In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery (3 page)

On the wall to the right of the entrance was a barometer, its mercury column gleaming red in the morning light. A clock in one of the towers struck the four
quarters with a sharp clang then, scarcely sweeter,
came the hour. Six o'clock. The last stroke was more of
a tinny rattle. Studer turned round. The sky was the
colour of the wine they call rose; birds were calling in
the pines that grew behind iron railings either side of
the drive. The black spire of the church in Randlingen
village was a long way away.

Beyond the door through which they entered there
were more steps. On the right was a kind of offertory
box with a sign, Remember the sick. Above it was a green marble tablet recording for posterity the names of the
clinic's benefactors. The His-Iselin family, one learnt,
had given 5,000 francs and the Bartschi family 3,000.
The tablet had space left for the names of future
benefactors.

There was a medicinal smell combined with dust
and floor polish, a strange smell that was to haunt
Studer for days. A corridor to the right, a corridor to
the left, both closed off at the end by solid wood doors.
A staircase led to the upper storeys of the central
block.

"I'll lead the way," said Laduner over his shoulder.
He took two steps at a time and Studer followed, gasping for breath. On the first floor he had time to look
out of a window in the corridor onto a large courtyard
with lawns divided into geometrical shapes by footpaths. There was a low building squatting in the
middle and a chimney rising into the sky behind
it. Red-brick walls, the roofs covered in slate and
embellished with a multitude of towers and turrets ...

They'd reached the second floor; Dr Laduner
pushed open a glass door and called out, "Greti."

A deep voice replied, then a woman in a red dressing-gown came towards them. She had short, blond,
slightly wavy hair and a broad, almost flat face. She
screwed up her eyes slightly, the way short-sighted
people often do.

"Studer, this is my wife. Is the coffee ready, Greti?
I'm hungry. You can have a good look at the sergeant
while he's eating his breakfast. Show him to his room
now. He's staying with us, it's been agreed." And then
Dr Laduner was no longer there, a door had swallowed
him up.

The woman in the red dressing-gown had a pleasantly warm, soft hand. She spoke in the dialect of Bern as she greeted Studer and apologized for not being
dressed. No wonder with everything that had been
going on: her husband had been woken by the phone
ringing at three in the morning because Pieterlen had
run off; then they'd discovered traces of blood in the
Director's office and the Director nowhere to be
found, vanished ... All in all it had been a very short
night; the previous day they'd had the harvest festival
(harvest festival? thought Studer. What do they harvest
here?) and hadn't got to their beds till half past twelve
... But Herr Studer would want a wash and brush up, if
he would just follow her ... The long corridor was
floored with brightly coloured, ribbed tiles. From
behind a door came the crying of a child and Studer
shyly ventured to ask whether Fran Doktor didn't want
to go and comfort it first. Plenty of time for that, she
replied briskly, crying was healthy for infants, it
strengthened the lungs ...

This was the guest room ... and that the bathroom
next door. Herr Studer should make himself at home
... There was soap and a clean towel, she'd call him
when breakfast was ready.

Studer washed his hands, then went into the guest
room and crossed over to the window. He was looking
down into the courtyard. Men in white aprons were
carrying large jugs, some balancing trays, like waiters.

A rowan tree on the edge of a square of lawn had
bunches of shining red berries, its feathery leaves a
golden yellow.

And at the back two men were coming out of a
detached, two-storey building. They too were wearing
white aprons. They were walking one behind the other,
keeping in step, and between them a black stretcher
with a coffin strapped onto it swayed from side to side.
Studer turned away. He was wondering vaguely how many people died in an institution like this, after how
many years, and what it was like to die here, when he
heard the voice with the pleasantly deep tone and
homely Swiss accent.

"Herr Studer, are you ready for breakfast?"

"Coming, Fran Doktor, coming."

The dining room was filled with the morning sun,
the cool light flooding in through a large window that
almost came down to the floor. A brightly coloured
woollen cosy sat on the coffee pot. Honey, butter,
bread, the red rind of an Edam cheese under a glasscovered cheeseboard. The walls were dark green.
From the ceiling hung a lampshade that looked like a
gold brocade crinoline for a little girl.

Fran Laduner was wearing a light-coloured linen
dress. She opened the door to the neighbouring room.
"Ernst!" she shouted. The reply was an impatient
grumble, then the creak and screech of a chair being
pushed back.

"Right then," said Dr Laduner. He was suddenly sitting at the table. You couldn't really keep tabs on his
comings and goings, he moved so quickly and silently.
"Well, Greti, how do you like our Studer?"

"Not bad," his wife replied. "He's got a soft heart, he
can't stand children crying. Apart from that, he's a
quiet one, you hardly hear him. But I'll have to have a
closer look at this Herr Studer."

She took a pince-nez out of a case lying beside her
plate, clamped it onto the bridge of her nose and scrutinized Studer with a faint smile on her lips, her forehead slightly wrinkled.

Yes, she continued after awhile, it was just as she had
thought. Herr Studer didn't look like a cop at all, Ernst
had been quite right to bring him. "And please, Herr
Studer, do help yourself. Eggs? Bread?"

"Sure-ly," said Dr Laduner. "And I think it was very
sensible of me to ask specifically for Studer." He
cracked the top of his boiled egg with a silver
teaspoon.

Fried eggs appeared on Studer's plate, with
browned butter poured over them. Then there was a
strange little incident. Dr Laduner suddenly looked
up, grasped the bread basket in his right hand, the
hexagonal salt cellar in his left, and held them out to
the sergeant, saying softly - it sounded like a question
- "Bread and salt. Will you take bread and salt,
Studer?" As he spoke he looked the sergeant straight
in the eye and the smile had gone from his lips.

"Yes ... with pleasure ... merci . . ." Studer was
somewhat confused. He took one of the slices of bread
and sprinkled salt over the fried eggs on his plate.
Then Dr Laduner took a piece of bread and let some
of the white grains trickle onto his egg, murmuring as
he did so, "Bread and salt ... the guest enjoys the sacred protection of hospitality."

The smiling mask reappeared round his mouth and
it was with a different voice that he said, "I haven't told
you anything about our vanished director yet. His
name was Borstli, as I presume you already know, first
name Ulrich. Ueli, a nice name - and that's what the
ladies called him."

"Ernst!" said Fran Laduner in reproachful tones.

"What's the objection, Greti? That's not a judgment,
it's a plain statement of fact. Anyway, every evening, at
six on the dot, the Director used to go to the village to
see his friend Fehlbaum, the butcher and landlord of
the Bear, one of the pillars of the Agrarian Party. Once
there he would have a half-pint carafe of white wine,
sometimes two, now and then three. Twice a month he
would have one too many and get drunk, but not so's you'd notice. He used to wear a large loden cape and a
black broad-brimmed hat, the kind you see artists
wearing. He was usually the one who wrote the reports
on the chronic alcoholics, by the way; he was certainly
very competent in that field ... Though that's not
quite true. He'd start writing them, the reports that is,
but then he'd get bored and I was allowed to finish
them off. I didn't mind, I got on well with the Director.

"You must excuse me, Studer, if I don't seem to be
treating the matter with proper seriousness. You see,
the Director had a penchant for pretty nurses, and the
lassies were flattered when he showed it, for example
by a gentle pinch on the cheek or a little fondle to
express his admiration for the fullness of their curves
... At ten o'clock yesterday evening, for example, our
Herr Direktor was called to the phone during our little
celebration, and he hasn't been seen since. Cherchez la
femme? Perhaps. There would be no real cause for concern if it weren't for the patient, Pieterlen, running off
from his room next to 0 dormitory, leaving behind a
nightwatchman laid out on the floor. Bohnenblust's
his name, he's got a lump the size of an egg on his
forehead, the result of a clash with our freedom-loving
Pieterlen. You'll want to cross-examine him, Bohnenblust I mean. And, as I said, there's one thing you
mustn't forget: the Director liked pretty nurses. But
remember, discretion's the order of the day. Directors
of clinics are taboo: they are little popes, and therefore
condemned to infallibility."

"Ernst!" Fran Laduner admonished her husband
again, but then she had to laugh. "He has such a comical way of putting things," she said apologetically.

That wasn't true. Dr Laduner's way of putting things
wasn't comical at all. And his wife's remark was a feint
too; she must have realized his jokey tone sounded false. She wasn't stupid, Fran Doktor Laduner, he
could see that. Also, the fact that the word "comical"
wasn't usual in the Swiss dialect confirmed his impression that something wasn't quite right. But what? It was
too early for deductions. Perhaps Dr Laduner's advice
that he should settle in first, get to know the place, was
genuine. He could ask harmless questions, which
would at least help him to familiarize himself with the
atmosphere in which he was going to be operating.

"You mentioned a harvest festival, Herr Doktor.
What was that? I mean, I know what a harvest festival is,
but I find it difficult to imagine that in an institution
like this. . ."

"We have to keep the patients occupied. The clinic
has a large farm attached, and when the corn has been
gathered in ("the corn has been gathered in!" thought
Studer. The way the fellow talks!) we have a celebration. There's a chapel here; it's normally just used for
the Sunday sermon, but for festivals tables are set up
with ham and potato salad. There's music, the patients
dance, men and women together, the nurses are there,
male and female, the Director makes a speech, tea is
served, sexual tensions worked off ... Yes ... We had
our harvest festival yesterday, 1 September. The dignitaries, that is the Director, the hospital manager and
wife, Dr Laduner and wife, the farm manager, no wife,
and the other doctors, were all sitting up on the stage -
our chapel has a stage as well - watching the dancing.
Pieterlen was there too, he provided the music, he gets
a good tango or waltz out of his accordion. At ten
Jutzeler-"

"Who's this Jutzeler?" Studer asked, taking out his
notebook. "You'll have to excuse me, Herr Doktor, but
I haven't got a very good memory for names. I have to
get things down in my notebook."

"Sure-ly," said Dr Laduner, glancing impatiently at
his watch and yawning. Fran Laduner started to clear
the table.

"That means," said Studer, speaking in measured
tones, well aware that he was putting on a bit of an act,
but this seemed the right thing to do for the moment,
"that the people connected with the case are: Borstli,
Ulrich: Director - disappeared.

Pieterlen ... er, what's Pieterlen's first name?"

"Peter - or Pierre, if you prefer, he's originally from
Biel," Dr Laduner replied patiently.

"Pieterlen, Peter: patient - run away," Studer
dictated slowly to himself, writing it down.

"Dr Laduner, Ernst: consultant, deputy director!"

"I don't need to write him down, I know him
already," said Studer dryly, ignoring the little dig.
"Then we have the nightwatchman..."

And Studer wrote: Bohnenblust, Werner: nightwatchman, dormitory in 0 Ward.

"Another one for you to note down," said Laduner.
"Jutzeler, Max, staff nurse, 0 Ward, we usually just say
"

"What does 0 stand for?"

"0 is the Observation Ward. That's where the new
patients go, though we leave some there for years. It all
depends. P is the ward for placid patients, T is the
Treatment Ward for those suffering from some physical illness. Then there are the two wards for disturbed
patients, Dl and D2. Dl contains the isolation units.
It's easy to grasp, just remember what the initials stand
for. Anyway, you'll like Nurse Jutzeler, one of my most
capable staff. The general run of nurses, though ...
You can't even get the useless crowd organized in a
union."

Organized? thought Studer. I wonder what the old director thought about unions? But he said nothing,
just asked, with the point of his pencil hovering over
his notebook, "What was actually wrong with
Pieterlen?"