The Judge and His Hangman Read online

  Barlach saw that he was not convinced.

  “We don’t know much about his death,” the inspector continued, “this bullet is all we’ve got.” And he told him where he had found the bullet, and placed it on the desk. Tschanz picked it up and looked at it.

  “It’s from an army pistol,” he said, and returned the bullet.

  Barlach closed the folder on his desk. “Above all, we don’t know what Schmied was doing in Twann or Lamlingen. He never had an assignment to the Lake Biel area, I would have known about that. We don’t have even a remotely probable motive for his driving out there.”

  Tschanz, who was only half listening to what Barlach was saying, crossed his legs and said, “All we know is how Schmied was murdered.”

  “And how would you know that?” the inspector asked, not without surprise, after a pause.

  “The steering wheel on Schmied’s car is on the left, and you found the bullet on the left side of the road, as seen from the car; and the people in Twann heard the motor running all night. Schmied was stopped by the killer as he was driving from Lamboing to Twann. He probably knew the killer, otherwise he wouldn’t have stopped. Schmied opened the door on the right to let the killer in and sat back behind the wheel. At that moment he was shot. Schmied must have been unaware that the man intended to kill him.”

  Barlach considered this interpretation. Then he said, “Now I’ll have a cigar after all,” and then, after lighting it, “You are right, Tschanz, that’s more or less what must have happened, I’m willing to believe that. But this still doesn’t explain what Schmied was doing on the road between Twann and Lamlingen.”

  Tschanz pointed out that Schmied had been wearing evening clothes under his overcoat.

  “He did? I didn’t know that,” Barlach said.

  “But haven’t you seen the body?”

  “No, I don’t like corpses.”

  “But it was in the official record.”

  “I like official records even less.”

  Tschanz said nothing.

  But Barlach remarked, “This just makes the case more complicated. What was Schmied doing wearing a tuxedo by the Twann River gorge?”

  “On the contrary,” Tschanz replied, “it could simplify the case. I’m sure there aren’t many people around Lamboing who are rich enough to give black tie parties.”

  He drew out a small pocket calendar and explained that it had belonged to Schmied.

  “I’ve seen it,” Barlach nodded. “There’s nothing in it of any importance.”

  Tschanz contradicted him. “For Wednesday, November second, Schmied had entered a G. It was on that day that he was killed, shortly before midnight, according to the coroner. Then there’s another G on Wednesday the twenty-sixth, and again on Tuesday, October eighteenth.”

  “G could mean all sorts of things,” Barlach said. “A woman’s name, or anything.”

  “Hardly a woman’s name,” Tschanz replied. “Schmied’s fiancée’s name is Anna, and Schmied was a steady sort of guy.”

  “I don’t know about her either,” the inspector admitted; and seeing that Tschanz was surprised at his ignorance, he said, “All I’m interested in, Tschanz, is who killed Schmied.”

  “Of course,” Tschanz replied politely. But then he shook his head and laughed, “You’re a strange man, Inspector.”

  “I’m an old black tomcat who likes to eat mice.” Barlach said this very seriously.

  Tschanz didn’t know what to say to that. Finally he replied, “On the days he marked with a G, Schmied put on his tuxedo and drove off in his Mercedes.”

  “Now how do you know that?”

  “From Frau Schönler.”

  “I see,” Barlach said and fell silent. But then he said, “Yes, these are facts.”

  Tschanz looked keenly into the commissioner’s face, lit a cigarette, and said with some hesitation, “Dr. Lutz told me you have a definite suspicion.”

  “Yes, Tschanz, I do.”

  “Commissioner, since I have become your assistant in the Schmied murder case, don’t you think it might be better if you told me who it is you’re suspecting?”

  “You see,” Barlach answered slowly, deliberating each word as carefully as Tschanz did, “my suspicion is not a scientific criminological suspicion. I have no solid reasons to justify it. You have seen how little I know. All I have is an idea as to who the murderer might be; but the person I have in mind has yet to deliver the proof of his guilt.”

  “What do you mean, Inspector?” Tschanz asked.

  Barlach smiled. “Simply that I have to wait for the evidence to emerge that will justify his arrest.”

  “If I am to work with you, I have to know who it is I’m targeting with my investigation,” Tschanz declared politely.

  “Above all we must remain objective. That applies to me, as the one who holds a suspicion, and to you, as the one who will conduct most of the inquest. I don’t know whether my suspicion will be confirmed. I await the results of your investigation. It is your job to find Schmied’s killer regardless of my suspicion. If the person I suspect is in fact the killer, you will find him in your own way—which, unlike mine, is impeccably scientific. And if I’m wrong, you will find the right man, and there will have been no need to know the name of the person I falsely suspected.”

  They were silent for a while, and then the old man asked, “Are you willing to work with me on this basis?”

  Tschanz hesitated a moment before he replied, “All right, I agree.”

  “What do you want to do now, Tschanz?”

  Tschanz walked over to the window. “There’s a G on today’s date in Schmied’s calendar. I want to drive to Lamboing and see what I can find out. I’ll leave at seven, the same time Schmied always left when he drove out there.”

  He turned around again and asked politely, but as if in jest, “Are you coming along, Inspector?”

  “Yes, Tschanz, I’m coming along,” was the unexpected reply.

  “Very well,” Tschanz said, a little bewildered, “seven o’clock.”

  In the doorway he turned around again. “You, too, paid Frau Schönler a visit, Inspector Barlach. Didn’t you find anything there?” The old man did not answer right away. First he locked the folder in the drawer of his desk and put the key in his pocket.

  “No, Tschanz,” he finally said, “I found nothing. You may go now.”

  4

  At seven o’clock Tschanz drove to the riverside house in the Altenberg district where Inspector Barlach had lived since 1933. It was raining, and the speeding police car skidded in the curve by the Nydegg Bridge. But Tschanz quickly regained control. He drove slowly along the Altenbergstrasse, for he had never visited Barlach before, and he peered through the wet windows searching for the house number, which he deciphered with difficulty. He honked the horn several times; there was no sign of any movement inside. Tschanz left the car and hurried through the rain to the door. After a moment of hesitation he pressed down the door handle, since he couldn’t see the bell in the dark. The door was open, and Tschanz stepped into a vestibule. He found himself facing a half-open door through which light fell into the hallway. He approached the door, knocked, and, receiving no answer, pushed it open. In front of him was a large room, its walls lined with books. Barlach was lying on a couch. The inspector was asleep, but he seemed prepared for the drive to Lake Biel, for he had his winter coat on. He was holding a book. The sound of Barlach’s quiet breathing, the many books on their shelves, filled Tschanz with a deep unease. He looked around cautiously. The room had no windows, but each wall had a door that must lead to other rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a large desk, and on top of it—startling Tschanz the moment he saw it—lay a large brass snake.

  “I brought that with me from Constantinople,” said a quiet voice from the sofa, and Barlach sat up.

  “You see, Tschanz, I already have my coat on. We can leave.”

  “Pardon me,” Tschanz replied, still taken aback, “you were asleep and
didn’t hear me knocking. I couldn’t find the bell.”

  “I don’t have a bell. I don’t need one; the door is never locked.”

  “Not even when you’re out?”

  “Not even when I’m out. It’s always exciting to come home and see whether something’s been stolen or not.”

  Tschanz laughed and picked up the snake from Constantinople. “I was almost killed with that thing once,” the inspector remarked somewhat sardonically, and only now did Tschanz notice that the snake’s head could be used as a handle and that its body was as sharp as the blade of a knife. Baffled, he looked at the strange glittering ornaments on the terrible weapon. Barlach stood next to him.

  “Be ye wise as serpents,” he said, giving Tschanz a long and thoughtful look. Then he smiled, “And harmless as doves.” And he tapped Tschanz lightly on the shoulder. “I’ve had some sleep, for the first time in days. Damned stomach.”

  “It’s that bad?” Tschanz asked.

  “It’s that bad,” the inspector coolly replied.

  “You should stay home, Herr Barlach, it’s cold out- side and it’s raining.”

  Barlach looked at Tschanz again and laughed, “Nonsense, there’s a killer to be caught. It would suit you just fine if I stayed home, wouldn’t it?”

  As they were driving across the Nydegg Bridge, Barlach asked, “Why don’t you go by way of Aargauerstalden in the direction of Zollikofen, Tschanz? Isn’t that quicker than going through the city?”

  “Because I don’t want to go to Twann via Zollikofen and Biel. I prefer to go via Kerzers and Erlach.”

  “That is an unusual route, Tschanz.”

  “It’s not so unusual at all, Inspector.”

  They fell silent. The lights of the city glided past. But when they reached Bethlehem, Tschanz asked, “Did you ever drive with Schmied?”

  “Yes, frequently. He was a careful driver.” And Barlach cast a pensive glance at the speedometer, which showed almost a hundred and ten kilometers an hour.

  Tschanz slowed down a little. “I remember driving with Schmied once, he was slow as hell, and he had a strange sort of name for his car. He used it when he had to stop for gas. Do you remember the name? I forgot it.”

  “He called his car the Blue Charon,” Barlach replied.

  “Charon is a name in Greek mythology, right?”

  “Charon was the ferryman who took the dead to the underworld, Tschanz.”

  “Schmied had rich parents, so he got the kind of schooling people like us can’t afford. That’s why he knew about Charon and we don’t.”

  Barlach put his hands in his coat pockets and looked at the speedometer again. “Yes, Tschanz,” he said. “Schmied was well educated, he knew Greek and Latin, and with his college credits he had a great future, but nevertheless I wouldn’t go over a hundred.”

  A little past Gummenen, the car pulled up sharply at a gas station. A man stepped out to attend them.

  “Police,” Tschanz said. “We need some information.”

  Indistinctly they saw a curious and somewhat alarmed face peering into the car.

  “Do you remember a driver stopping here two days ago who called his car the blue Charon?”

  The man shook his head in wonderment, and Tschanz drove on. “We’ll ask the next one.”

  At the gas station in Kerzers, the attendant didn’t know anything either.

  Barlach grumbled, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  At Erlach Tschanz was lucky. On Wednesday evening someone like that had stopped for gas, he was told.

  “You see,” Tschanz said as they turned into the Neuenburg–Biel highway, “now we know that on Wednesday evening Schmied drove through Kerzers and Erlach.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the inspector.

  “I just proved it to you.”

  “Yes, it’s perfectly proven. But what good will it do you, Tschanz?”

  “It just is what it is. Every bit of knowledge helps.”

  “There you’re right again,” said the old man, looking out for Lake Biel. It was no longer raining. They had just passed Neuveville when the lake emerged among shreds of mist. They drove into Ligerz. Tschanz drove slowly, looking for the exit to Lamboing.

  Now the car was climbing through the vineyards. Barlach opened the window and looked down at the lake. A few stars shone above Peters Island. The lights were reflected in the water, and a motorboat was racing across the lake. Late for this time of year, Barlach thought. Down in the valley before them lay Twann and behind them Ligerz.

  They went around a curve and drove toward the woods, whose presence they sensed somewhere ahead of them in the night. Tschanz seemed a little unsure and wondered whether this might not be the road to Schernelz. When a man came walking toward them, he stopped. “Is this the way to Lamboing?”

  “Just keep going and turn right by the white row of houses, straight into the forest.” The man was wearing a leather jacket. He whistled to a small white dog with a black head that was skipping about in front of the headlights.

  “Come along, Ping-Ping!”

  They left the vineyards behind and were soon in the forest. The fir trees advanced toward them, endless columns in the light. The street was narrow and in need of repair. Every once in a while a branch slapped against the windows. To their right, the cliffs dropped off precipitously. Tschanz drove so slowly that they could hear the sound of rushing water far below.

  “The Twann River gorge,” Tschanz explained. “On the other side is the road to Twann.”

  On and off, on their left, white cliffs flashed into view, rising steeply into the night. For the rest, it was very dark, since the moon was still new. Now the road leveled out and the stream was gurgling beside them. They turned left and drove over a bridge. Before them lay a highway—the road from Twann to Lamboing. Tschanz stopped the car.

  He turned off the headlights. They were in complete darkness.

  “Now what?” asked Barlach.

  “Now we’ll wait. It’s twenty to eight.”

  5

  As they sat there waiting and it turned eight o’clock without anything happening, Barlach said it was time he learned what precisely Tschanz had in mind.

  “Nothing precise, Inspector. I haven’t gotten that far in the Schmied case, and you’re groping in the dark too, even though you have a hunch. Right now I’m staking everything on the possibility that there’ll be another party at the same house Schmied went to on Wednesday, and that a few people will come driving past on their way there. A black-tie party nowadays is bound to be a sizable affair. Of course that’s just an assumption, Inspector Barlach, but in our profession, that’s what assumptions are for: we test them.”

  The inspector interrupted his subordinate’s train of thought with a skeptical objection. “The police in Biel, Neuenstadt, Twann, and Lamlingen have looked into this question of why Schmied came to this area. All their investigations have turned up nothing at all.”

  “Obviously Schmied’s killer was smarter than the police in Biel and Neuenstadt,” Tschanz said.

  “How would you know that?” Barlach muttered.

  “I don’t suspect anyone in particular,” Tschanz said. “But I do feel respect for whoever it is that killed Schmied. If I may use such a word in this connection.”

  Barlach listened without moving, his shoulders slightly hunched.

  “And you think you’ll catch this man, Tschanz, for whom you feel such respect?”

  “I hope so, Inspector.”

  They sat in silence again and waited. Then a glow appeared in the woods near Twann. A pair of headlights glared at them. A car drove past in the direction of Lamboing and vanished into the night.

  Tschanz started the motor. Two other cars passed, large dark limousines full of people. Tschanz followed them.

  The woods came to an end. They drove past a restaurant with a sign that stood in the light of an open doorway, past farm houses, the glow of the last car’s taillight always before them.

  Th
ey reached the wide plain of the Tessenberg. The sky was swept clean, and huge presences stood in the blackness: Vega descending, Capella rising, Aldebaran, Jupiter’s radiant flame.

  The road turned north, they saw the outlines of mountains, the Spitzberg, the Chasseral, at their feet a few flickering lights. Those were the villages of Lamboing, Diesse, and Noids.

  At that moment the cars ahead of them turned left into a dirt road, and Tschanz stopped. He rolled down his window to stick his head out. They could see the dim contours of a house standing in a field, framed by poplars, its doorway lit up, the three cars stopping in front of it. The sound of voices reached them, then everyone poured into the house and all was still. The light in the doorway went out. “They’re not expecting anyone else,” Tschanz said.

  Barlach got out and breathed the cold night air. It felt good. He watched Tschanz park the car halfway onto the right shoulder of the road, for the street to Lamboing was narrow. Now Tschanz got out and joined the inspector. They walked down the dirt road toward the house on the field. The ground was loamy and puddles had gathered, for it had rained here too.

  Then they came to a low wall with a tall, rusty iron gate set into it. The gate was closed. They looked at the house across the wall. The garden was bare, and the limousines lay among the poplars like large animals; there were no lights to be seen. Everything made a desolate impression.

  It took them a while before they made out a sign attached to the middle of the gate; it was hanging at an angle. Tschanz turned on the flashlight he had brought from the car: on the sign was a capital G.

  They stood in the dark again. “You see,” Tschanz said, “my assumption was right. A shot in the dark, and I hit the bull’s eye.” And then, satisfied:

  “How about a cigar, Inspector? I think I deserve one.”

  Barlach offered him one. “Now all we need to find out is what G stands for.”

  “That’s no problem: Gastmann.”

  “How so?”

  “I looked it up in the telephone book. There are only two G’s in Lamboing.”