Reinhardt went to the door, opened it, went out and closed it behind him. When he came back he was followed by an old woman, with short, untidy grey hair sticking out from her head. Her face was wrinkled. She was wearing a simple hat and a scarf crossed over her breast and tied at the back.
“Frau Äbi,” said Studer gently, “since when has your husband had a motorbike?”
“His friend gave it to him . . .”
“Which friend?”
“Er, Hungerlott.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“Did your husband make much use of the bike? And someone bring a chair for her.”
None of the gentlemen stirred, but Ludwig Farny said, “Here you are, Mother.” He went over to the old woman, took her by the arm and led her to a chair. Then he went back to stand beside his friend, Sergeant Studer.
The woman spoke. Her husband had often gone off during the night, where to she couldn’t say. When they had come in the police car to collect her that morning, she had no idea what they wanted . . . She broke off to ask Ludwig how he was. Her son nodded. He was fine, he said, he’d had some good fortune and they’d probably both be rich now.
Again Hungerlott’s shrill voice broke in. The civil court would certainly have something to say about getting rich. The maid with the white apron and the white cap on her bobbed hair came in bearing a tray full of clinking glasses. In her right hand she was carrying three bottles by the neck. The warden said he presumed the gentlemen would be ready for a little refreshment. It was outrageous that a visit to a state institution should turn into an interrogation.
Old Äbi’s expression had changed; his face had gone pale since his wife had come into the room. Frau Äbi went on speaking, and her voice had nothing whiny about it:
She had had a hard life, she said, and now the only person who had protected her was dead, the only one him over there (her calloused hand pointed at Arnold Äbi) had been afraid of. Things had been best when her son had been at home – one of her sons, she quickly corrected herself when she saw the sad look in Ludwig’s eyes. Yes, her husband had been afraid of Ernst; however drunk he’d been, he’d never dared touch her when Ernst was at home. Of course, he’d been away a lot, but he wrote lots of letters. This letter here, for example. She rummaged round in her old handbag, took out a much-read letter and held it out to Studer. To save her having to get up, Studer went over to her – but he wasn’t quick enough. Arnold Äbi leaped forward, his hand outstretched like a claw. The letter! He wanted that letter!
And he would have got it, if it hadn’t been for Reinhardt’s quick reactions. Just as Äbi’s claw was about to fasten onto the letter, Reinhardt stuck out a leg and Äbi fell flat on his face. Calmly, as if nothing had happened, Studer took the letter, unfolded it and asked, “May I read this letter out?” Nods all round. Studer started to read:
I have to tell someone. Last night stones were thrown at my window. I was awake, the other students didn’t hear. When I looked out, I saw Father waving to me. The college door’s locked at night, so I went down to a room on the first floor where there’s a window next to some ivy with a thick stem that goes right down to the ground. I clambered down and met Father. He took me to the boiler room. Uncle was on the floor, shot dead. He was in his pyjamas and a coat he’d pulled on over them. Father sent me up to Uncle’s room, to fetch a suit, a shirt, socks and an overcoat. We undressed the body and put on the clothes I’d brought. Then Father ordered me to help him carry the body to the graveyard. We put it on Anna’s grave. The police were to think Uncle had shot himself out of disappointed love. Then we went back to the boiler room. There was just enough fire to burn the coat, but not the pyjamas; the jacket was wet and soaked in blood. Father made me swear I’d burn the jacket at the first opportunity. I took it, climbed back up the ivy and hid it in my locker, thinking I’d dump it in the central heating furnace the next day. After the post had been distributed, I saw that Herr Wottli had thrown away some wrapping paper. I picked it up and wrapped the pyjama jacket in it. I intended to get up during the night and burn the lot in the central heating furnace but didn’t manage to do it. At half past three in the morning Father set off back to Bern on his motorbike. As I was watching him leave, someone suddenly appeared next to me. It was Ludwig. Since I’d once helped him, he promised not to say anything about what he’d seen.
I had to tell you all this, Mother, otherwise I just couldn’t bear it. But don’t tell anyone I told you, especially not Father.
Lots of love, Mother,
Your son Ernst.
PS Don’t tell anyone!
“You’re claiming that letter’s genuine? Hahaha.” Old Äbi laughed. “I’ve got the only key to the letterbox.”
Studer looked at the old woman. Her clothes were shabby; she was wearing a long dress, and heavy shoes stuck out from under the hem. Like many old women, she was sitting with her arms crossed, an elbow clasped in each hand. She stood up, straightened her bent back – truly, the old woman, whom Studer had seen in her illness, looked dignified. And the answer she gave her husband was not scornful, no, there was contempt in it, but it was a dignified contempt.
Noldi thought she was so stupid, she said, speaking to Studer alone, that he assumed she’d have her letters sent to the apartment. For years she’d had the letters she did not want her husband to know about sent to a friend. There was the address, if the sergeant was interested.
Studer took both the letter and the envelope and handed them to the deputy governor to be put in the files.
“So I was right after all, wasn’t I, Sergeant?”
Studer shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t difficult to work out,” he said.
A flood of oaths came from Arnold Äbi, but eventually he ran out of breath, and the old woman said, “I wouldn’t have given him away if he hadn’t . . . if Ernst hadn’t . . .”
Her eyes were dry. She took her handkerchief out of her scuffed handbag and blew her nose.
The silence in the room was so profound, the buzzing of a belated fly could be heard. What now? Studer reminded the deputy governor that it was up to him to make the decision.
“Arrest them,” said Herr Ochsenbein, “arrest the pair of them.”
Old Äbi just stood there, his lower lip hanging down, a baffled look in his schnapps-sodden eyes. But Hungerlott was quicker to come to a decision. One leap – the crash of splintering glass. The warden had jumped out of the window. They all crowded round the shattered windowpanes. Hungerlott was on the ground below, crawling with great difficulty. The man had obviously broken a leg.
Ernst’s mother was standing in the middle of the room, her scarf crossed over her breast and her calloused hands clasped. Softly she said:
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
Then her fingers unclasped. The old woman took the handbag she had jammed under her arm, searched in it and finally brought out a bundle of letters.
“Ernst brought them to me – after Anna died. ‘Look after them, Mother,’ he said, ‘and don’t let them get into the wrong hands. Someone wrote them to Anna, they were her only comfort.’ But you can keep them, Herr Studer, if you want.”
Studer leafed through the bundle. “My Beloved.” – “My most dearly Beloved.” – “Beloved, are you ill? I feel so very sad. Does your husband treat you kindly? Once you are well again, you must start divorce proceedings. I’ve talked to your uncle, and he agrees . . .” The sergeant sat down, the buzzing did not disturb him. He read on. “My mother says she looks forward to seeing you. And then we’ll try to help your mother. The poor woman . . .”
“What are you reading there, Studer?” the chief superintendent asked. “Shouldn’t they go in the files too?”
The sergeant shook his head. “They have nothing to do with the case. Nothing at all. A purely private matter.”
“That’s fine, then. At least you’ve not ended up with egg on your face this time.”
“I haven’t? That’s what you think. I couldn’t find out why some wrapping paper showed positive in the Marsh test, and the man who could tell me’s gone away.”
“A witness,” the superintendent asked. “You let a witness leave? What did you think you were doing?”
“The witness won’t get anything from the will. Not a thing. Though he didn’t want anything, so it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re talking nonsense again. Hungerlott wasn’t entirely wrong, you know.”
Studer’s moustache began to quiver. He turned away. His friend the lawyer was standing behind him.
“Münch,” said the sergeant, “when are we going to play billiards again?”
“In a fortnight or so,” Münch said, clutching his shoulder, which seemed to be hurting badly.
“That’s what you get,” said Studer, “when you start playing cops and robbers at fifty-eight . . .”