“To my surprise, the doctor said that Matthäi had made an appointment with him for the afternoon; whereupon I informed him of what had happened.
“Then I wrote a letter to the Jordanian embassy. I told them Matthäi was ill and asked them to grant him a two-month leave, after which, I said, the inspector would come to Amman.”
21
“The private clinic was far out of town, near the village of Röthen. Matthäi had taken the train and had to walk a considerable stretch. He had been too impatient to wait for the mail truck. Now it passed him, and he gazed after it with irritation. He walked through several small hamlets. Children were playing by the roadside, and the farmers were working in the fields. The sky was overcast, silvery. The weather had turned cold again; the temperature was sliding toward the freezing point, fortunately without quite reaching it. Matthäi wandered along the edge of the hills and after passing Röthen turned into the path that led across the plain to the clinic. The first thing that met his eye was a yellow building with a tall chimney, some gloomy old factory, perhaps. But soon the scene became more appealing. The main building was still hidden by beeches and poplars, but he also noticed cedars and a huge sequoia. He entered the grounds of the clinic. The path forked. Matthäi followed a sign: Office. He saw a pond gleaming through the trees and shrubs, but perhaps it was only fog. Dead silence. Matthäi heard nothing but his steps crunching on the gravel. Later he heard a rasping sound. A young man was raking the path with slow and regular movements. Matthäi halted irresolutely. He looked about for a new sign; he didn’t know where to turn.
“‘Can you tell me where the office is?’ he asked the young man. He received no answer. The fellow kept raking, in a steady, regular motion, like a machine, as if no one had spoken to him, as if he were alone. His face was expressionless, and since he appeared to be very strong—an impression that was accentuated by the lightness of his labor—the inspector felt vaguely threatened. As though the man might suddenly strike out at him with his rake. He walked on hesitantly and entered a courtyard. This led to a second, larger yard with colonnades on both sides, rather like a cloister; but the third side was bounded by a building that appeared to be a country house. Again there was no one in sight, though he could hear a plaintive voice, high and pleading, repeating a single word again and again, without cease. Again Matthäi paused doubtfully. An inexplicable sadness befell him. Never had he felt so discouraged. He pressed down the latch of an old portal full of deep cracks and carved graffiti; but the door did not yield. The voice kept lamenting, over and over. Like a somnambulist he walked down the colonnade. There were red tulips in some of the stone vases, yellow ones in others. But now he heard steps; a tall, elderly, dignified gentleman crossed the yard, looking displeased and faintly surprised. A nurse was leading him.
“‘Hello,’ the inspector said. ‘I’m looking for Dr. Locher.’
“‘Do you have an appointment?’ the nurse asked.
“‘I’m expected.’
“‘Just go to the salon,’ the nurse said, pointing to a double door. ‘Someone will come for you.’ Then she walked on, arm in arm with the old man, who appeared to be in a daze, opened a door, and disappeared with him. The voice was still crying out its litany. Matthäi entered the salon. It was a large room with antique furniture, large easy chairs, and an enormous sofa. Above it, in a heavy golden frame, hung the portrait of a man, probably the founder of the hospital. There were other pictures on the walls, tropical landscapes. Matthäi thought he recognized the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. He went to another double door. It opened out onto a terrace. Large cacti stood on the stone parapet. But he could no longer oversee the grounds; the fog had thickened. Vaguely, Matthäi could make out a wide expanse of land with some tomb or monument on it, and the menacing, shadowy form of a silver poplar. The inspector was getting impatient. He lit a cigarette; his new addiction calmed him. He went back to the room, to the sofa. In front of it stood an old round table with old books: Gustav Bonnier, Flore complète de France, Suisse et Belgie. He turned its pages; meticulous drawings of flowers, grasses—beautiful, no doubt, and calming, but they meant nothing to the inspector. He smoked another cigarette. Finally a nurse came, a small energetic person with rimless glasses.
“‘Herr Matthäi?’ she asked.
“‘Certainly.’
“The nurse looked around. ‘Don’t you have any luggage?’
“Matthäi shook his head. The question surprised him for a moment.
“‘I just want to ask the doctor a few questions,’ he replied.
“‘Follow me, please,’ the nurse said, and led him through a low door.”
22
“He entered a small and, to his surprise, rather humbly furnished room. Nothing about it suggested a doctor’s office. On the walls were pictures similar to the ones in the salon, as well as photographs of serious men with rimless glasses and beards, monstrous faces. Predecessors, no doubt. The desk and the chairs were loaded with books; only an old leather armchair remained unoccupied. The doctor, in a white coat, sat behind his files. He was small, lean, birdlike, and wore rimless glasses, like the nurse and the bearded men on the wall. Rimless glasses, it seemed, were obligatory here, and maybe, Matthäi thought, they were the insignia of some secret order, like the tonsure of monks.
“The nurse withdrew. Locher rose and greeted Matthäi.
“‘Welcome,’ he said, looking faintly embarrassed, ‘make yourself comfortable. It’s a little shabby in here. We’re a charitable institution, so we’re always short of money.’
“Matthäi sat down in the leather armchair. It was so dark in the room that the doctor had to switch on the desk lamp.
“‘May I smoke?’ Matthäi asked.
“Locher seemed taken aback. ‘Certainly,’ he said, observing Matthäi attentively over the top of his dusty glasses. ‘But you didn’t used to smoke, did you?’
“‘Never.’
“The doctor took out a sheet of paper and started to scribble on it—some kind of note, apparently. Matthäi waited.
“‘You were born on November eleventh, 1903, am I right?’ the doctor asked, writing as he spoke.
“‘That’s right.’
“‘Still in the Hotel Urban?’
“‘It’s the Rex now.’
“‘Oh, it’s the Rex now. In the Weinbergstrasse. So you’re still living in hotel rooms, my dear Matthäi?’
“‘That seems to surprise you?’
“The doctor looked up from his papers.
“‘Look, man,’ he said, ‘you’ve been living in Zurich for thirty years now. Other people establish families, produce offspring, build for the future. Do you have any private life at all? Excuse my asking so directly.’
“‘I understand,’ Matthäi replied. He suddenly understood everything, including the nurse’s question about his luggage.
‘The chief gave you a report.’
“The doctor carefully put aside his fountain pen. ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’
“‘You’ve been assigned to examine me,’ Matthäi said, crushing out his cigarette. ‘Because in the eyes of the cantonal police I am not quite—normal.’
“The two men fell silent. Outside the fog hovered in front of the window, a dull, faceless twilight that crept into the little room full of books and stacks of files. The air was chilly and stale, mixed with the smell of some sort of medicine.
“Matthäi rose, went to the door, and opened it. Outside stood two men in white smocks, their arms folded. Matthäi closed the door again.
“‘Two attendants. In case I cause problems.’
“Locher remained unperturbed.
“‘Listen, Matthäi,’ he said. ‘I will now speak to you as a doctor.’
“‘As you wish,’ Matthäi replied, and sat down.
“‘I have been informed,’ Locher said, picking up his fountain pen, ‘that you have recently committed acts that can no longer be called normal. So a few frank words are in order. You have a
tough job, Inspector, and I’m sure you have to be tough with the people who come into your sphere. You’ll have to forgive me for speaking so frankly: my profession, too, has made a tough man of me, and a suspicious one. When I consider your behavior, I find it peculiar that you should all of a sudden drop a once-in-a-lifetime chance like this Jordanian assignment. Then this fixed idea of having to search for a murderer who has already been found. Next, this sudden decision to smoke, and this equally sudden compulsion to drink. Four double cognacs after a bottle of Réserve! I’m sorry, my friend, that looks an awful lot like an abrupt personality change, like the symptoms of an incipient illness. It would be only to your advantage to have yourself thoroughly examined so we can clarify the picture, clinically as well as psychologically. Which is why I suggest that you spend a few days in Röthen.’
“The doctor fell silent and returned to scribbling on his sheet of paper.
“‘Do you have occasional fevers?’
“‘No.’
“‘Speech problems?’
“‘No.’
“‘Voices?’
“‘Nonsense.’
“‘Sudden perspiration?’
“Matthäi shook his head. The deepening dusk and the doctor’s talk were making him impatient. He groped for his cigarettes, found them at last, and as he took the burning match the doctor handed him, he noticed his fingers were trembling. With anger. The situation was too silly; he should have foreseen this and chosen another psychiatrist. But he had a special affection for this doctor, who was consulted at headquarters more to do him a favor than because of his expertise; he trusted him because other doctors spoke disparagingly of his abilities, because he was considered an eccentric.
“‘Agitated,’ the doctor noted, almost with pleasure. ‘Shall I call the nurse? If you’d like your room …’
“‘Absolutely not,’ Matthäi replied. ‘Do you have any cognac?’
“‘I’ll give you a sedative,’ the doctor suggested, standing up.
“‘I don’t need a sedative, I need cognac,’ the inspector roughly replied.
“The doctor must have pushed a hidden button, for an attendant appeared in the doorway.
“‘Bring a bottle of cognac and two glasses from my apartment,’ the doctor ordered, rubbing his hands, presumably because they were cold. ‘And hop to it.’
“The attendant left.
“‘Really, Matthäi,’ the doctor said, ‘it’s urgent that you sign yourself in. Unless you want a major physical and mental breakdown. We do want to avoid that, don’t we? And I think we can, with a little finesse.’
“Matthäi did not reply. The doctor, too, remained silent. The telephone rang. Locher took the receiver and said: ‘I can’t talk now.’ The darkness outside was almost black now. Evening had fallen with extraordinary suddenness.
“‘Shall I switch on the ceiling light?’ the doctor asked, merely for the sake of saying something.
“‘No.’
“Matthäi had regained his composure. When the attendant came with the cognac, he poured himself a glass, drank it, filled it again.
“‘Locher,’ he said, ‘why don’t you drop this idiotic man-to-man and hop-to-it talk. Look: you are a doctor. Have you in your profession ever been confronted with a case you couldn’t solve?’
“The doctor looked at Matthäi with astonishment. The question unsettled him. He couldn’t imagine why it was being asked.
“‘Most of my cases can’t be solved,’ he finally, honestly, replied, although at the same time he sensed that he should never have given this reply to a patient.
“‘That doesn’t surprise me, given the nature of your profession,’ Matthäi replied with an irony that saddened the doctor.
“‘Did you come here only to ask me this question?’
“‘Among other things.’
“‘For God’s sake, what is your problem?’ the doctor asked, feeling acutely uneasy. ‘You used to be reason personified.’
“‘I don’t know,’ Matthäi replied uncertainly. ‘The murdered girl.’
“‘Gritli Moser?’
“‘I can’t stop thinking about that little girl.’
“‘You can’t get her off your mind?’
“‘Do you have children?’ Matthäi asked.
“‘I’m not married either,’ the doctor replied softly, again ill at ease.
“‘So you’re not either.’ Matthäi brooded silently. ‘You see, Locher,’ he explained then, ‘I looked and took in what I saw; I didn’t turn my eyes away like my successor, Henzi, Mr. Normal. There was a mutilated corpse lying on the leaves. Only the face was untouched, a child’s face. I stared at her red skirt in the bushes, at the pieces of pretzel strewn around. But that wasn’t the terrible thing.’
“Matthäi fell silent again. As if frightened. He was a man who never spoke of himself and was now forced to do so, because only this little birdlike doctor with the ridiculous eyeglasses could help him, and in exchange for that help, he had to confide in him.
“‘You rightly wondered,’ he finally continued, ‘that I’m still living in a hotel. I didn’t want to confront the world. I wanted to deal with it skillfully, I’d almost say mechanically, but I didn’t want to suffer with it. I wanted to be superior to it, not lose my head, control it all like a technician. I looked at the murdered girl, and that was bearable; but when I stood in front of her parents, I suddenly couldn’t bear it any longer, I had to get away from that godforsaken house, and so I promised by my eternal soul that I would find the murderer—just to turn my back on those suffering people, and I never gave a moment’s thought to the fact that I couldn’t keep this promise because I was going to Jordan. And then I allowed the old indifference to rise up in me, Locher. That was so horrible. I didn’t fight for the peddler. I allowed everything to take its course. I became my old impersonal self, “Dead-end Matthäi,” as I’m called in certain parts of town. I slipped back into the calm, the superiority, the formality, the inhumanity, until I saw the children at the airport.’
“The doctor pushed away his notes.
“‘I turned back,’ Matthäi said. ‘You know the rest.’
“‘And now?’ the doctor asked.
“‘And now I am here. Because I don’t believe the peddler was guilty, and now I have to keep my promise.’
“The doctor rose and went to the window.
“The attendant came in, followed by his colleague.
“‘Go to the ward,’ said the doctor. ‘I don’t need you anymore.’
“Matthäi poured himself another cognac, laughed.
“‘Good, this Rémy Martin.’
“The doctor still stood by the window, staring out.
“‘How can I assist you?’ he asked dejectedly. ‘I’m not a criminologist.’ Then he turned to face Matthäi. ‘Why do you believe the peddler was innocent?’ he asked.
“‘Here.’
“Matthäi put a piece of paper on the table and carefully unfolded it. It was a child’s drawing. At the lower right, in clumsy script, was the name ‘Gritli Moser.’ It was a crayon drawing of a man. He was big, bigger than the pines that surrounded him like strange stalks of grass. The face was drawn in a child’s manner—two dots, a comma, a dash, and a circle. He was wearing a black hat and black clothes, and from his right hand, which was a round disk with five lines, several small disks with many little hairlines, like stars, fell onto a tiny little girl who was even smaller than the pines. On the very top of the page—in the sky, actually—stood a black automobile, and next to it a peculiar animal with strange horns.
“‘This drawing was made by Gritli Moser,’ Matthäi explained. ‘I got it from the schoolroom.’
“‘What is it supposed to represent?’ the doctor asked, staring at the drawing in bewilderment.
“‘The hedgehog giant.’
“‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
“‘Gritli said a giant had given her little hedgehogs in the woods. The drawing is about that encou
nter,’ Matthäi explained, pointing to the little disks.
“‘And now you believe …’
“‘It’s not unreasonable to suppose that Gritli Moser’s hedgehog giant was her murderer, and that this is a picture of him.’
“‘Nonsense, Matthäi,’ the doctor retorted with irritation. ‘This drawing is a pure product of the imagination. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
“‘Probably it is,’ Matthäi replied. ‘But the car is too well observed for that. I’d even say it’s an old American model. And the giant has a lifelike quality, too.’
“‘But there’s no such thing as a giant,’ the doctor said impatiently. ‘Don’t tell me any fairy tales.’
“‘A tall, massively built man could look like a giant to a little girl.’
“The doctor looked at Matthäi with surprise.
“‘You think the murderer was a big man?’
“‘That’s just a vague assumption,’ the inspector said evasively. ‘If I’m right, the murderer is driving around in an old black American car.’
“Locher pushed his glasses up to his forehead. He took the drawing into his hand and examined it closely.
“‘So what am I supposed to do?’ he asked uncertainly.
“‘Assuming that all I knew about the murderer was that this drawing represented him,’ Matthäi said, ‘then this would be my only clue. But in that case I would be in the position of a layman confronted with an X-ray photograph. I wouldn’t know how to interpret the drawing.’
“The doctor shook his head.
“‘There is nothing we can infer about the murderer from this drawing,’ he replied, putting the sheet of paper back on the table. ‘At best, it’s possible to make a judgment about the girl who drew it. She must have been intelligent, bright, and cheerful. You see, children don’t just draw what they see, they also draw what they feel about what they see. Fantasy and reality are mixed together. So some things on this drawing are real—the big man, the car, the girl; other elements seem to be in some kind of code—the hedgehogs, the animal with the large horns. These are all riddles. And the solution to these riddles—well, I’m afraid Gritli took the answer with her to the grave. I am a doctor, not a spiritualist medium. Pack up your drawing. It makes no sense to go on thinking about it.’