But the nightwatchman's shock at Studer's sudden
appearance was completely different. For a moment
the sergeant was afraid the man was going to have a
stroke. His face flushed deep purple, his eyes were
bloodshot and his lungs produced a wheezing noise.
He tried to stand up, then sank back, leaning his head
against the wall again, precisely where there was a large
greasy patch. How many hours had the nightwatchman
spent with his head resting on that spot?