Hungerlott walked up and down, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. His steps were soundless, the floor was covered with a thick carpet. Beside the window was a huge desk in solid wood. The top was empty – and Studer was reminded of the table in the room of the murdered Chinaman. Beech logs crackled in the fireplace. They gave off a bright flame, just looking at them made you feel warm. Opposite the sergeant, in a comfortable leather armchair, was Münch, his right leg crossed over his left. Studer had adopted his favourite posture, elbows on his splayed thighs, hands clasped, and was staring at the fire. Two of the walls were covered in shelves, and as the sergeant let the lecture flow over him, he ran his eye along the spines of the books from a distance. Among them he found old friends: Gross, Handbook for Examining Magistrates, books by Locard, Lombrosos Rhodes, and two shelves were filled with crime novels: Agatha Christie, Anthony Berkeley, Simenon . . .
“They can’t even organize their lives, financially, I mean, everything they touch seems to fall apart, they find it impossible to retain a job, and if they happen to have inherited money from their parents, they manage to lose it – and not through their own fault: a bank collapses, a lawyer is dishonest – that is not a dig at you, my dear Münch.”
“I should hope not,” the lawyer growled, sticking his index finger inside his collar.
“You see how touchy people are, Studer. I tried to explain my theory of pauperism to the government – pauperism as fate, not as fault – but I was not given a hearing. And yet every day I could find proof of my theory. If you only knew, Studer, how many lives go through my hands. I have had people sent to Pfründisberg simply because they were unemployed! I go to great pains to help these people – the curse is the community in which they have to live. You can have no idea, Studer, how great an influence their environment has. Ten boozers and layabouts can infect a hundred decent people. And the problem is that we have ten boozers and layabouts. It is in vain that I have attempted to persuade the authorities to remove these elements. In vain! The only answer I get is: these people have committed no crime, they have simply fallen on hard times through no fault of their own. It is the duty of the Poor Board to help these unfortunates. You can judge for yourself, Studer: for each of our inmates we get one franc, seventeen rappen per day; and that has to cover everything: food, clothing, the doctor. How can I manage on that? I can’t even give them decent food, and I’m sure you’ll agree that poor food affects the mind as well as the body. I do everything possible . . .”
“And buy yourself a car,” thought Studer.
There were many things the sergeant disliked about Herr Hungerlott. First of all there were the two rings welded into one on his ring finger – his late wife’s ring soldered onto his own; all the time Herr Hungerlott kept playing with this double ring, which was far too big for his skinny fingers. Secondly, there was his goatee. His cheeks were smooth-shaven, only on his chin was there a proliferation of hair, its colour a dirty greyish brown. And, thirdly, there was Herr Hungerlott’s strange suit with its buttonup jacket and his colourful tie that peeked out only from time to time. Then, fourthly and lastly, the warden said “Studer” and not “Herr Studer”. But there was one thing he definitely liked about the man: he loved to hear himself speak. Since Sergeant Studer himself preferred to remain silent, he had nothing against people who liked to hear themselves speak. It meant he could sit quietly in his chair, let the words flow over him and stare into the fire . . .
But what the devil did those two kicks mean that his friend, the lawyer, had bestowed on him? Studer stole a glance at Münch out of the corner of his eye, but he was far too occupied with his too-high wing collar, which was rubbing the skin on his neck.
“I do everything possible,” Herr Hungerlott continued his lecture, “but I find myself in a dilemma, and there is no way out that I can see: on the one hand, it is my duty as warden of a poorhouse to teach those in my care the love of work, to convince them that it is only through work that they will be able to return to an ordered existence. On the other hand, there is my personal conviction, my belief, one might almost say, that poverty is the destiny of certain people and that nothing can change the course their life will take, not work, not effort, not devotion to duty.”
“It was gastric influenza Frau Hungerlott died of?” Studer asked. He kept staring at the fire, not deigning to glance at Herr Hungerlott.
The third kick! Studer did not move a muscle.
“Of . . . yes . . . of gastric influenza . . . that is correct, a particularly virulent form of gastric influenza,” the warden stammered.
“And did James Farny leave a will?” Studer asked impassively.
The lawyer clasped his hands and looked to the heavens in despair. What was his friend Studer up to?
“I think . . . How do you mean, Herr Studer? Of course he made a will. He left his estate to his relatives . . . To his sister – my mother-in-law, heh heh, who’s married to a very dubious character in Bern.
“Well, perhaps dubious character’s going too far. After all, Arnold Äbi is my father-in-law. But before I married Anna, the Poor Board twice proposed Äbi should be put away. He’s a drunkard, he used to be a bricklayer, but now he’s somewhat work-shy – I think I may say that, even though I am related to him. Apart from my mother-in-law, my wife comes into the reckoning as an heir. She’s dead now, and I don’t know exactly what will happen in that case. Anna’s brother will inherit too. His name is Ernst, and he is taking the one-year course at the horticultural college. In connection with that, I feel I should point out that James Farny paid for his nephew’s course and also kept him supplied with pocket money, while my wife did not receive one rappen – I repeat, not one rappen – from her uncle. That is why I wanted to ask my friend Münch’s advice. The sums that were paid to Ernst Äbi should be deducted from his inheritance as a matter of course, should they not? Apart from these, there is one other person who bears the name of Farny: an illegitimate child of Frau Äbi, whose maiden name was Farny, which she naturally gave to the child. Who the father was, no one knows. Whether this Ludwig Farny is also a legal heir” – “He is,” Münch growled, but the warden pretended he didn’t hear and went on – “is something for the courts to decide. After discussing the matter with my friend Münch, I will appoint an attorney to look after my interests . . .”
Studer stood up, stretched and yawned uninhibitedly. “That will be all for this evening, Herr Hungerlott,” he said, emphasizing the word “Herr” – indeed, he even added an emphatic movement of his hand. He shook hands with neither of the others but strode to the door, picked up his coat in the hall and, since he had a good sense of direction, managed to find the way out.
He went back to the Sun Inn. The light was still on in the bar, but the sergeant felt a need for solitude. So he made his way to the room where James Farny had been murdered. A second bed had been made up. In it Ludwig Farny, farm labourer from Amriswil, was sleeping the sleep of the just: that is, he was snoring outrageously. The sergeant gave him a clip round the ear. The lad shot up, startled, his dishevelled straw-blond hair sticking out and the blue of his eyes shining, shining . . .
Grumpily, the sergeant said to his protégé, “If you’re going to snore like that, I won’t be able to sleep.”
“I’m sorry, Herr Studer, but I always snore when I’m tired.”
“Then lie on your side. Lying on your back always makes you snore.”
Obediently Ludwig turned his face to the wall, and in less than a minute was fast asleep once more. Two minutes later the snoring started again, sounding like the rasp of a lumberjack’s saw. Studer undressed, muttering curses to himself, then, in his flannel pyjamas and leather slippers, he inspected the room once more. The walls were wood-panelled; the sergeant examined each plank – but he found nothing. At last, since he was getting cold, he crept into bed. As he was dropping off, he mumbled to himself, “Farny certainly wasn’t shot in this room, otherwise I’d have found the bullet.”
For a few minutes his assistant’s snoring kept him awake, but then he grew accustomed to it and fell asleep, peacefully, his lean head lying on his right hand.