The two sheets of paper were in Studer’s breast pocket. He followed the warden back to the lunch table. There was a smell of roast meat and insipid mashed potatoes; the salad had been supplied by the college. The red-wine glasses were empty – apart from Studer’s and Ludwig’s – and the maid was going round with a long-necked bottle serving white wine. This time the warden only clinked glasses with the man beside him, the police superintendent. Both took a sip and smacked their lips as they savoured the wine. “La Neuveville 1928,” said the superintendent. Flattered, the warden nodded. “You’re a connoisseur, Warden.”
Studer felt as if he were in a dream. There had been too many new impressions, one after the other: too many new locales to get to know. He saw the men sitting round the table, and at the same time he saw Ernst Äbi lying dead in the glasshouse of the horticultural college.
As if in a dream . . .
There had been an orchid in flower in the glasshouse and, strangely, the sergeant could see the flower quite clearly. It was shaped like a human face – no, more like a mask, but that wasn’t quite right either. It was like a wax head – but that was wrong too. With its background of soil and moss it was like the face of the dead Chinaman, for that had also lain on soil and moss.
Äbi asked in malevolent tones, “Well then, Sergeant Studer, what have you done with your protégé?”
A scathing reply was on the tip of Studer’s tongue, but he repressed it and replied calmly, “He’s gone to do an errand for me.”
He stretched out his hand, as if to pick up his wine glass, then drew his hand back – the glass shattered on the floor. He apologized volubly. He was truly sorry. To be so clumsy! When he looked up he saw Hungerlott’s furrowed brow. The warden emptied his glass, waved the maid over, got her to fill it and emptied it again. The beads of sweat stood out on Äbi’s forehead.
The half-deaf welfare official rose, wiped his lips, cleared his throat and started to make a speech. He praised the good administration of the poorhouse, offered the warden his condolences for his sad loss . . . But once again, he went on, one could see that a true man did not let himself be ground down by fate. The warden was still carrying out his difficult task, was getting those in his charge to do useful work, was transforming wasted lives into workers serving the nation. In brief, here was a man who could serve as a model for the younger generation. His devotion to duty showed how one could overcome personal sorrow. He raised his glass to a man who had performed outstanding services for the state. That was all he had to say.
Chairs were pushed back. The maid filled the glasses with Schaffis wine. The guests surrounded Hungerlott, drank to him, showered praise, condolences on him. Their voices were slightly slurred; their faces had a bluish tinge.
“We’ll have coffee in my study,” Hungerlott said. “If you would follow me, gentlemen.” He led the way.
Studer felt uncomfortable. If Murmann and his lively colleague Reinhardt were searching the study at that very moment, then there was a public outcry in store for him. Therefore the sergeant hung behind and waited until the warden had opened the door to his study. When he heard no outraged exclamations he joined the back of the group.
The large coffee machine was plugged in, and the brown liquid was bubbling under the glass lid. Finally the warden took the plug out, the bubbling died down, the cups were filled. Each time one of the visitors took his cup, Hungerlott asked, “Kirsch? Rum? Plum brandy?” Soon all the little glasses beside the coffee cups were filled. Some of the gentlemen tossed them back, others sucked up the strong liqueur in tiny sips, fat cigars were lit. Studer, who had not been offered a cigar, made do with one of his Brissagos.
The police superintendent began to tease his subordinate. What kind of a murder was it? Had Köbu got a bee in his bonnet again? Without wanting to suggest anything untoward – he smiled at the warden – could it not be a simple love story: a middle-aged man had fallen in love with his niece and couldn’t come to terms with her death? Suicide? Eh? As far as he was aware, the local doctor supported the suicide theory, and it was only a young deputy governor, who was keen to make his mark, who thought it was murder.
When Studer replied it was in High German. “It is of course possible that I’ve got a bee in my bonnet. But in that case, perhaps you would be so good as to explain how a man who has shot himself in the heart can put on a clean shirt and button up his waistcoat, jacket and coat? If you can explain those anomalies, then I’ll be happy to accept the suicide theory.”
Silence. People always felt uncomfortable when Studer spoke High German. In the first place he articulated the words perfectly, not like a Bernese with his thick gutturals; and then, as all the gentlemen agreed, this sergeant would not stand any nonsense. After all, they had come to enjoy a pleasant lunch, not to hear a detective’s report about a case of murder. The superintendent put on a look of annoyance, but Studer continued.
“I’d very much like to hear what you think about gastric influenza, Chief Superintendent.”
“Gastric influenza?” his boss asked. His face was covered in a network of fine wrinkles.
“Yes, gastric influenza,” said Studer in a matter-of-fact voice. “The day before yesterday I discovered by chance” – he stressed the words “by chance” – “three ladies’ handkerchiefs, which I took to the Institute for Forensic Medicine. The analysis carried out by the doctor there showed beyond any shadow of doubt that the mucus on the handkerchiefs contained arsenic . . .” Studer’s gaze went round the room, and he saw that all the men were looking at him; turning to them, he said dryly, “Perhaps you gentlemen know that arsenic is a poison?”
That was too much! Should they sit there and let themselves be made fun of by a simple detective sergeant? The air hummed with guttural Swiss outrage: “Chabis! Rubbish!” – “Pure fabrication!” – Prove it! Prove your allegation!” Studer raised his hand to calm the hubbub. As he did so, he recalled the scene with which it had all begun: the local doctor, Dr Buff, arguing with Ochsenbein, the deputy governor, by the body of the Chinaman . . .
A sharp voice asked, “Are you accusing me, Sergeant?” Hungerlott was sitting up stiffly in his chair – and the man was very pale.
“I? Accuse you? Why ever should I do that?” It was clear that the formal German of the discussion was getting on the guests’ nerves. “How could I accuse you? I have no proof.”
The warden leaned back, crossed his legs, dipped a lump of sugar in his kirsch, popped it in his mouth and emptied his liqueur glass. As he crunched up the sugar, he said, his mouth full, “I suggest we call an end to the discussion of this unpleasant topic and start our tour of the poorhouse. Sergeant Studer can accompany us, should he so desire . . .” Although his mouth was full of sugar, the last words sounded bitter.
“Of course.” – “Let’s get on with it.” – “We want to see the place.” Studer stayed at the back. He had an uneasy feeling. The search of the study obviously hadn’t worked. Why had Reinhardt and Murmann not come?
With dignified steps, the warden led the way.
“We insist on cleanliness above all else. Cleanliness is our best weapon against pauperism. Cleanliness and a healthy diet. Before I take you to the dormitories, I will show you gentlemen the kitchen. You can try the soup the inmates had today.”
A huge stove . . . pans on it. There were two men in the kitchen; they were wearing clean white aprons and flat white caps.
“Our cooks are also residents here, our bakers too. – Moser, ladle out a plate of soup so the gentlemen can taste it.” The tin bowl had been cleaned with sandpaper. There were blobs of fat floating on the top of the thick pea soup.
“Wonderful,” said one of the clerks in a deep bass voice as he tried the soup. “I’d be glad if my wife made me soup like that every day.”
“Wouldn’t you like a taste, Sergeant?” the warden asked with a smile. Studer declined the offer.
He was thinking of the schnapps the inmates went to fetch on a Saturday evening with the one franc they’d earned for a week’s work. He felt sick.
“Now,” said Hungerlott, “I’ll show you our residents’ dormitories, then, if you are agreeable, we can see the workshops, the market garden, the farm . . .”
None of the visitors heard the remark of one of the cooks, only Studer caught it because he was the last to leave; “All lies . . .” It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for all the damn lies. After all, it was bearable in the kitchen, but for the others who had to slave away all morning on a billycan of thin coffee and three potatoes, for them it was hard.
The courtyard was empty, there was a cold north wind blowing. In one corner old Mother Trili was standing at her tub and washing, washing, washing . . . Her lips were cracked, and she wasn’t singing; from time to time a nasty cough tore at her chest. When she saw the sergeant, she waved to him and when he was closer, she asked, “What did you do with my Hansli?”
Studer shrugged his shoulders, he felt a lump in his throat which made it impossible to speak.
In an open shed four old men were chopping up firewood.
“The antidote to pauperism,” Hungerlott was saying in his pontificating manner, “is work, work, work. Anyone who does not work has no right to eat. Even for the oldest, even for the weakest I can always find some task they are capable of carrying out. In that way they do not feel useless, they feel they have earned their food, that their pocket money is a wage and not charity.
“I would like to thank the Poor Board for the understanding they have always shown; it is their understanding that has made it possible for me to carry out this difficult task to the best of my knowledge and ability and help many a lost soul back onto the rails. I know that there are those who begrudge me my success (a venomous glance at the sergeant), but despite all aspersions cast at me, I do my duty and . . .”
Hungerlott fell silent and looked at the gate into the courtyard. The visitors, who had listened to his speech with their hands clasped over their bellies – and smouldering cigars in the corner of their mouths – rubbed their eyes as they too looked towards the gate . . .