Fever (4 page)

He went into the living room, which also served as a bedroom – the couch in the corner! – and looked for the telephone directory. It was on the desk, next to a pack of cards that had been laid out. As he looked up the number of the police ambulance, the sergeant vaguely wondered why someone should play patience before they committed suicide. It was unusual, to say the least. Then a sheet of paper fell out of the telephone directory on to the floor. Studer picked it up and placed it beside the cards on the desk – strange, the cards had been laid out in four rows and in the top left corner was the jack of spades . . . Studer dialled the number. It rang and rang. The police must have had serious New Year celebrations. Finally a croaky voice answered and Studer gave the details: 12 Spalenberg, third floor, Josepha Cleman-Hornuss. Suicide. Then he hung up.

He found he was still holding the sheet of paper that had fallen out of the telephone directory. It was yellow with age, folded up, nothing written on the outside. He opened it. A temperature chart:

HÔPITAL MILITAIRE DE FEZ

When Victor Alois Cleman had been admitted to the military hospital in Fez on 12 July 1917 he had been seriously ill.
Paludisme
– that was malaria.

The temperature chart had sharp peaks. It went from 12 to 30 July, after which someone had drawn a cross with a blue pencil. So the Swiss geologist Victor Alois Cleman had died on 30 July 1917.

Cleman? . . . Cleman-Hornuss? . . . 12 Spalenberg?

Studer took out his new ring binder. There it was, on the very first page of his Christmas present! . . .

“Missy,” Studer shouted. The young woman in the fur jacket did not seem particularly surprised at the form of address.

“Listen, miss,” said Studer, telling her to come and sit down. He had put his notebook on the table and made notes as he questioned the girl.

It really did look as if Sergeant Studer had taken on a new case.

“Was that your father?” he asked, pointing to the name on the temperature chart.

A nod.

“What's your name?”

“Marie . . . Marie Cleman.”

“Well, I'm Sergeant Studer from Bern. And the man who met you at the station this morning asked me for assistance if something should happen in Switzerland. He told me a fairy story, but there was one thing in the story that is true: your mother is dead.”

Studer paused. He thought of the hissing. Not an arrow. Not a dart. Not a speckled band . . . Gas! Gas hissed when it came out of the burner. Make a note of it.

He examined the temperature chart closely. On the evening of 18 and the morning of 19 July his temperature had been 37.25. Above the line was written:
quinine sulphate 2 km
.

Since when had quinine been administered by the kilometre? A slip of the pen? It was probably an injection and instead of cm
³
– the abbreviation for cubic centimetre – some bungler, a German nurse perhaps, had written just km.

Oh well . . .

“Your father died in Morocco,” Studer said. “In Fez. I was told he was prospecting for ore there. For the French government . . . By the way, who was the man who met you at the station this morning?”

“My Uncle Matthias,” said Marie in surprise.

“That's right,” said Studer. “I met him in Paris.”

Silence. The sergeant sat at the flat-topped desk, leaning back comfortably in his chair. Marie Cleman sat facing him, playing with her handkerchief. The silence was broken by the shrill sound of the telephone ringing. Marie was going to get up, but Studer waved to her to stay seated. He picked up the receiver and said, as was his habit in his office in Bern, “Yes?”

“Is Frau Cleman there?”

An unpleasant voice, loud and shrill.

“Not at the moment, can I give her a message?” Studer asked.

“No! No! Anyway, I know Frau Cleman's dead. You'll never catch me. You're the police, I presume? Hahaha . . .” A real actor's laugh. The man had
spoken
the “ha”. Then a click sounded in the receiver.

“Who was it?” Marie asked anxiously.

“Some idiot,” said Studer tersely, then immediately asked – was it the voice that had suggested the idea? – “Where is your Uncle Matthias?”

“Catholic priests,” she said wearily, “have to say mass every morning . . . wherever they are. Otherwise they need a dispensation, from the Pope, I think, or the bishop, I don't know.” She sighed, picked up the temperature chart and started to study it intently.

“What's that?” she suddenly asked, pointing to the blue cross.

“That?” Studer stood behind the girl. “That will be the day your father died.”

“No!” The word came out as a scream. Then she calmed down and went on, “My father died on 20 July. I've seen the death certificate and the letter from the general. My father died on 20 July 1917.”

She fell silent and Studer did not say anything either.

After a while Marie went on: her mother had told her often enough. A telegram had arrived on 21 July, it must be among her souvenirs, in the desk there, the second drawer from the bottom. And then, about a fortnight later, the postman had brought the large yellow envelope. There wasn't much in it. Her father's passport, 4,000 francs in Algerian State Bank notes and the letter of condolence from a French general. Lyautey was his name. A very flattering letter. It said how well Herr Cleman had acted in the interests of France, how grateful the country was to Herr Cleman for unmasking two German spies . . .

“Two spies?” Studer asked. He had gone to a chair in the corner, by the open window, and sat there, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped. He was staring at the floor. “Two spies?” he repeated.

Marie closed the window. She looked out into the courtyard, her fingers drumming a monotonous march on the window-pane. Her breath made a clouded patch on the glass; drops formed and trickled down until they were stopped by the window-frame.

“Yes, two spies.” Marie spoke in a monotone. “The Mannesmann brothers . . . I remember the day the letter arrived. At the time we had a large apartment, on the Rheinschanze. And one day the letter arrived. I was on holiday from school. The postman brought the big envelope, it was registered and Mother had to sign for it. Two tears fell on the postman's notebook and smudged the indelible pencil. Father didn't leave much and things were difficult after his death. Later Mother often said how surprised she was how little money was left. My aunt in Bern, she had plenty . . .”

Studer leafed through his notebook. His first wife. Hadn't the priest, the White Father, spoken of her? There it was: Sophie Hornuss, 44 Gerechtigkeitsgasse, Bern.

“Those two spies, the – what did you say they were called? Oh yes, the Mannesmann brothers. How did your father get on with them?”

“Quite well at first – I only knew about this from my mother. They were prospecting, as I told you, particularly in the south of Morocco. That is, it was my father who discovered the presence of ore. The Mannesmann brothers pretended they were Swiss, but then, during the war, they helped some Germans in the Foreign Legion to get back home. Father found out about it and told the general. The two of them were simply put before a firing squad. Soon after that Father was given an official appointment by the French government, as a reward for betr— for the information.”

“So that's how it was.” Studer nodded. He got up and leant over the desk again. He was fascinated by the cards that had been laid out.

“And what about these cards?”

Marie Cleman perched on the window-ledge, steadying herself with her hands; the tips of her toes touched
the edge of the worn carpet. The girl had slim ankles!

“Oh, those cards! That was the worst of it, that was why I left my mother.” She sighed. “It was all a big con trick and I couldn't stand it any longer. The servant girls who paid ten francs to know if their boyfriends were faithful; the businessmen who wanted advice for their speculations; the politicians who wanted Mother to tell them they'd get elected again . . . Eventually even the bank manager came, though that gentleman came because of me. And do you know, Uncle Studer, I don't think it even bothered Mother that I . . . with the bank manager . . . so one day I just took off.”

Studer had jumped up. He was standing facing the girl. What had Marie called him? Uncle Studer? It took his breath away . . . but of course it meant nothing. He'd called the girl by the familiar
du
, as they did in Bern. Didn't that give Marie the right to a certain familiarity? Uncle Studer! It gave him a warm feeling . . . just like a glass of schnapps.

“If,” said Studer, and his voice was a little hoarse, “you're going to call me uncle, then at least make it Cousin Jakob. Uncle! That's what the Krauts say.”

Marie blushed. She looked the sergeant in the face. She had a particular way of looking at people: not quite searching, more astonished – a calmly astonished look you could call it. The look suited the girl, Studer thought, but he could imagine it would get on other people's nerves.

“All right then,” said Marie, “Cousin Jakob it is,” and she shook the sergeant by the hand. It was a small hand, a strong hand.

Studer cleared his throat. “So you took off . . . fine. To Paris, your uncle told me. Who with?”

“With the man who'd been my father's secretary. Koller he was called. He came to see us once and told us he'd set up on his own and was looking for someone he could trust. He asked me if I fancied going with him, as a shorthand typist. I'd been to the commercial college, so I accepted.”

A fur jacket, silk stockings, suede shoes . . . Expensive. Was a typist's salary enough to buy that kind of thing? He plunged his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt a little sad, so he hunched up his shoulders and asked, “Why did you decide to come to see your mother?”

Again that strangely searching look.

“Why?” Marie repeated. “Because Koller suddenly disappeared. Overnight. Three, three and a half months ago. On 15 September to be precise. He left me with 4,000 French francs. I survived on that until the end of December, then I had just enough left for the fare to Basel.”

“Why didn't you come with your uncle?”

“He wanted to travel by himself.”

“Did you report Koller's disappearance?”

“Yes. To the police. They took all his papers. A Commissaire Madelin was in charge of the investigation. He questioned me once . . .”

There was something . . . What was it? Something Madelin had said, that evening, when Studer had shown him the telegram about young Jakobli. Could he bring it back to mind? What was it Madelin had said to the walking, talking encyclopedia, to Godofrey? “There's something not right about Koller's papers.” That was it. Was it the same Koller?

“Where did your mother keep the souvenirs of your father?” Studer asked.

“In the desk,” Marie replied, turning her back on the room again. “In the second drawer from the bottom.”

The second drawer from the bottom . . .

It was empty. That in itself would not have struck him particularly.

What did strike him was that the burglar who had broken it open had carefully replaced a piece of wood that had splintered off. Studer shut the empty drawer and then, following the example of his predecessor, carefully fitted the splinter of wood back in its exact place. He straightened up, took out his handkerchief, bent down to the drawer again and wiped everything clean, muttering, “You never know.”

“Have you found anything, Cousin Jakob?” Marie asked, without turning round.

“Your mother must have moved them to another place,” Studer grunted. Louder he added, “So your father's first wife lives in Bern and she's called . . .”

Studer took out his notebook, but Marie got in first. “She's called Hornuss, Sophie Hornuss, 44 Gerechtigkeitsgasse. She was my mother's elder sister, so she's actually my aunt, if you prefer . . .”

“Funny family relationships,” said Studer drily.

Marie smiled. Then the smile vanished and her eyes darkened with sadness. She'd sometimes thought that herself, she said. And Studer kicked himself because his stupid remark had clearly caused the girl pain.

There were steps approaching along the corridor. The broken door screeched on its hinges and a voice asked if someone had committed suicide here. It must be here, said a second voice, there was the nameplate on the doorpost: Cleman. “You see?” it added. “What did I tell you?”

Studer went back into the kitchen, where he bumped into a uniform policeman. It was a soft bump, since the officer was as plump, rosy and smooth as a baby. He seemed to be suppressing a yawn all the time and
swamped the sergeant with a flood of questions, all plentifully studded with “Yes?” and “No?”. Moreover, he gargled his “R”s as if they were mouthwash, instead of rolling them with his tongue against the hard palate, like any decent Swiss. The duty doctor was old and his moustache yellow from cigarettes.