His right arm round Ludwig’s shoulder, his left round Reinhardt’s, Münch staggered in through the gate. His coat was torn, there was a bruise on his forehead, and two bloodstained handkerchiefs were tied round his neck. Studer went up to him.
“Salut, Münch,” he said calmly.
“Salut, Studer,” was the hoarse reply.
“Don’t you want to take your coat off?” the sergeant asked.
The lawyer shook his head wearily. He could see the chief superintendent of the Cantonal Police over there, he said, that was presumably the right man to make a statement to.
“But not here,” Studer said, “we must get you somewhere warm.”
Münch nodded.
Studer suddenly heard a well-known voice behind him shouting, “Stop!” When he turned around, he had to smile. The scene he saw was so much like something out of an American gangster film that he couldn’t take it seriously. Murmann had a revolver in his hand and was not letting old Äbi out of his sight.
“Should I handcuff him, Sergeant?” he asked.
In a shrill voice Hungerlott said, “I protest. This is not the way judicial proceedings should be carried out. A detective sergeant and a superintendent are not authorized to take statements – I mean statements that are valid in court . . .”
But who was that coming through the gate? Elegant in his waspwaisted coat? Herr Ochsenbein, the deputy governor, followed by an officer of the rural gendarmerie in uniform. The hilt of the policeman’s sabre had been polished until it shone.
“What’s . . . all . . . this?”
“You got someone to telephone me, Sergeant?” Ochsenbein asked. He raised his bowler hat and saluted the assembled crowd.
“I repeat my previous suggestion,” Studer said, “Let’s go back to Herr Hungerlott’s study and, if you gentlemen will allow me, I will tell you a story. I do not require any statements. Murmann, you keep your eye on Äbi.”
Again Studer let the others go on ahead. Immediately in front of him Detective Constable Murmann strode along majestically. Studer brought up the rear, Ludwig Farny sticking by his side.
At first there was chaos. Chairs had to be brought in, and it was some time before all the officials were seated. Münch had been given the most comfortable armchair; a stool was put in front of it, cushions laid on top, and his legs carefully placed on them. It had to be admitted that Münch looked rather dazed.
Studer said, “Tell us what happened, Münch. I know, but now you must inform the others.”
And the lawyer started. His expression livened up. He began by talking about his acquaintance with the remarkable expatriate Swiss, about the will he had made. Even then, he said, the Chinaman (the nickname came from his friend, Studer) had feared he might be murdered. Not that the man was afraid, on the contrary. He was brave. Only he didn’t want his wealth to fall into the hands of people who didn’t deserve it. If he had died without making a will, it would have gone to his family. Farny had had nothing against his relatives, but both his sister and his niece were married – and he didn’t like either of their husbands.
“Just a moment, Münch,” Studer interrupted. “It would be a good idea if we searched one of those husbands. Off you go, Reinhardt.”
Äbi resisted, but it was no use. Studer didn’t even need to intervene. The man had a small gun in his back trouser pocket. The sergeant took it. “A 6.35.” He nodded. Then he flicked open the butt. Two bullets were missing in the magazine. When he pulled the slide back an unused cartridge fell out. “So one bullet has been fired,” Studer said, without looking up. “Continue, Münch.”
“Eventually one of the husbands managed to ingratiate himself. When his wife died, he persuaded my client to bequeath him the portion that would have gone to his wife. But James Farny inserted in his will the condition that the widower must pass on half of his share to a friend of his. He intended to keep it a secret, but he liked talking, did James Farny. One evening he told the friend concerned, probably across there in the bar of the inn. The innkeeper overheard and passed the news on to the widower. We assume the widower kicked up a fuss – he was probably furious he would lose the money after he had committed a crime to get it. And, we assume, James Farny saw through him. Once more he feared for his life. Therefore he wrote to me and made an appointment for 18 November, at ten in the morning. When I got to Pfründisberg, James Farny was dead. Shortly after my arrival a detective turned up. I kept out of his way because I suddenly had the feeling that the death of my client was connected with the death of his niece. Therefore I went to see the widower, got him to invite me to stay. And during the very first night I had proof that I was on the right track. Someone slipped into my room and searched my clothes. Fortunately, I had hidden my wallet under my pillow. The man did not let me out of his sight the whole of the following day, but that night I managed to get out and see my friend Studer. I discussed the whole affair with him, and we came to a decision. But I didn’t get back to my room. As I went out into the street a sack was thrown over my head, a couple of men grabbed me, tied me up, and I was hit over the head. When I woke up it was midday and I was at the bottom of a quarry. Those two policemen over there found me.”
“That’s got nothing to do with the case,” said Studer. “This attack shows just one thing: someone wanted to get hold of James Farny’s will. Now it’s my turn. When, four months ago, I happened by chance to spend an evening in the Sun Inn because I’d forgotten to fill up and didn’t want to push my motorbike all the way to Gampligen – after all, it was four miles and a hot summer’s night with a thunderstorm threatening – I went into the innkeeper’s private room, where four men were seated round a table playing Jass. I immediately sensed that my presence was unwelcome and asked the way out onto the terrace. I leaned on the balustrade; close in front of me was a maple, the leaves so clear I could almost could count each one. Something must have been illuminating the tree and when I looked for the source of light, I saw a brightly lit room with a man furiously writing in an exercise book. There was a pile of five other exercise books by his right elbow. I watched the man and then, unfortunately, I sneezed. The stranger leaped up, knocking his chair over; with three sideways steps he was at the window and I was convinced that his right hand, which was in the pocket of his camelhair smoking jacket, was holding a revolver aimed at my stomach . . . Three remarkable facts, you will agree: a stranger writing his memoirs in a rundown inn, he’s armed and ready to shoot a the slightest noise. I made the stranger’s acquaintance. His passport, which had been renewed in all parts of the world, in Asia, in America, was issued to a James Farny, born 13 March 1878, place of origin Gampligen, Bern Canton . . . The man flung open the window, I had to show him my identification, and it was only when Farny realized he was dealing with a police sergeant that he put his revolver away, a Colt, a large-calibre gun. Even then, four months ago, the stranger told me his life was in danger; he hoped, he said, I would be in charge of the investigation into his murder. Naturally my first thought was that I was dealing with a paranoiac, and I wondered if I should alert the medical authorities to have the man put away. Another thing I found odd was that this stranger absolutely insisted we go straight onto first name terms and use the familiar Du – which I, of course, refused to go along with. We went to the bar, where I got caught up in an argument. The inmates of the poorhouse, who were drinking their cheap schnapps there, and a few of the students from the horticultural college threatened to attack me, but then gave up the idea. This James Farny seemed to have some power over those who were there. Eventually the principal of the college and the warden of the poorhouse appeared (they were playing cards in the room I went into first), calmed things down and sent the students and the inmates of the poorhouse off to their beds. Brönnimann, the innkeeper, discovered a gallon can of petrol; I filled my tank and rode off. I forgot the strange scenes here until, four months later to the day, on 18 November, I was asked by the deputy governor, Herr Ochsenbein, to investigate a mysterious murder that had occurred in the graveyard in Pfründisberg . . .
“On a fresh mound over the grave where Frau Hungerlott-Äbi was buried lay the body of James Farny, whom I, because of his slit eyes, always thought of as the Chinaman. He had been killed by a shot to the heart, but neither his shirt nor his other clothes showed bloodstains. I deduced from this that he had been killed elsewhere, the body dressed and brought to the graveyard. It was important for me to determine whom the dead man had been afraid of. Since I knew from his passport that he came from Gampligen, the first suspects – once I had established that he was rich – were his relatives.
“The dead man had a married sister in Bern. Before her marriage to Arnold Äbi she had had an illegitimate son, who had been given his mother’s name. He’s sitting here next to me – Ludwig Farny. Farny’s sister had two children by her husband: a girl, Anna, who later married Herr Hungerlott, and a son, Ernst, who was doing the one-year course at Pfründisberg Horticultural College.
“The lawyer had been asked to come and see James Farny at ten o’clock on 18 November. By then, however, the Chinaman was dead, shot through the heart. The bullet that caused his death has been lost – all that I have is the cartridge case, which I found the day before yesterday.
“Gentlemen, Anna Hungerlott-Äbi, the niece of the Chinaman, died of gastric influenza two weeks ago. Her sudden death aroused her uncle’s suspicion, and that was the reason why he asked his lawyer to come and see him in Pfründisberg. Clearly, James Farny suspected Anna’s husband, Herr Hungerlott, of having poisoned his wife with arsenic. Herr Münch has almost proved that.
“By chance I managed to find proof of what my friend – I think I can call him that – suspected. Three handkerchiefs that had been used by Frau Hungerlott-Äbi contained clear traces of arsenic. Dr Malapelle of the Institute for Forensic Medicine will submit a report on the matter to the relevant authorities.
“Herr Hungerlott, warden of the Pfründisberg poorhouse attempted to gain possession of the document that brought Herr Münch to Pfründisberg. My friend, Herr Münch the lawyer, also had a handwritten will drawn up by the murdered man.
“It was merely a matter of chance that Herr Hungerlott did not succeed in getting hold of these two documents. He invited the lawyer to stay in his apartment in the poorhouse. Herr Münch told you what happened during his first night there.
“There was, however, an accessory to the murder of James Farny. You will have to admit, gentlemen, that it was impossible for one person to shoot him, dress the body and take it to a place that was supposed to put the police on the wrong track. This accessory, his accomplice, was Ernst Äbi, a student at the horticultural college. It would never have occurred to me to suspect the lad. But the first day I was here a lead ball was shot through the widow of my room with a catapult. Fixed to the ball was a warning: ‘Keep your fingers off our rösti!’ It was typed, and it made me think. Warnings are not usually written in such colloquial terms, and especially not in dialect.
“The warning could not come from his father, Arnold Äbi. I knew that he was in Bern where he worked as a labourer for a coal merchant. My deduction? It must have been the man who had helped transport the body who had sent me the warning. You will ask why I did not suspect Ludwig Farny. At the time when I received the warning, Ludwig Farny was lying down in the room of Hulda Nüesch, the waitress. When, later on, I showed him the scrap of paper with the warning, he blushed, so he must have known the man who sent me the warning. Whom did Ludwig know, apart from the inmates of the poorhouse who, like all alcoholics, had loose tongues and were therefore unsuitable as accomplices? His stepbrother, Ernst Äbi. Later I learned that Ernst Äbi had helped Ludwig when he was in difficulty. At this point in the case it became clear to me that the man behind the murders might attempt to get his accomplice out of the way. That was why I gave Ludwig Farny the task of keeping an eye on his stepbrother. For I was certain, gentlemen, that Ernst Äbi would do everything to cover for his father. In the meantime I had been to Bern and had got to know, if indirectly, what kind of person Arnold Äbi was. He had money, he drank, he beat his wife and, what was the most remarkable aspect, he was a close friend of the warden of the poorhouse, Herr Hungerlott.
“It remains to be established whether this friendship dates from the time when Hungerlott married Äbi’s daughter, or whether Hungerlott already knew Äbi before then. To cut a long story short, Herr Hungerlott took his friend Äbi with him to Pfründisberg. There’s a second question that remains to be established: was it Hungerlott or Äbi who lured Ernst to the glasshouse that was filled with poisonous fumes?
“Ernst Äbi managed to get out of the sickbay while Ludwig Farny was asleep. He went to the prearranged meeting, which was presumably in the passage outside the glasshouses. A door’s quickly opened, the lad pushed inside, the key turned in the lock from outside with a pair of pliers, et le tour est joué as our French neighbours say. Hungerlott probably arranged for some of the inmates of the poorhouse to kick up a racket in The Sun that would attract the students to the inn and prevent Ernst Äbi being found too soon.
“Unfortunately, Ludwig Farny woke up too late. He came to fetch me. Wottli gave me his key – we’d already ventilated the glasshouse – and we opened the door that was locked from the inside.
“Here the murderer made a mistake . . . though actually he had no choice. Either he had to let us find the key with the scratches on the metal at the end, or he had to insert another key in the lock. He probably did not have enough time to oxidise the new key to make it look like the old one. If he had done that, I wouldn’t have been able to get onto the murderer. As it was, he slipped up, and that allowed me to unravel the case. Here’s the key in question.
“It wasn’t that slip alone that helped. In the will that James Farny left behind it specifically stated that the men, the husbands of his relatives (his sister and his niece), were not to inherit their portions. A codicil changed some things, but not much. If that will were to disappear, then Herr Hungerlott would inherit, presumably through his wife’s will.
“The way the case looks to me at the moment, I have the feeling a trap was laid for my friend Münch. The only reason Arnold Äbi was brought to Pfründisberg and given a room in the warden’s apartment was to get Münch to leave the building in order to see me. They probably intended to knock him down before he got to me and take the will and James Farny’s letter from him.”
That was the moment when Hungerlott broke in. “I would like to ask the deputy governor how long he is going to allow his subordinate to go on telling his tall stories? In Bern Sergeant Studer’s imagination is notorious. From a simple policeman to the chief superintendent, they all say, ‘Köbu’s got another bee in his bonnet.’ Isn’t that right?” Studer simply stood in front of the fireplace, massive and calm, legs apart. He shrugged his shoulders.
Silence . . . an embarrassed silence. The superintendent had gone red in the face; the faces of the other visitors too recalled the colour of ripe tomatoes.
Studer turned to Arnold Äbi:
“A motorbike, a Harley-Davidson, has been registered in your name. Can you tell me where you got the money for such an expensive machine? Who paid your road tax?”
“From . . . my . . . savings,” Äbi stammered.
“Reinhardt,” said Studer, “bring in the woman.”