“But before he joined the examining magistrate and Lieutenant Henzi, who were waiting impatiently in their car, he leafed through von Gunten’s dossier. The man had a record. Sexual molestation of a fourteen-year-old girl.”
4
“That very first order to have the peddler watched turned out to be a mistake that could not have been foreseen. Mägendorf was a small community. Mostly farmers, though some men worked in the factories down in the valley or in the brickyard nearby. There were a few city people living out there, two or three architects, a neoclassical sculptor, but they played no part in the village. Everyone knew everyone else, and most people were related. The village was in conflict with the city, not officially, but secretly; for the woods surrounding Mägendorf belonged to the city, a fact which no real Mägendorfer had ever taken into account, to the great annoyance of the forest administration, who finally insisted that a police station be set up in Mägendorf. And there was another problem: on Sundays, people came streaming in from the city and took over the village; and many others were drawn to The Stag at night. With all these factors to consider, the man stationed there had to be a capable policeman, but he also had to be on good terms with the village. Officer Wegmüller, who was assigned there, understood this fairly quickly. He came from a peasant family, drank a lot, and kept his Mägendorfers well in hand, though he made so many concessions that I really should have intervened; but to me—in part because of our shortage of manpower—he was the lesser evil. I had my peace and I let Wegmüller have his. It was his substitutes—when he was on leave—who were put through the mill. As far as the Mägendorfers were concerned, they couldn’t do anything right. Those were boom times, no one went poaching or stealing wood in the forests, and there hadn’t been a brawl in the village for ages, but you could still feel the traditional defiance of state power smoldering among the people. Riesen, in particular, had a rough time. He was a simpleminded fellow, humorless, easily offended, no match for the villagers’ constant mocking, and really too sensitive even for a more normal area. He was so intimidated that he would make himself scarce as soon as he was done with his daily rounds. Under such conditions it proved impossible to keep an ‘inconspicuous watch’ on the peddler. Riesen usually stayed far away from The Stag, so his sudden appearance there had all the weight of a federal inquest. And when he ostentatiously took a seat facing the peddler, the farmers fell into a silence that was humming with curiosity.
“‘Coffee?’ the innkeeper asked.
“‘Nothing,’ Riesen replied. ‘I’m here on duty.’
“The farmers stared at the peddler.
“‘What did he do?’ an old man asked.
“‘None of your business.’
“The tavern was low and filled with smoke, a wooden cave, oppressively hot and dark, but the innkeeper didn’t turn on the light. The farmers sat at a long table, perhaps over white wine, perhaps over beer, invisible except as shadows against the silvery windowpanes with their trickles and streams of rainwater. From somewhere came the clatter of a game of table soccer; from somewhere else, the ringing and rumbling sounds of an American pinball machine.
“Von Gunten was drinking a cherry liqueur. He was afraid. He sat hunched in a corner, his right arm propped on the handle of his basket, waiting. It seemed to him that he had been sitting there for hours. Everything was densely quiet, but menacing. The windowpanes started lightening, the rain lessened, and suddenly the sun was out again. Only the wind was still howling and shaking the walls. Von Gunten was glad when the cars finally pulled up outside.
“‘Come,’ said Riesen, getting up. The two men stepped outside. In front of the tavern stood a dark limousine and the emergency squad’s big van. The ambulance was on its way. The village square lay in the glaring sun. Two five- or six-year- old children stood by the well, a girl and a boy. The girl had a doll tucked under one arm, and the boy was holding a little whip.
“‘Get in next to the driver, von Gunten!’ Matthäi called from the window of the limousine, and then, when the peddler had taken his seat with a sigh of relief (as if he were safe now), and Riesen had climbed into the other car: ‘All right, now show us what you found in the woods.’”
5
“After a short walk through wet grass—the path to the woods was a single muddy puddle—they found the small body in the leaves among the bushes not far from the edge of the forest. The men were silent. The storm was still lashing the treetops and shaking loose large silver drops that glittered like diamonds. The public prosecutor tossed away his cigar and stepped on it, embarrassed. Henzi didn’t dare to look. Matthäi said: ‘A police officer never looks away, Henzi.’
“The men set up their cameras.
“‘It’ll be hard to find tracks after this rain,’ Matthäi said.
“Suddenly the boy and the girl were standing in their midst, staring at the body, the girl still with her doll under her arm, the boy still with his whip.
“‘Take the children away.’
“A policeman took them by the hand and led them back to the road, and there they stayed.
“The first people from the village approached. The owner of The Stag was recognizable from afar by his white apron.
“‘Cordon her off,’ the inspector ordered. Several men posted themselves as guards. Others searched the immediate vicinity. Then the first flashbulbs went off.
“‘Do you know the girl, Riesen?’
“‘No, sir, I don’t.’
“‘Did you ever see her in the village?’
“‘I believe I have, sir.’
“‘Has the girl been photographed?’
“‘Two more shots from above.’
“Matthäi waited.
“‘Tracks?’
“‘Nothing. Everything’s mud.’
“‘Check the buttons? Fingerprints?’
“‘Hopeless after this cloudburst.’
“Then Matthäi carefully bent over. ‘With a razor,’ he noted, picked up the pieces of bread strewn about and carefully put them back in the little basket.
“‘Pretzels.’
“News came that someone from the village wanted to talk to them. Matthäi stood up. The investigating magistrate looked over toward the edge of the woods. There stood a white-haired man with an umbrella hanging from his left forearm. Henzi was leaning against a beech tree. He was pale. The peddler sat on his basket, quietly repeating, over and over, with a soft voice: ‘I just happened to pass by here, just by chance!’
“‘Bring the man here.’
“The white-haired man came through the bushes and froze.
“‘My God,’ he murmured, ‘my God.’
“‘May I ask for your name?’ Matthäi asked.
“‘I am the teacher Luginbühl,’ the white-haired man replied, and looked away.
“‘Do you know this girl?’
“‘It’s Gritli Moser.’
“‘Where do her parents live?’
“‘Down in the Moosbach.’
“‘Far from the village?’
“‘Fifteen minutes.’
“Matthäi looked at the body. He was the only one who didn’t flinch. No one said a word.
“‘How did this happen?’ the teacher asked.
“‘A sex crime,’ Matthäi replied. ‘Did the child go to your school?’
“‘To Fräulein Krumm’s class. Third grade.’
“‘Do the Mosers have any other children?’
“‘Gritli was the only one.’
“‘Someone has to tell the parents.’
“The men fell silent again.
“‘You, sir?” Matthäi asked the teacher.
“There was a long pause before Luginbühl replied. ‘Please don’t consider me a coward,’ he finally said, hesitantly, ‘but I would rather not. I can’t,’ he quietly added.
“‘I understand,’ Matthäi said. ‘How about the pastor?’
“‘He’s in the city.’
“‘All right,’ Matthäi calmly sa
id. ‘You may leave, Herr Luginbühl.’
“The teacher went back to the road. More and more people from Mägendorf had assembled there.
“Matthäi looked over at Henzi, who was still leaning against the beech tree. ‘Please, no, sir,’ Henzi said softly. The investigating magistrate also shook his head. Matthäi looked at the body once more, and then glanced at the little red skirt lying torn in the bushes, soaked through with blood and rain.
“‘Then I’ll go,’ he said, and picked up the basket of pretzels.”
6
“The ‘Moosbach’ was a small marshy dale near Mägendorf. Matthäi had left the police car in the village and walked. He wanted to gain time. He could see the house from far away. He stopped and turned around. He had heard footsteps. The little boy and the girl were there again, with flushed faces. They must have taken shortcuts; there was no other way to explain their reappearance.
“Matthäi walked on. The house was low, with white walls, dark beams, and a slate roof. Fig trees behind it, black soil in the garden. A man was chopping wood in front of the house. He looked up and saw the inspector approaching.
“‘What can I do for you?’ the man said.
“Matthäi hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Then he introduced himself, just to gain time. ‘Herr Moser?’
“‘That’s me, what do you want?’ the man said again. He came closer and stood in front of Matthäi with his ax in his hand. He must have been about forty. He was lean, with a furrowed face, and his gray eyes scrutinized the inspector. A woman appeared in the doorway; she, too, was wearing a red skirt. Matthäi searched for words. All along on his walk he had been searching for the right formulation, but he still didn’t know what to say. Then Moser came to his aid. He had noticed the basket in Matthäi’s hand.
“‘Did something happen to Gritli?’ he asked, his eyes probing Matthäi’s face again.
“‘Did you send Gritli somewhere?’ the inspector asked.
“‘To her grandmother in Fehren,’ the farmer replied.
“Matthäi reflected; Fehren was the neighboring village. ‘Did Gritli go that way often?’ he asked.
“‘Every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon,’ the farmer said. Then, in a sudden rush of fear, he asked: ‘Why do you want to know? Why are you bringing her basket?’
“Matthäi put the basket on the stump on which Moser had been chopping wood.
“‘Gritli has been found dead in the woods near Mägendorf,’ he said.
“Moser did not move. Nor did the woman, who was still standing in the doorway in her red skirt. Matthäi saw beads of perspiration form on the man’s forehead; a moment later sweat was streaming down his white face. Matthäi would have liked to look away, but he was spellbound by this face, by this sweat, and so they stood staring at each other.
“‘Gritli was murdered,’ Matthäi heard himself say, with a voice that seemed devoid of compassion. This annoyed him.
“‘It can’t be,’ Moser whispered, ‘there can’t be such devils.’ The fist holding the ax was quivering.
“‘There are such devils, Herr Moser,’ Matthäi said.
“The man stared at him.
“‘I want to see my child,’ he said almost inaudibly.
“The inspector shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do that, Herr Moser. I know it’s a cruel thing to say, but it’s better if you don’t go to your Gritli now.’
“Moser stepped up very close to the inspector, so close that the two men stood eye to eye.
“‘Why is it better?’ he shouted.
“The inspector said nothing.
“For a moment Moser weighed the ax in his hand as though he wanted to strike out with it, but then he turned away and went to his wife, who was still standing in the doorway. Still motionless, still mute. Matthäi waited. Nothing escaped him, and he suddenly knew he would never forget this scene. Moser clasped his wife in his arms. He was suddenly shaken by a silent sob. He hid his face against her shoulder while she stared into space.
“‘Tomorrow evening you may see your Gritli,’ the inspector promised. He felt feeble, helpless. ‘By then the child will look as if she’s asleep.’
“Then the woman suddenly spoke.
“‘Who is the murderer?’ she asked in a voice so calm and sober that Matthäi was startled.
“‘I intend to find that out, Frau Moser.’
“The woman just looked at him. Her gaze was threatening, imperious. ‘Is that a promise?’
“‘It’s a promise, Frau Moser,’ the inspector said, impelled solely by the desire to leave this place.
“‘On your eternal salvation?’
“The inspector hesitated. ‘On my eternal salvation,’ he finally said. What else could he do?
“‘Then go,’ the woman commanded. ‘You have sworn by your eternal salvation.’
“Matthäi wanted to add a consoling word, but he could think of no consolation.
“‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly, and turned around. Slowly he walked back the way he had come. Before him lay Mägendorf with the forest behind it. Above, the sky, which was cloudless now. He saw the two children again, crouching by the side of the road. He walked past them wearily, and they followed with quick, tripping steps. Then suddenly he heard from the house behind him a sound like the bellow of an animal. He hurried his steps, and did not know whether it was the man or the woman who was crying so.”
7
“Back in Mägendorf, Matthäi met with his first difficulty. The emergency squad’s large van had driven into the village and was waiting for the inspector. The scene of the crime and its immediate vicinity had been carefully searched and then cordoned off. Three plainclothes policemen were hiding in the woods. Their assignment was to observe passersby. The rest of the squad was to be taken back to the city. The sky was swept clean, but the rain hadn’t eased up the atmosphere. The föhn still lay heavily upon the forests and villages, still came wafting along in great soft gusts. The unnatural heavy warmth made people spiteful, irritable, impatient. The street lamps were already lit, even though it was still day. The farmers had been massing together. They had discovered von Gunten. They considered him to be the murderer; peddlers are always suspect. They assumed he had already been arrested and surrounded the van. The peddler inside kept quiet. Trembling, he cowered among the stiffly upright policemen. The Mägendorfers moved more and more closely against the van, pressing their faces against the windows. The policemen didn’t know what to do. The state prosecutor’s limousine was also being blocked by the crowd. So was the coroner’s car, which had come in from Zurich. So was the white ambulance containing the little corpse. The men looked threatening but were silent; the women stood pressed against the walls of the houses. They, too, were silent. The children had climbed onto the rim of the village fountain. A dark rage without plan or direction had bonded the farmers into a mob. They wanted revenge, justice. Matthäi tried to fight his way through to the emergency squad, but this was not possible. The best thing would be to find the mayor. He asked for him. No one answered. All he could hear were a few quiet threats. The inspector reflected and went into the tavern. He wasn’t mistaken, the mayor was sitting in The Stag. He was a small, heavy man with an unhealthy appearance. He was drinking one glass of Veltliner after another and peering through the low windows.
“‘What can I do, Inspector?’ he asked. ‘The people are stubborn. They feel that the police aren’t thorough enough, and that they have to take care of justice.’ Then he sighed: ‘Gritli was a good child. We loved her.’
“The mayor had tears in his eyes.
“‘The peddler is innocent,’ Matthäi said.
“‘If he was, you wouldn’t have arrested him.’
“‘We haven’t arrested him. We need him as a witness.’
“The major fixed a baleful look on Matthäi. ‘You’re just trying to talk your way out of it,’ he said. ‘We know what’s going on.’
“‘As mayor, your first obligation is to ensure our free passag
e.’
“The mayor emptied his glass of red wine. He drank without saying a word.
“‘Well?’ Matthäi asked impatiently.
“The mayor remained stubborn.
“‘The peddler’s going to get it,’ he mumbled.
“The inspector made himself clear. ‘There would be a fight before that happened, sir—Mr. Mayor of Mägendorf.’
“‘You want to fight for a sex fiend?’
“‘Guilty or not, we’ll have law and order here.’
“The mayor angrily walked back and forth in the low-ceilinged tavern room. Since no one was there to serve him, he poured wine for himself at the bar. He drank it so hastily that large dark stripes ran over his shirt. The crowd was still quiet outside. But when the driver tried to set the police car in motion, the ranks closed more tightly.
“Now the public prosecutor entered the room. He had squeezed through the tightly packed crowd with difficulty. His clothes were rumpled. The mayor was alarmed. The arrival of a public prosecutor put him on edge; being a normal person, he found this profession uncanny.
“‘Mr. Mayor,’ the public prosecutor said, ‘the Mägendorfers seem to want to resort to a lynching. I don’t see any other way out than to call for reinforcements. That should bring them back to reason.’
“‘Let’s try to talk to them once more,’ Matthäi suggested.
“The public prosecutor tapped the mayor with his right index finger.
“‘If you don’t get these people to listen to us, and I mean right away, you’ll be sorry.’
“Outside, the church bells started ringing up a storm. More and more men came from all directions to join the crowd. Even the fire squad marched in and took up fighting positions in support of their townsmen. The first shrill, isolated shouts rang out, curses directed at the police.
“The policemen readied themselves. They expected the crowd to attack any minute, but they were as helpless as the Mägendorfers. Their usual activities were a combination of routine patrols and individual assignments; here they were confronting something unknown. But the agitated farmers became suddenly quieter. The public prosecutor had stepped out of The Stag with the mayor and Matthäi. Using a stair in front of the tavern door as a platform, holding on to an iron banister, the mayor addressed the mob: ‘Citizens of Mägendorf! I ask you to listen to His Honor, Public Prosecutor Burkhard.’