“The singers were girls and boys, six to eight years old. The three lowest grades. The teacher who was conducting dropped her hands and looked at us suspiciously. The children stopped singing.
“‘Fräulein Krumm?’
“‘Yes?’
“‘Gritli Moser’s teacher?’
“‘What do you want?’
“Fräulein Krumm was about forty, thin, with large sorrowful eyes.
“I introduced myself and addressed the children.
“‘Good morning, children!’
“They looked at me with curiosity.
“‘Good morning!’
“‘That’s a pretty song you were singing.’
“‘We’re practicing a hymn for Gritli’s funeral,’ the teacher explained.
“In the sandbox stood a model of Robinson Crusoe’s island. Children’s drawings hung on the walls.
“‘What sort of child was Gritli?’ I asked hesitantly.
“‘We all loved her,’ the teacher said.
“‘What about her intelligence?’
“‘She was an extremely imaginative child.’
“Again I hesitated.
“‘I should ask the children a few questions.’
“‘Go ahead.’
“I stepped in front of the class. Most of the girls still wore braids and brightly colored aprons.
“‘I’m sure you have heard what happened to Gritli Moser,’ I said. ‘I’m the chief of police, which is like a captain in the army. It’s my job to find the man who killed Gritli. I want to talk to you now as if you were grown-ups, not children. The man we are looking for is sick. All the men who do such things are sick. And because they are sick, they try to lure children to a hiding place where they can hurt them, a forest or a cellar, any kind of hidden place, and it happens very often. In our canton, we have more than two hundred cases a year. And sometimes it happens that such a man hurts a child so badly that it has to die, like Gritli. That’s why we have to lock these men up. They’re too dangerous to be allowed to walk around freely. Now, you may ask why we don’t lock them up before something bad happens to a child like Gritli? Because there is no way to recognize these sick people. Their sickness is inside, not outside.’
“The children listened breathlessly.
“‘You must help me,’ I continued. ‘We must find the man who killed Gritli Moser, otherwise he will kill another little girl.’
“I was now standing in the midst of the children.
“‘Did Gritli tell any of you that a stranger talked to her?’
“The children were silent.
“‘Did you notice anything unusual about Gritli recently?’
“The children knew nothing.
“‘Did Gritli own anything new recently that she didn’t use to have?’
“The children didn’t answer.
“‘Who was Gritli’s best friend?’
“‘Me,’ a girl whispered.
“She was a tiny little thing with brown hair and brown eyes. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
“‘Ursula Fehlmann.’
“‘So you were Gritli’s friend, Ursula.’
“‘We sat together.’
“The girl spoke so softly I had to bend down to hear her.
“‘And you didn’t notice anything either?’
“‘No.’
“‘Gritli didn’t meet anyone?’
“‘Someone, yes,’ the girl replied.
“‘Whom did she meet?’
“‘Not a person,’ the girl said.
“That answer startled me.
“‘What do you mean by that, Ursula?’
“‘She met a giant,’ the girl said softly.
“‘A giant?’
“‘Yes,’ the girl said.
“‘You mean she met a big man?’
“‘No, my father is a big man, but he’s not a giant.’
“‘How big was he?’ I asked.
“‘Like a mountain,’ the girl replied, ‘and black all over.’
“‘And did this—giant—give Gritli a present?’ I asked.
“‘Yes,’ said the girl.
“‘What was it?’
“‘Little hedgehogs.’
“‘Hedgehogs? What do you mean by that, Ursula?’ I asked, completely nonplussed.
“‘The whole giant was full of little hedgehogs,’ the girl said.
“‘But that’s nonsense, Ursula,’ I objected. ‘A giant doesn’t have hedgehogs!’
“‘He was a hedgehog giant.’
“The girl insisted on her story. I went back to the teacher’s desk.
“‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Gritli does seem to have had a lot of imagination, Fräulein Krumm.’
“‘She was a poetic child,’ the teacher replied, turning her sad eyes away from me. ‘I should go back to practicing the hymn now. For the burial tomorrow. They’re not singing well enough yet.’
“She gave the pitch.
“‘Then take my hands and lead me,’ the children sang out again.”
11
“We went to The Stag, where we relieved Henzi and continued with the questioning of the Mägendorf population. Nothing came of that either, and in the evening we drove back to Zurich no better informed than we had been in the morning. Silently. I had smoked too much and had drunk the local red wine. You know those slightly questionable wines. Matthäi, too, sitting next to me in the back of the car, was in a dark, brooding mood. He didn’t start talking until we were almost in Römerhof.
“‘I don’t believe the killer was a Mägendorfer,’ he said. ‘It must be the same perpetrator as the one in St. Gallen and Schwyz; those murders were all alike. I think it’s probable that the man is operating from Zurich.’
“‘Possibly,’ I replied.
“‘Most likely it’s a man with a car, maybe a traveling salesman. That farmer, Gerber, saw a car parked in the woods.’
“‘I personally questioned Gerber today,’ I said. ‘He admitted he was too sound asleep to notice anything.’
“We fell silent again.
“‘I’m sorry I have to leave you in the middle of an unresolved case,’ he began then, in a somewhat tentative tone of voice, ‘but I have that contract with the Jordanian government.’
“‘You’re flying tomorrow?’ I asked.
“‘At three P.M.,’ he replied. ‘Via Athens.’
“‘I envy you, Matthäi,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘I, too, would rather be police chief among the Arabs than here in Zurich.’
“Then I dropped him off at the Hotel Urban, where he had been living as long as I could remember, and went to the Kronenhalle, where I ate under the painting by Miro. That’s my regular table. I always sit there and eat ‘from the trolley.’”
12
“But when I went back to headquarters around ten and passed by Matthäi’s former office, I ran into Henzi in the hallway. He had left Mägendorf at noon already. I had found that rather surprising, but since I had put him in charge of the case, I didn’t think it appropriate to criticize him. Henzi was a native of Berne, ambitious, but well liked by the men. He had married a girl from one of the most respectable families in Zurich, had switched from the Socialist party to the Liberals, and was well on his way to making a career for himself. I’m just mentioning this on the side; he’s with the Independents now.
“‘The bastard still won’t confess,’ he said.
“‘Who?’ I asked, very surprised, and stopped in my tracks. ‘Who won’t confess?’
“‘Von Gunten.’
“I didn’t know what to think. ‘Nonstop?’ I asked.
“‘All afternoon,’ Henzi said, ‘and we’ll go on through the night if we have to. Treuler’s handling him now. I just stepped out for a breather.’
“‘I want to have a look at that,’ I said—I was curious—and went into Matthäi’s former office.”
13
“The peddler had taken a seat on a backless office chair. Treul
er had moved his chair over to Matthäi’s old desk, which served him as a support for his left arm. His legs were crossed and his head was propped on his left hand. He was smoking a cigarette. Feller was taking down the testimony. Henzi and I stood in the doorway, invisible to the peddler, whose back was turned to us.
“‘I didn’t do it, Officer,’ the peddler mumbled.
“‘I didn’t say you did. I only said you could have done it,’ Treuler replied. ‘We’ll see whether I’m right or not. Let’s start from the beginning. So you settled down comfortably by the edge of the woods?’
“‘Yes, Officer, that’s what I did.’
“‘And you slept?’
“‘That’s right, Officer.’
“‘Why, when you were on your way to Mägendorf?’
“‘I was tired, Officer.’
“‘Then why did you ask the mailman about the policeman in Mägendorf?’
“‘To find out, Officer.’
“‘To find out what?’
“‘My license hadn’t been renewed. So I wanted to know how things stood policewise in Mägendorf.’
“‘And how did things stand policewise?’
“‘I found out that there was a substitute in Mägendorf. That scared me, Officer.’
“‘I’m a substitute, too,’ the policeman dryly declared. ‘Are you scared of me, too?’
“‘Yes, I am, Officer.’
“‘And that’s the reason why you didn’t want to go to the village?’
“‘Yes, Officer.’
“‘That’s not a bad version of the story,’ Treuler said with, it seemed, genuine appreciation. ‘But perhaps there is another version which would have the merit of being true.’
“‘I have told the truth, Officer.’
“‘Weren’t you really trying to find out from the mailman whether there was a policeman nearby or not?’
“The peddler looked at Treuler suspiciously. ‘What do you mean by that, Officer?’
“‘Well,’ Treuler replied in a leisurely, unhurried tone, ‘you wanted assurance from the mailman that there were no police in that little valley, because you were waiting for the girl, I believe.’
“Horrified, the peddler stared at Treuler. ‘Officer, I didn’t know the girl,’ he cried desperately, ‘and even if I had, I couldn’t have done it. I wasn’t alone there. Those farmers were working in their field. I’m not a murderer. Please believe me!’
“‘I do believe you,’ Treuler placated him, ‘but I have to check your story, you have to understand that. You said that after your nap you went into the woods in order to return to Zurich?’
“‘There was a storm coming,’ the peddler explained, ‘so I wanted to take the shortcut, Officer.’
“‘And that’s when you came across the body?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘And you never touched the body?’
“‘That’s right, Officer.’
“Treuler was silent. Even though I couldn’t see the peddler’s face, I could feel his fear. I felt sorry for him. And yet I was more and more convinced of his guilt, though perhaps only because I wanted badly to find the murderer.
“‘We took away your clothes, von Gunten, and gave you other clothes. Can you guess why?’
“‘I don’t know, Officer.’
“‘To make a benzidine test. Do you know what that is, a benzidine test?’
“‘No, Officer, I don’t,’ the peddler weakly replied.
“‘A chemical test to find traces of blood,’ Treuler declared in an eerily good-natured manner. ‘We found blood on your jacket, von Gunten. It’s the girl’s blood.’
“‘Because … because I stumbled over the body, Officer,’ von Gunten groaned. ‘It was horrible.’
“He covered his face with his hands.
“‘And of course you concealed this fact from us because you were afraid?’
“‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’
“‘And now we’re supposed to believe you again?’
“‘I’m not the murderer, Officer,’ the peddler pleaded desperately, ‘please believe me. Send for Herr Matthäi, he knows I’m telling the truth. Please.’
“‘Lieutenant Matthäi has nothing to do with this case any longer,’ Treuler replied. ‘He’s flying to Jordan tomorrow.’
“‘To Jordan,’ von Gunten whispered. ‘I didn’t know that.’
“He stared at the floor and fell silent. The room was profoundly still. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. Now and then a car passed by on the street.
“Now Henzi took over. First he closed the window; then he sat down behind Matthäi’s desk with a friendly, considerate air, except that he set the table lamp in such a way that its glare shone into the peddler’s face.
“‘Don’t get upset, Herr von Gunten,’ the lieutenant said very politely. ‘We don’t wish to hurt you in any way; we’re just trying to find out the truth. That’s why we’re turning to you. You are the most important witness. You must help us.’
“‘Yes, sir,’ the peddler replied. He seemed to regain some courage.
“Henzi stuffed his pipe. ‘What do you smoke, von Gunten?’
“‘Cigarettes, sir.’
“‘Give him one, Treuler.’
“The peddler shook his head. He stared at the floor. The light was glaring in his eyes.
“‘Is the lamp bothering you?’ Henzi asked amiably.
“‘It’s shining right in my eyes.’
“Henzi changed the position of the shade. ‘Is that better?’
“‘Better,’ von Gunten quietly replied. His voice sounded grateful.
“‘Tell me, von Gunten, what sort of objects do you sell? Dishrags?’ Henzi began.
“‘Yes, dishrags, too,’ the peddler said hesitantly. He didn’t know what the question was leading to.
“‘And what else?’
“‘Shoelaces, sir. Toothbrushes. Toothpaste. Soap. Shaving cream.’
“‘Razor blades?’
“‘That, too, sir.’
“‘What brand?’
“‘Gillette.’
“‘Is that all, von Gunten?’
“‘I think so, sir.’
“‘Fine. But I think you forgot a few things,’ Henzi said, and started fussing with his pipe. ‘It won’t draw,’ he said, and then casually continued: ‘Go ahead, von Gunten, just list the rest of your little things. We’ve examined your basket carefully.’
“The peddler was silent.
“‘Well?’
“‘Kitchen knives, sir,’ the peddler said softly and sadly. Beads of sweat gleamed on the back of his neck. Henzi puffed out one cloud of smoke after the other, looking perfectly calm and relaxed, a friendly young gentleman, full of goodwill.
“‘Go on, von Gunten, what else, besides kitchen knives?’
“‘Straight razors.’
“‘Why did you hesitate to admit that?’
“The peddler was silent. Henzi casually stretched out his hand as if to readjust the lampshade. But he removed his hand when von Gunten flinched. The policeman stared fixedly at the peddler, who was smoking one cigarette after another. Henzi’s pipe, too, was filling the room with smoke. The air was suffocating. I wanted to open the windows, but keeping them shut was part of the method.
“‘The girl was killed with a straight razor,’ Henzi said discreetly. It almost sounded like an incidental remark. Silence. The peddler sat slumped, lifeless, in his chair.
“‘My dear Herr von Gunten,’ Henzi continued, leaning back, ‘let’s talk man to man. We don’t have to pretend to each other. I know that you committed the murder. But I also know that you are just as shocked by the deed as I am, as we all are. It just came over you. You suddenly became like an animal, you attacked the girl and killed her without wanting to, and you couldn’t do otherwise. Something was stronger than you.
And when you came back to your senses, von Gunten, you were horrified. You ran to Mägendorf because you wanted to turn yourself in, but
then you lost courage. The courage to confess. You must find that courage again, von Gunten. And we want to help you find it.’
“Henzi fell silent. The peddler swayed slightly on his office chair. He seemed about to collapse.
“‘I am your friend, von Gunten,’ Henzi asserted. ‘Take advantage of this opportunity.’
“‘I’m tired,’ the peddler moaned.
“‘So are we all,’ Henzi replied. ‘Sergeant Treuler, bring us coffee and later some beer. For our guest, too. We play fair here, at the cantonal police.’
“‘I am innocent, Inspector,’ the peddler whispered hoarsely.
‘I am innocent.’
“The telephone rang; Henzi answered, listened attentively, hung up, smiled.
“‘Tell me, von Gunten, what was it you had for lunch yesterday?’ he asked, as if idly.
“‘Bernese platter.’
“‘Very nice, and what else?’
“‘Cheese for dessert.’
“‘Emmentaler, Gruyère?’
“‘Tilsiter and Gorgonzola,’ von Gunten replied, wiping the sweat from his eyes.
“‘Peddlers eat well,’ Henzi replied. ‘And that’s all you ate?’
“‘That’s all.’
“‘I would think that over carefully,’ Henzi admonished him.
“‘Chocolate,’ von Gunten remembered.
“‘You see, there was something else,’ Henzi said, giving him an encouraging nod. ‘Where did you eat it?’
“‘By the edge of the woods,’ the peddler said, with a tired, mistrustful look at Henzi.
“The lieutenant switched off the desk lamp. Only the ceiling lamp was still weakly shining through the smoke-filled room.
“‘I just received the coroner’s report, von Gunten,’ he declared in a regretful tone. ‘They’ve done the autopsy on the girl. There was chocolate in her stomach.’
“Now I, too, was convinced of the peddler’s guilt. His confession was only a question of time. I nodded at Henzi and left the room.”
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