“Well, Sergeant, aren’t you going to tell us some of your experiences with the police? That business with the bank, for example? You were an inspector with the City Police at the time, weren’t you, and you didn’t need to go looking among ex-inmates of the poorhouse for your friends?” The speaker seemed flattered by the laughter that followed – Hungerlott bowed his head like an actor receiving applause.
Ludwig Farny started and opened his mouth, but Studer kicked him on the ankle. “Keep calm, lad,” he whispered, then cleared his throat.
“Yes, at the time I wasn’t interested in pauperism,” he said dryly. “To find out about pauperism, you have to have lunch with a poorhouse warden.”
Shocked silence. The maid began to clear away the plates, and her sharp elbow caught Studer on the side of the head. The sergeant looked up. The girl had green eyes, and they were filled with hatred. “Mm,” Studer muttered. Münch was right, he’d better watch out. Since the silence continued, Studer went on, “I do have another friend, besides Ludwig, and I’m worried about him. I had hoped to find him here. Could you tell me where Herr Münch is, Herr Hungerlott?”
The warden really was a good actor. His eyebrows went up in an expression of astonishment. “But I told you yesterday that Herr Münch went back to Bern in the morning.”
“Strange. I couldn’t contact him either at home or in his office.”
“Then it would have made more sense for you to go back to town, wouldn’t it?”
Studer said nothing. The chief superintendent started to speak, thus ending the first preliminary skirmish.
The maid poured red wine from a dusty bottle, making sure the sergeant and his protégé were the last to be served. Then a warmed plate was set before each of the guests, and a tray handed round with veal vol-au-vents. This time as well, the pair at the bottom were the last to be served.
Had Reinhardt, had Murmann managed to get into the poorhouse unobserved and search the warden’s study? Or had Hungerlott countered that move by placing the inmates, who had made a racket in the inn the previous evening – Studer was sure he’d seen the same faces on 18 July – as sentries in the corridors?
“Don’t drink the wine,” Studer whispered. Hungerlott seemed to have heard his warning, however, for he stood up and went round the table, clinking glasses with everyone – and each of the guests emptied his glass. The sergeant took a sip and put his glass down; Ludwig followed his example. With concern in his voice, the warden enquired if Studer was ill? And Arnold Äbi asked his stepson what was wrong? It was good wine. Ludwig did not reply.
“That’s the way things are,” old Äbi moaned. “You do everything you can to bring up your children, give them a good education – and when you take them out into polite society, they show you up.”
“Shhh!” Studer whispered to his assistant, who was about to protest vigorously that Äbi wasn’t his father. It was a tense situation. Of course, there was no risk for the gentlemen who just wanted to have a look at a poorhouse to pass the time, but there was danger for a simple detective, when the murderer knew he didn’t believe in gastric influenza. Gastric influenza could be highly infectious if you didn’t know how many of the pellets, which a German chemical factory had sent to a horticultural college for testing, had disappeared. Those pellets dissolved quite easily – and you had to take into account that your host was a widower, that the widower had a maidservant, and that a widower was a desirable catch. To become the warden’s wife, a girl like that would carry out all kinds of orders, orders that could be easily explained away: it was just a joke; they wanted to play a trick on a smart-ass cop, give him a laxative – no harm done, but amusing for the other guests. Wouldn’t he look a fool! And once the detective had swallowed the dissolved pellet and felt ill, it would be easy, under the pretence of coming to his assistance, to get hold of his wallet and with it the documents. Who else would the lawyer have given them to? With a lethargic look on his face, Studer made a request. Would Herr Hungerlott allow him to make a quick telephone call? Perhaps Münch had got home by now. There was something he had to tell him. (It was, of course, a pretext, Studer just wanted to see if the two detectives were searching the warden’s study.)
When Studer’s face had the expression of a ruminating ox, he was usually paying close attention. So he did not miss the exchange of glances between Hungerlott and Äbi. Fear? Uncertainty? No, hostility. Had the two of them fallen out? It was a possibility. When money’s at stake, friendship often goes by the board.
The warden forced himself to smile. Of course, he was happy to put the telephone at the sergeant’s disposal.
“Come on, Ludwig.” Studer stood up. He was more and more impressed by his assistant’s rapid grasp of the situation. He calmly wiped his lips with his serviette, put it down on the table and followed his friend.
As Studer closed the door behind him, more laughter burst out in the room. The sergeant quickly found his bearings: that was the door to the study. He opened it – it was empty.
What now? Where were Reinhardt and Murmann? What had delayed them? The sergeant tried to open the desk drawers – they were all locked. He picked up the folder lying on the desk – it was empty apart from a few sheets of blotting paper.
“Have a quick look behind the books, Ludwig,” the sergeant whispered, opening the door into a neighbouring room. There were two beds in it, fine redwood furniture. One was by the window, the other along the back wall. The sergeant guessed that in the past they had been next to each other. The room had three doors: the one Studer had come in by, one opposite leading into another room and the third, which presumably led out into the corridor. The second room would be the one where Münch had slept. Hungerlott and his father-in-law had been sitting in the study, and the lawyer had been able to slip out through the third door. Studer went back into the study.
“Found anything, Ludwig?”
“Only this exercise book.”
A book with oilcloth covers . . . A diary . . . Presumably James Farny’s handwriting. The last entry was dated 17.XI. Damn! He was out of luck. James Farny had written in English, and his handwriting was not easy to decipher. But he had filled four pages, and the end looked bizarre: a blot and a hole in the paper. Had his fountain pen broken? Studer tore the leaves out of the book. “Put it back, Ludwig. Where was it?”
“Behind those books there.”
Studer went over, and while Ludwig was replacing the exercise book, he read the titles. Detective novels seemed popular in Pfründisberg. It wasn’t only Wottli who had that kind of book on his shelves. Agatha Christie, Edgar Wallace . . . Studer remembered that he had noticed them before. When Münch had been sitting in an armchair by the fire.
Footsteps approached, the door opened. Hungerlott came in.
“Finished, Sergeant?”
“Yes, meerci. I managed to have a word with Münch.”
“You did? Really? That’s strange . . .” Studer grinned inwardly, but then immediately gave himself a mental slap on the wrist when the warden went on, “Strange, yes. The maid didn’t hear you making your call. But come and join us again. And you there too.” Ludwig bared his teeth like an angry dog, but the sergeant patted him on the shoulder. “Go and get me something from the inn. All right? Off you go.” Ludwig understood. He was to look for Reinhardt and Murmann.