In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery (18 page)

He'd often thought that himself, Studer said in his
unpoetic Swiss dialect. But a poetic bent, now wasn't
that connected with the imagination? And imagination wasn't something to be sneered at, was it? Had
the Herr Doktor not advised him to try to get inside
the minds of various people, to become those people,
in a way, and he was doing his best. Now and then it
worked. He had, for example, managed to get
Schmocker, the would-be assassin, to confess to having
stolen a key. It was his poetic bent that was responsible.
He'd had this idea, a vague-

"Subconscious," Dr Laduner broke in.

... a subconscious feeling, if the Herr Doktor
insisted, that the said Schmocker was a coward. He'd
just patted him a few times and the man had come
clean.

"Psychotherapy!" said Dr Laduner with a laugh.
"Sergeant Studer as a psychotherapist! We're not
allowed a few little `pats'. We have to abide strictly by
the rules. Even if our assistants, the nurses, get on our
nerves, we have to keep calm. We train former
butchers, carters, dairymen, cobblers, tailors, bricklayers, gardeners, clerks, we put on courses for them,
drum the difference between schizophrenia and
manic depression into them and then, once they've
passed an exam, we give them a decoration, a white cross on a red background that they wear on the lapel
of their coats. That's all we can do. And with the
patients? That's where it gets even more difficult. We
talk, we try to correct behaviour, we keep struggling
with sick minds, we use persuasion. But the mind? It's
difficult to grasp. You should see the look of relief on a
junior doctor's face when a schizophrenic decides to
have bronchitis or a simple angina. At last something
they can use tried-and-tested medicines on, at last they
can forget the mind for a while and look after the
body. Bodies are much easier to treat: aspirin, gargles,
cold compresses, the thermometer. But the mind!
Sometimes we try to get at the mind through the body,
we try treatments-"

"From which the patients sometimes die," Studer
interjected, "sometimes two or three in the one night."

He stared at his empty cup, waiting for the
comeback.

There was a rustle of newspaper and then the
expected riposte came, as crisp and clear as one could
wish: "As far as therapeutic measures are concerned, I
am not accountable to any layman, but solely to my
conscience as a doctor."

Neatly put. His conscience as a doctor. Fair enough.
There was nothing you could say to that. Except, perhaps, what Studer said, in his politest, thickest Swiss:
"I'd love another cup of coffee, Fran Doktor. An empty
stomach gives you some funny ideas."

Fran Laduner laughed till the tears ran down her
cheeks and even her husband gave a brief snort. Then
he handed the newspaper to Studer, telling him to
read that ... yes, that paragraph there.

The distinguished psychiatrist Dr Ulrich Borstli, for many
years the director of Randlingen Psychiatric Clinic, has died as the result of a tragic accident. It is assumed that in the
course of his rounds during the night he heard a noise in one
of the heating plants and went to investigate. In the dark he
must have missed his footing and fell ten feet into the boiler
room. He was discovered the next day with a broken neck.
Herr Direktor Ulrich Borstli, who never wavered in his zeal
and devotion to duty, was .. .

Studer lowered the newspaper and stared into
space. He saw the apartment on the floor below, the
book open on the desk, the bottle of brandy and the
photographs of the children and grandchildren, the
large picture of Borstli's first wife.

Loneliness.

The journalists knew nothing of loneliness, all they
knew was "zeal and devotion to duty".

Missed his footing in the dark and fell? But the light
was on in the boiler room. The light was on! I switched
it off myself, Studer thought.

Of course, Dr Laduner couldn't have known about
the light being on, just as he knew nothing about the
cosh on the landing.

Quietly the sergeant asked, "What did the autopsy
show, actually?"

"Nothing special," Dr Laduner replied. "An accident, as I said in my report to the press."

"Then," said Studer, "there's no point in my staying here any longer. The mystery of the Director's
disappearance has been solved - and the missing
patient will doubtless be found without my help as
well."

At these last words Studer raised his head and
looked the doctor straight in the eye. Laduner had his
smiling mask on again.

"There's no need to take it like that, Studer," he said. It was meant to sound warm-hearted, but wasn't there
an undertone there as well?

"From what has been reported to me," Laduner
went on, "you've done an excellent job here. You've
solved the question of how Pieterlen managed to
escape, you've found the Director. But it will not have
escaped your notice that some things still remain
unexplained. I have learnt that a largish sum of money
was paid out to the late Director on Wednesday morning. Where has it vanished to? As you will remember,
the dead man's pockets were empty. Where did the
money go? Did Pieterlen run into the Director? Did he
push him down the ladder? That newspaper article,
based on information from me, is just to calm things
down, a blind. But what really happened? It's up to you
to find that out, although it won't bring you any glory.
Officially the Director will remain the victim of an
unfortunate accident. But I think it wouldn't do any
harm, if we discovered the truth ... The truth - you
know what I'm getting at, Studer - would be of interest
... I mean, purely from a scientific point of view. . ."

What Studer would have liked to have said was: "But,
Doctor, what has happened to your witty remarks?
You're getting in a tangle. You're unsure of yourself.
What's the matter? I know, man! You're afraid."

But he kept silent, for he was looking into Dr
Laduner's eyes and he saw the expression in them
change. True, the mask, the smile was still there, but it
was no longer a vague impression, it was there, visible,
clear as daylight: Dr Laduner was afraid. Yes, afraid.
But of what? It wasn't a question he could ask.

Detective Sergeant Studer was overcome by an odd
feeling. In his long life it had never occurred to him to
reflect on his emotions. He usually acted on instinct,
or according to the principles of criminology established by his teachers in Lyon and Graz. But now
he was trying to assess the feeling he had for this Dr
Laduner. He concluded that it was pity. This clarity
must be the result of staying in a psychiatric clinic.
Didn't they spend all their time here dealing with feelings, emotions, the inner life? And didn't that rub off
on you? Enough of that. What he felt was pity, but a
special kind of pity. It was difficult to put into words.

It was a brotherly pity he felt for the strange person
that was Dr Laduner, almost love; the closest comparison he could make was the feeling that an older
brother, who has not got anywhere in life, has for the
baby of the family, who is cleverer and has become
famous, a great man - and for that very reason is
surrounded by dangers that must be averted.

Above all, and that was what he had to bear in mind,
Dr Laduner was afraid of a scandal, since a scandal
would make his appointment as director impossible.

Studer smiled and said in reassuring tones, "Right,
then, Herr Doktor, I seek out the truth ... the truth for
us.

He stressed the "us".

There was a knock at the door. A young girl
announced that nurse Gilgen was asking if he could
speak to the doctor. She'd put him in the study.

"Fine," said Dr Laduner, "I'll be right there."

Then for a while he just stared at his empty cup, as if
he were trying to read the future in the grounds, like a
clairvoyant. Finally he raised his eyes again. Their
expression was calm, and there was a softness round
his lips, as there had been the previous evening when
he had talked about Pieterlen, the classic case.

"You're a funny fellow, Studer," he said. "And you
seem not to have forgotten that I offered you bread
and salt."

"Perhaps," Studer replied and looked away. He
hated an excess of emotion. That was why he immediately started to talk about Gilgen, who had asked him
to put in a good word for him with the doctor, since he
was going to be dismissed.

"There's no question of that," said Laduner with a
look of astonishment. "Has the man gone mad? Along
with Jutzeler, Gilgen's my best nurse. I'd even go so far
as to say he's the better of the two. He didn't get very
good marks in the exam, but what does that mean? He
knows how to deal with people, he knows more with his
instinct than we do with all our medical science - I'll
happily admit that. You should have seen the way little
Gilgen once calmed down an overexcited catatonic
who was two heads taller than him. All by himself. I just
happened to turn up ... You must have seen stockmen
who know how to deal with a recalcitrant beast. The
bull lowers its horns, it's about to charge, and they go
`Whisht, whisht.' Little Gilgen went `Whisht, whisht' to
the catatonic, too ... and he calmed down, let himself
be led away to the bath - and Gilgen stayed with him by
himself, even though the man was extremely disturbed; that didn't bother Gilgen. There are people
like that who sense what is going on inside sick people.
No, we're keeping Gilgen ... I did hear hints that he
was supposed to have taken underwear belonging to
patients, the Director was furious last week and
Jutzeler stood up for his colleague - though solidarity
among the staff here is problematic, to say the least ...
It's a pity Gilgen's got problems ... I'll go and have a
word with him now."

Studer stayed at the table, letting Fran Laduner pile
his plate high, though his mind was elsewhere and he
was only half listening to what she was saying. The
funeral had been set for the next day, she told him, then things would quieten down and that would be
good for her husband, he was so overworked-

She broke off. Studer must be tired, she said. She'd
had to laugh that morning when he'd fallen asleep in
the bath, it had happened twice to her husband -
shouldn't he go and have a lie down? She'd have a
quick look to see if the girl had done his room yet, in
the meantime he could go and sit in the study, her
husband had probably gone to hear reports by now.

She got up and opened the door to the neighbouring room, telling Studer to go in and sit himself down
in a comfortable chair, there were plenty of books -
and his room would be ready in no time at all. Soon
the apartment was filled with the monotonous hum of
a vacuum cleaner.

So Studer stood there in the study, regarding the
couch on which Herbert Caplaun had cried - the tears
running down his cheeks - with a certain awe. He
thought of Pieterlen and the previous evening's
session. Today everything was different. Like Fran
Laduner's dressing-gown, the flowers on the parchment lampshade had lost their glow.

He walked up and down, stopped beside the bookcase, took out a book whose spine projected a little,
leafed through it, read an underlined passage:... the
psychogenic-reactive symptoms, which partly determine the
Primary symptoms, for example of the paraesthesias ... then
skipped a few words:... catatonic behaviours, stereotypes,
hallucinations, dissociations ...

It was all Greek to Studer. He leafed through some
more and found another passage that was underlined.
Studer started to read, his attention was caught, he sat
down, holding the book up close to his eyes. He read
the passage once, read it again, checked the title of the
book then read the underlined passage a third time, this time muttering the words to himself, like a boy in
his first year at school who still has difficulty grasping
the meaning of the printed characters.

The psychotherapist is emotionally involved in what happens
to his patient; that can lead to the danger of too intense a
reciprocal emotional bond with the patient, in the doctorpatient relationship shifting to the level of a friendship. If that
should happen, the doctor might as well throw in the towel.
One must never forget that every course of psychiatric treatment takes the form of a battle, a battle between the doctor and
the illness. If this battle is to end in victory, the doctor must
not be a friend supporting the patient, he must be, and continue to be, the leader. And that is only possible if a certain
distance is maintained ...

Studer closed the book with a snap.

Distance!

That meant keeping the patient at arm's length.
How did you manage that? You want to help, but you
have to keep a close eye on yourself, make sure you go
by the book and don't get too friendly. Studer snorted.

The things we human beings invented! There were
marriage-guidance counsellors, official psychologists,
psychotherapists, social workers; we build clinics for
alcoholics, convalescent homes and reformatories, all
of them administered with bureaucratic zeal. But
greater zeal, though less bureaucracy, was lavished on
chemical bombs, aeroplanes, battle cruisers, machine
guns ... All for the purpose of mutual destruction.
Progress certainly had its disadvantages. We belonged
to the human race, but all we seemed to want to do
was to wipe it off the face of the earth as quickly as
possible ...

Chabis! The ideas you got when you had a case in a psychiatric clinic, when you were in the realm where
Matto ruled!

Distance!

Had Dr Laduner always kept his distance? Apparently not, otherwise why would he have underlined the
passage? As these thoughts were going through his
mind, the sergeant tried to replace the book. But it
wouldn't go in. He put his right hand behind the
books - and felt a soft leather object, gave a start, then
pulled it out.