In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery (10 page)

The old man was lying on his back because he had
fallen down backwards, and his legs were stuck up
against the iron ladder. His trousers had slipped back
to the middle of his calves ... grey woollen socks, linen
long johns, the white tapes at the bottom holding his
socks up ...

Not a man for elegant suspenders, old Director
Borstli, despite his penchant for young nurses. His face
was covered with a dusting of yellow ash and his eyes
had rolled up under his half-open lids.

Dr Laduner was standing over the body, arms
akimbo, his hands on his grey leather belt. Then he
bent down, put out one hand and gently lifted one of
the Director's lids.

"Sure-ly," he said softly. "He's dead. Do you want to
photograph him?"

He spoke with a pronounced hiss, presumably
because he was having difficulty getting the words out
through his clenched teeth.

"No," Studer replied, "I don't think that will be
necessary. If. . ." he paused, "if someone really did. . ."

" ... knock the Director down," Laduner finished
for him, "then it happened up there, where you're
standing. In that case it's really unnecessary to record
the position of the corpse."

That consciously matter-of-fact tone! Studer
couldn't help shaking his head slightly. After all, Dr
Laduner had worked together with the old Director
for years, which made his "record the position of the
corpse" sound a little odd. There was something about
Dr Ernst Laduner MD that irritated the sergeant -
though he wouldn't have found it easy if he'd been
asked to explain what it was. He both repelled and
attracted him. He repelled him in the way masked
faces sometimes repel us. But that wasn't the only
thing about it: there was also the desire to see the real
face hiding beneath the mask. The mask: Laduner's
smile. How could he see behind the mask? Above all it
called for time, it called for patience. Well, patience
was one thing Sergeant Studer had plenty of, he'd had
to learn the hard way ...

Laduner lifted the Director's legs off the ladder. He
did it gently, much to Studer's approval. Finally the
body was laid out on the dusty stone floor. Then
Laduner picked up the loden cape that lay crumpled beside the body, rolled it up and pushed it under the
Director's head. He nodded as he weighed the head in
his hand for a moment, as if confirming some suspicion. Then he picked something up. It was an old
pair of spectacles, with oval lenses and steel rims. He
handed them up to the sergeant, who had to kneel
down to reach them. The smile playing around the
doctor's lips as he did so was no longer the "consultant-doing-his-rounds" smile; on the contrary, it was a
tender, slightly wistful smile, the kind of smile people
have when they're thinking of past times they feel
nostalgic about because they imagine things were different then, and better ...

The sun-filled courtyard again, the staring windows,
dazzlingly bright, like the eyes of nightmare monsters,
the steps and the hall of the central block ... Dr
Laduner's white linen trousers were dirty, there was a
smudge of rust on the left shoulder of his shirt.

"His pockets were empty?" the doctor asked. "You
did check them, Studer?"

"They were empty," said Studer.

"Aha ... empty ... odd..."

Silence.

Then: "Blumenstein can do the autopsy. It would be
nonsense to bring in a pathologist from outside."

Studer shrugged his shoulders. It was all the same to
him. But Blumenstein? Who was this Blumenstein? He
needed to consult his notebook, there were just too
many names in this clinic ... Blumenstein? Wasn't that
the tall doctor, the one who'd been standing on one
leg like a stork in 0 dormitory this morning? The Director's brother-in-law? ... Why should Dr Blumenstein
perform the autopsy?

They were standing outside the door of the doctors'
room. From inside there came a loud crack, followed by voices raised in laughter. Studer was beginning to
get to know Dr Laduner's idiosyncrasies: thrusting the
handle down, flinging the door open ...

Dr Neuville was standing by the window. He was lifting up a cardboard file in order to bring it crashing
down again with all his might on a small typewriting
table, at which the little doctor from the Baltic was
sitting, the one who had been given the ticking-off that
morning because of Schmocker, the would-be political
assassin. She was flushed, a look of apprehension on
her face.

"Neuville! That's enough of this childish
behaviour!" said Dr Laduner sternly.

Dr Blumenstein was sitting close to the door, with his
feet on the desk. Despite the fact that he was leaning
back comfortably and smoking a tipped cigarette, he
still looked like a huge baby.

There was a telephone on the shelf that divided the
desk in two. Dr Laduner picked up the receiver,
dialled and waited. In the silence the click of the
receiver being lifted at the other end could be clearly
heard.

"Laduner here. Yes, Dr Laduner. Call Jutzeler to the
telephone."

They waited in silence. Dr Blumenstein didn't dare
take his feet down off the desk. Only after Dr Laduner
had fished a packet out of his pocket with his left hand
and gestured at him with his cigarette did he tuck his
long legs under the desk and hold out a lighted match
to his superior.

"Yes?" Laduner said. "Is that you, Jutzeler? Find Gilgen and Blaser and get a stretcher. Take it to the boiler
room under T Ward, you'll find the Director there ...
What? ... Yes, he's dead ... You'll cover him up, won't
you? ... I know it won't make any difference, it'll be all over the clinic in a quarter of an hour, but still ... Yes,
take him to M, Dr Blumenstein will perform the autopsy, you can assist him, Jutzeler ... Oh, and tell
Weyrauch he's to come to the office ... Yes, that's all."
Laduner replaced the receiver and said, turning to
Studer, "M's another section. It's not the last letter in
the alphabet, but it's the last stage for some of our
patients - the Mortuary. I presume you'll be able to
remember what the letter stands for."

After a pause, during which no one spoke, he slipped
down from the desk. "Blumenstein, you'll determine
the cause of death. Bring the report to me ... An accident, the Director fell down a ladder in the heating
plant."

Silence again. The windows were open. Somewhere
outside they were playing croquet. It sounded like
someone dreamily picking out the same low note on a
xylophone again and again ... Then an accordion
started up ... The leaves on the bushes outside the
window were such a dark green that in the shade they
looked almost black ...

"My dear," said Laduner to the little doctor from
the Baltic, who was sitting by the window, looking
vacant and slightly distraught, her fingers still hovering over the keys of the typewriter, "would you get
Pieterlen's medical history out for me. And write out
a description of him. You can bring the files up to my
flat. We'll have a talk about Pieterlen this evening,
Studer. . ."

He fell silent.

Then: "About Pieterlen, Pierre, the classic case ..."

Dr Ernst Laduner MD, Deputy Director of Randlingen Psychiatric Clinic, went over to a cupboard, put a
doctor's coat on over his tennis gear and, deliberately
tapping the palm of his left hand with his stethoscope, said in an emphatic voice, looking up on the last three
words, "And remember, in all things you will - come to
me." He sounded like a major telling his troops,
"Battalion - you will - take - your orders - from me!"

"Just go up to my apartment and wait for me, you don't
need to ring. . ." Dr Laduner had said.

So now Studer was standing in the cool corridor.
Someone was playing the piano, a simple melody.
Studer crept closer. The sounds were coming from the
door opposite the dining room. Studer listened. The
notes were as cool as the song of the blackbird on an
April morning. Then the piano fell silent and a boy's
voice said, "Right, Mummy, now sing something."

"But I can't sing, Kasperli."

"Of course you can, Mummy ... you know, the
French song."

The sound of chairs being moved. A short prelude.

An alto ... Suddenly Studer was far away, although
he was leaning his head against the panel of the door.
Randlingen Clinic and the old man who had broken
his neck receded into the distance, and with them
Pierre Pieterlen, whose description was to be circulated, and Dr Laduner with the smiling mask, to which
he would have to give some serious thought.

In his mind's eye Studer saw a jungle of towers and
roofs from which there rose a dull hum, interrupted now and then by short, shrill sounds. Trails of mist
swirled and a glittering river wove its way through the
houses below. Beside him sat a woman, accompanying
herself on the guitar as she sang:

Her voice was untrained, dark and full of sadness ...

There was a sharp crack and Studer was back in the
apartment corridor. The wood of the panel his head
was leaning against had sagged a little.

Steps were approaching; the door opened.

Fran Laduner wore her pince-nez. She peered
strenuously out into the dark corridor, her eyes came
to within a hand's width of Studer's face, then she
laughed.

"Herr Studer! But you must come in and sit
down, instead of standing out there in the corridor.
There's still some tea left ... a dash of kirsch with it?
Yes? ... And Kasperli, say `Good afternoon' to the
gentleman. This is Herr Studer, who's staying in the
guest room."

He was Herr Studer again. He could forget the
detective sergeant, condemned to solve crimes. He was
shown to an armchair, a serving trolley suddenly
appeared before him, the tea being poured into his
cup was mahogany brown, a shot of kirsch was added,
and then he had to take a slice of toast, warm, with the
butter melting -just like they ate in England, perhaps.

Would Frau Doktor be so kind as to sing a song for
him, Studer asked. The wallpaper was a dark yellow,
but above the black piano there was a patch of sunlight
on the wall that shimmered like white gold. Frau
Laduner replied that she couldn't sing, though there
was no affectation or false modesty about it. It was like the reply she'd made that morning when she'd been
asked how she liked "our Studer": "Not bad." It
cheered him up.

Kasperli was getting impatient. "Come on, Mummy."

And Frau Laduner sat down at the piano. Her hands
were short and stubby, the bottom joints of her fingers
had a cushion of fat. She sang one song; she sang two
songs. Studer drank his tea.

Fran Laduner stood up, saying that was enough. Was
there any news? she asked.

He'd found the Director, Studer replied.

"Dead?"

Studer nodded silently and Frau Laduner sent her
son out of the room.

"Well, well," she said. "It was inevitable."

Studer agreed, yes, it was inevitable.

She wasn't sure, Frau Laduner went on, whether
Studer could appreciate what this would mean for her
husband. Did he have a picture of Ernst? Of his character? Of the way he was? Ernst had found it very tough
to have to do all the work. God, Studer could have no
idea what the clinic looked like before they came to
Randlingen.

"The patients just sat around all day in the wards. In
O they played cards all day, T looked like a museum of
Gothic statues. The sick patients just stood there, all
contorted. One spent the whole day sitting on the
radiator in the corridor, like a gargoyle. And the
stench! The baths were occupied all day by the disturbed patients. The ward with the isolation units was
overcrowded ... and at night they screamed; the
echoes were so loud in the courtyard, I was frightened.
Do you know what occupational therapy is?"

Studer could not help smiling at the thought of the
"Randlingen Express" he had seen that morning.

"What are you smiling at?" Frau Laduner asked, and
Studer told her.