Studer’s last thoughts before he fell asleep were: “The case is so far advanced that to hurry would only harm things.” So he decided to have a long sleep. He and his assistant did not appear downstairs until nine o’clock. The old innkeeper was sitting at a table, studying the newspaper through a pair of bent steel-rimmed glasses. When the sergeant appeared in the doorway, Brönnimann greeted him with a friendly grin.
“Pfründisberg’s gettin’ famous,” he squawked. “Two murders, Sergeant, two murders! Yes, Pfründisberg’s gettin’ famous, just like it used to be, in my grandfather’s day. Then it was called ‘Bad Pfründisberg’, and the gentlemen from the city came to take the waters. But then, of course, the government bought up the monastery and turned it into a poorhouse – and the fine ladies and gentlemen stopped coming. Rich people don’t like to see scroungers around, you know, Sergeant. And since then The Sun’s turned into a boozer where the poorhouse men come for their cheap schnapps. Now and then there’s a funeral meal here, when someone from Gampligen dies and gets buried in the graveyard over there. Otherwise there’s just the students come for a glass of beer. Sack-Amherd don’t like it, he’d rather come by ’imself and play Jass with the warden, Schranz and Gerber. I join in myself, now and then, if they need me, but I’m gettin’ on, you know, I can’t see the cards that well and, anyway, in my day we used to play the kind where clubs is always trumps, not this silly variant where you have to choose. The best is when Hungerlott, Sack-Amherd and Schranz play Zuger Jass for five rappen a point. That’s when you see how these fine gentlemen can swear . . . Do you know some people are coming to inspect the poorhouse tomorrow?”
“Yes, I did hear,” Studer growled, “but now I want some strong coffee, none of your chicory stuff, and butter and cheese. Where’s Huldi?”
The innkeeper called the waitress himself, and in five minutes the girl with the pale complexion had brought his order. You could see how proud Ludwig was to be sitting at the same table as the sergeant. The lad was on his best behaviour, he didn’t drop his food, didn’t put too-large chunks in his mouth and didn’t eat off his knife very often. He didn’t slurp his coffee either.
At half past nine they were finished and left, saying goodbye to the innkeeper. On the way to the college the sergeant made a speech to his protégé:
He could see how things were always changing in the world. That tavern, for example, once it had been a smart hostelry. Ludwig should just imagine it: the chaises, the brakes that used to stop here, men and women in fine clothes had gone in, stayed in the rooms that were empty now, a playground for rats and mice . . . In its place the state had opened two institutions. One was a new building; the other had stayed the same as when the monks had built it five, who knows, perhaps six hundred years ago. In the college gardeners were being trained – the future unemployed; in the other the poor, who were of no use any more, were fed with a bit of soup and coffee so that at least they didn’t die of starvation in the streets . . . He was having a very philosophical morning, was Sergeant Studer of the Cantonal Criminal Investigation Department . . . He always felt, he went on, that there was something sad about these poorhouses. He remembered in France, in Paris especially, there were poor people there too, but at least they kept a person’s most priceless possession: their freedom. The police turned a blind eye when they saw one of them begging. In the winter, when it was cold, the poor sat on the steps of the underground stations at night to get at least some warmth and wait for the day. The nights were short in the big city, he said, at four in the morning already you could see the poor at the markets, helping the market gardeners, who came with early vegetables, to unload their carts, there was a little money in it for them – and something to eat. During the day they went round the streets and people weren’t really mean, especially the workers, here a franc, there a few sous. Here in Switzerland, on the other hand . . . The sergeant didn’t want to say anything against his own country, but this round-the-clock charity had always got on his nerves.
Tiny white clouds were creeping across a deep blue sky; a gentle breeze was playing with the dry grass by the edge of the path. The sergeant was in a good mood, and Ludwig’s eyes, those eyes of a remarkable, shining blue, were fixed on him. The young man seemed to be drinking in his words: no one had ever spoken to him like this before, confirming ideas that sometimes came to him. And now a middle-aged man, whose thin face did not really go with his massive physique, was walking beside him, putting these thoughts into words, thoughts which until now had just crept round inside his head like larvae, giving shape to them and sending them fluttering off through the air like colourful butterflies . . .
“Meerci,” said Ludwig. Studer turned to look at him, saw the pleasure on his face and understood why he had thanked him, even though it had nothing to do with what he had just said.
“Yes, Ludwig,” Studer said, “you’re going to be rich. But when you’ve got the money you must never forget you were once in the poorhouse. You lived in the woods with Barbara and wove baskets. Why? Just to be free. Freedom . . . Nowadays people don’t know what real freedom is.
“Wait for me here,” said Studer, pushing open the door leading into the hall of the horticultural college. Silence. Just the murmur of the little fountain; the chrysanthemums had a graveyard scent. No one in the long corridor. On the other side of the door opposite the principal’s office a monotonous voice could be heard. Studer recognized it.
“. . .thus arsenic is the basic component of a number of pesticides. It can also be found in plant disinfectants, Uspulun, for example . . .” Studer gave a sharp knock and opened the door.
Students were sitting on the benches, three rows, one higher than the other. They nodded to Studer. Then their heads bent down over their exercise books once more, fountain pens scratched. The students were taking notes.
Wottli went red. It was not a natural blush; his face was blotchy.
“Wha . . . What is it you want?”
“It will only take a moment. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
The teacher followed the sergeant out into the corridor. Studer went into the principal’s office – it was empty – asked Wottli to wait outside, then shut the door and made a telephone call. The conversation took some time, but when it was over he knew that Ernst Äbi’s body was to be collected in an hour. Out in the corridor he called for Ludwig Farny, handed him the key for the door to the glasshouse and told him to wait there. No one was to enter the place apart from the two officers who were coming to collect the body. And once they’d finished he was to lock the door. Had he got that?
“Yes . . . Studer.”
“Good.”
Wottli’s self-assurance had vanished. The tall, skinny man was standing, head bowed, in the middle of the corridor, his hands clasped against his chest. The sergeant felt sorry for him – Studer had a soft heart.
Changing to a more familiar tone, he said, “First of all show me the dead man’s desk. Then I’d like to go somewhere where we can talk undisturbed. Where do you suggest, Wottli? (“Wottli” without the “Herr” was an experiment. How would the teacher react to it?)
“My room, Studer, if that’s all right by you?”
The sergeant was pleased; his experiment had succeeded. This bony fellow had softened – he would talk. And Studer was sure he would have plenty to tell. For a while Wottli was silent, and Studer waited patiently. Finally he spoke.
“Do you mind going to the classroom yourself, Studer? I’ve had enough. One of the students will show you Äbi’s desk. Yes?”
Studer nodded. He was sure searching the desk was pointless, but he had to go through the motions so he could say he’d gone through the motions.
He was right. Nothing but exercise books – and they were all like the exercise books covered in oilcloth he had seen in the bright light of a lamp one July evening. Those exercise books presumably came from the same shop as these. “VEGETABLES”, “COMPOSTING”, “GLASSHOUSE”, “FRUIT TREES”, etc. All in capitals. “SHRUBS”. The sergeant thanked the redhead, Amstein, for his help. Then he stood in front of the blackboard like a teacher and addressed the class. He hoped, he said, the students knew what was expected of them. There was an investigation under way, and until it was completed he must ask those present not to leave the college. It was purely a matter of form, but still . . . Now, he went on, he had to talk to their teacher, who was waiting outside for him, and he would ask the class to remain quiet during Herr Wottli’s absence and find some other work to occupy them. Above all, he had to insist that no one enter the glasshouse; it would be even better if no one went there at all. Could they promise him that? Amstein stood up and explained that he was the class representative and would make sure the sergeant’s request was observed.
Studer thanked them and went out.
“Right then,” said Studer once he was out in the corridor, “now we can go. Where is it you live, Wottli?”
“At the Sun Inn.”
Studer stopped. “Where?” he asked in astonishment.
“In the inn. Why are you so surprised?”
“On what floor?”
“The first floor . . . above Farny’s room.”
“I don’t believe it!”
They took the route past the poorhouse. The courtyard was silent. Old Mother Trili wasn’t doing the washing, wasn’t singing. And no one was shuffling across the flattened earth with a besom . . .
The sergeant followed Wottli into his room – and was not a little surprised at what he saw there. There were two suitcases on the floor. Studer picked them up – they were packed. On the table was a brown booklet: Wottli’s Swiss passport.
“You’re going away?”
“Yes . . . But I wouldn’t have left without speaking to you first.”
“And why do you want to go away?”
“I’m afraid, Studer.”
“Of me?”
A shake of the head. Silence. Studer went on the offensive.
“What was there between you and Frau Hungerlott, Wottli?”
“So you’ve found out about that already, have you?”
“Remember you’re living in a little village. Do you imagine no one saw you?”
“Of course . . . Well . . . But my conscience is clear. It was just that she was unhappy. Her husband tormented her, and she had no one to turn to. I ran into her once – it’s a long time ago now, perhaps six months – and she spoke to me. Hungerlott wasn’t there, he’d gone to Bern. That was the first time we went for a walk together. Poor Anna, she’d never had much of a life. Certainly not at home. She worked in an office, and that’s where she met her husband. She really married him only to get away from the town so she wouldn’t have to see her father any more. But she wasn’t happy here either.”
Studer had sat down and now he was sitting in his favourite posture, hands clasped, forearms on his thighs.
“What did she die of?”
“I can’t tell you . . . I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no proof.”
“Who did you discuss it with?”
“How do you know? How do you know I discussed Anna’s death with someone?”
Even a kindly man occasionally enjoys getting his own back.
“You thought you were such an expert in criminology? You’ve studied books, haven’t you?”
“Please, Studer, you mustn’t mock me. It was a mistake to talk like that yesterday, but I was afraid . . . afraid you might . . . you might have found something.”
Found? Studer thought hard. What could he have found? His face remained expressionless as he said, “Perhaps I did.”
“What must you think of me?! Do you think I’ve behaved stupidly?”
Behaved stupidly? Studer tried a smile. Wottli flew off the handle. “There you are! You’re laughing at me! Why? Because I wrote some love letters? I loved Anna. She wanted to get a divorce; we’d have got married. She said she’d hidden my letters, and now . . . now they’re in the hands of the police. Who gave you the letters? If it was Ernst Äbi, then he deserved to die. Tell me, was it Ernst Äbi? Or his father? Or his mother? I never found out where Anna hid the letters. And you were in Aarbergergasse yesterday. Seeing my mother. She tried to find the letters. Tell me who gave them to you.”
Studer said nothing. Inside he felt a glow of satisfaction that he had not been wrong the previous day. The Dutch student, Popingha, had indeed handed him the end of the thread with which he could unravel the tangle.
It was obvious: the letters had been in the possession of James Farny, the Chinaman. That was why the last exercise book, the one he’d been writing in, had disappeared. The exercise book and probably a folder with papers. How had the Chinaman come to get hold of the letters?
“How did Frau Hungerlott get on with her uncle?” Studer asked.
“You refuse to answer my question and you expect me to answer yours?”
“Wottli! Just think. I can’t answer because I’m not sure. You could answer my questions to help me. Will you do that? If you do, I’ll do everything I can to see that you can leave on Sunday. Is it a deal?”
“Not until Sunday? Why not today? Do you think I want to be present when you reveal the solution?”
Studer racked his brains. What was the best way? Should he, the simple detective sergeant, play the judge? He sat quite still, his eyes down, while Wottli paced to and fro. The silence seemed to be more than the teacher could bear; he started speaking again agitatedly:
“Hungerlott only went to Bern once a week – I could only see Anna once a week. We were so careful, we always met in the woods, we were never seen together in Pfründisberg, but one of the students caught us in the woods. Yes, caught us! It was the Dutch student, and he grinned . . . Anna only came to see me here at the inn once, she got them to call me down. Her husband wanted to have her stepbrother arrested. She liked Ludwig and asked me to speak to her husband. I did, though I wasn’t happy with it. And since I couldn’t see her, I wrote letters. I wrote every day while she was ill and gave them to her brother, who went to see her every day. Once – no, a few times I also asked her uncle to take them. He went to see her too. Once she gave Ernst a letter to me. In it she said someone was poisoning her, but I couldn’t believe it, even though . . . even though I . . . the warden . . . No, I can’t say it.”
Silence. Studer waited. His chair was at the table with the passport on it. The teacher had sat down on the bed behind him. Studer listened, his leg muscles tensed – the slightest sound, and he would let himself fall to his right to evade an attack. If, however, there was no attack, then at least one person would have proved his innocence. To be quite sure, he asked quietly, “What was the name of the seed disinfectant, Wottli?”
A sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief. He heard steps, firm steps, not someone creeping up behind. Wottli stood before the sergeant, ramrod straight. “So, you’ve understood, have you? Yesterday, when I saw the Uspulun – yes, that’s the name, Uspulun – in the dead student’s pocket, I knew Anna was right. She’d been poisoned by her brother. Why? Because Ernst wanted to get the inheritance. How do you think a teacher feels when he finds out that one of his students is a murderer? And the murderer commits suicide? You surely don’t believe that about the key being swapped, do you?”
Studer sat there, motionless. He didn’t raise his head, and he kept his hands clasped.
“When you think of the things the newcomer, his uncle, did for the lad! And I’m convinced Ernst didn’t just kill his sister, he killed his uncle as well. Aren’t you, Studer? Come on, say something. Don’t just sit there like a statue. Farny wanted to buy a house here, and I was to design the garden, lay it out with my students. I suggested he organize a competition among the students. They were each to draw up a plan, and the winner would get five hundred francs. It was a great idea, and James (Wottli pronounced it “Djams”) agreed. I didn’t want anything, and when he promised me a legacy I got angry and said I’d never accept it. ‘You will do when I’m dead, Paul,’ he said. That’s the way it was.”
Studer’s hands unclasped slowly, very slowly, his legs stretched, his massive, broad torso rose, his moustache quivered. His eyes went round the room, saw the books on the walls: Gross and Locard and Rhodes. They reminded him of his own library.
“Paul,” said the sergeant, placing his hands on the teacher’s shoulders, “you are a great detective. But do me one favour. Finish packing and get out of the country today. Go to the seaside, if you like. Send me your address when you’ve found somewhere to stay so I can keep you posted. It’s better if you leave straight away, you understand? Without going to see your mother. Aarbergergasse’s not a healthy place for you to be at the moment. Goodbye and bon voyage.”
Studer went to the door, turned around and waved. “Goodbye,” he repeated. “I’ll explain your . . . your . . . absence to Sack-Amherd.”
Paul Wottli, teacher of chemistry, composting, pot-plants, specialist in orchids, stood motionless in the middle of the room. He listened to the heavy tread that made the wooden stairs groan. As the sound died away, the thin man suddenly came back to life. He rushed over to the door, flung it open and leaned over the banisters.
“Studer! Studer!” No reply. Wottli sighed, then he could not repress a laugh. It was a low, quiet laugh. “I’ll write to him,” he whispered. “That was Studer! And he called me Paul!”