The Judge and His Hangman Read online

  Von Schwendi was in the same political faction as Lutz, the conservative liberal-socialist wing of the Independent Party. He had actively lobbied for Lutz’s advancement, and ever since a tête-à-tête over dinner following a closed session of the executive committee, Lutz and von Schwendi had been on “du” terms, even though Lutz had not been elected to the local parliament seat; for in Bern, as von Schwendi explained, it is practically impossible for a man with the first name of Lucius to become a people’s representative.

  “It’s really something,” he began the moment his bulky shape appeared in the doorway, “the way your people from the Bern police carry on, my dear Lutz. They shoot my client Gastmann’s dog, a rare South American breed, and disrupt culture—Anatol Kraushaar-Raffaeli, a world-famous pianist. Let’s face it: the Swiss have no education, no cosmopolitan character, not a trace of European consciousness. There’s only one remedy: three years of military service.”

  Lutz, who found the visit of his political associate embarrassing, and who was afraid of his endless tirades, offered von Schwendi a seat.

  “We are embroiled in an extremely difficult investigation,” he said, intimidated. “You know it yourself, and the young policeman who is conducting it for the main part is, by Swiss standards, rather good at his job. The old inspector who was with him is, admittedly, somewhat rusty. I regret the death of such a rare South American dog. I’m an animal lover and own a dog myself, and I will order a special, thorough investigation. Our men just haven’t the faintest inkling of real criminology. When I think of Chicago, I find our situation downright hopeless.”

  Lutz paused, unsettled by von Schwendi’s unblinking stare, and by the time he resumed speaking, he felt profoundly unsure of himself.

  “I would like to know,” he said, “whether the murdered man, Schmied, was a guest at your client’s house last Wednesday evening. You see, we have some reason to believe that he was.”

  “My dear Lutz,” the colonel replied, “let’s not play games here. You people know all about Schmied’s visits to Gastmann, you can’t fool me.”

  “What do you mean by that, State Councillor?” In his bewilderment, Lutz reverted to the formal address. He had never felt quite at ease conversing with von Schwendi on a “du” basis.

  The lawyer leaned back, folded his hands in front of his chest, and bared his teeth, a pose that had contributed substantially to his attaining his colonel’s rank as well as his state councillor’s title.

  “My dear doctor,” he said, “I’d really like to know once and for all why you people had this Schmied fellow sniffing around good old Gastmann. Because whatever is going on out there in the Jura Mountains, it’s none of the police’s damn business, we don’t have a Gestapo here, not yet at any rate.”

  Lutz was flabbergasted. “Why on earth would we have Schmied investigate your client, who is com- pletely unknown to us?” he asked helplessly. “And why should a murder be none of our business?”

  “If you don’t know that Schmied attended Gastmann’s parties in Lamboing under the name of Doctor Prantl, lecturer on American Cultural History in Münich, then the entire police force should resign for reasons of total incompetence.” Agitated, von Schwendi drummed his fingers on Lutz’s desk.

  “My dear Oscar, we don’t know anything about it,” Lutz said, relieved to have finally remembered the state councillor’s first name. “What you are telling me is real news to me.”

  “Aha,” von Schwendi said dryly, and lapsed into silence. Lutz was becoming more and more conscious of his inferiority. Sensing that he would have to yield step by step to whatever the colonel might require of him, he helplessly glanced at the Traffelets on the wall, at the marching soldiers, the fluttering Swiss flags, the general on his horse. The state councillor noted the police chief ’s embarrassment with satisfaction and decided to clarify the caustic meaning of his “Aha.”

  “So it’s news to the police,” he said. “Once again the police know nothing at all.”

  Even though confessing it was extremely unpleasant, and though von Schwendi’s bullying was very nearly intolerable, the police chief was forced to admit that Schmied had not visited Gastmann on official assignment, that the police had in fact been ignorant of his trips to Lamboing. “Evidently,” he said, “Schmied was acting purely on his own. As for why he would assume a false name—I cannot at present explain this either.”

  Von Schwendi bent forward and fixed his bloodshot, watery eyes on Lutz. “That explains everything,” he said. “Schmied was spying for a foreign power.”

  “What do you mean?” By now Lutz was floundering more than ever.

  “What I mean,” said the state councillor, “is that the police must find out Schmied’s motives for visiting Gastmann.”

  “The police, my dear Oscar, should first and above all find out some things about Gastmann,” said Lutz.

  “Gastmann is no threat to the police,” von Schwendi retorted, “and besides I don’t want you or anyone from the police to concern yourselves with him. That is his wish, he is my client, and it’s my duty to see that his wishes are complied with.”

  This insolent reply had such a shattering effect on Lutz that at first he was unable to formulate a response. He lit a cigarette, forgetting in his confusion to offer one to von Schwendi. Then he finally shifted his position in his chair and replied:

  “Unfortunately, the fact that Schmied visited Gastmann forces us to concern ourselves with your client, my dear Oscar.”

  Von Schwendi would not be deterred. “Not so much with my client,” he said, “but mainly with me, since I am Gastmann’s lawyer. It’s your good fortune, Lutz, that you have me to deal with, because frankly, I want to help you as well as Gastmann. Naturally, the whole case is disagreeable for my client, but I dare say it’s even more embarrassing for you, since the police are still groping in the dark. And frankly, I doubt whether you’ll ever be able to cast any light on this affair.”

  “The police,” Lutz replied, “have solved almost every murder, that is a statistically proven fact. I admit that in the Schmied case we’ve run into certain difficulties, but we have also”—he hesitated for a moment—“arrived at some remarkable results. It’s we, after all, who discovered the Gastmann connection, and it’s again because of our actions that Gastmann has sent you to us. It’s up to Gastmann now to explain his connection to Schmied, it’s his problem, not ours. Schmied was in his house, under a false identity, true, but that is precisely the reason why the police are obliged to concern themselves with Gastmann, for surely the murdered man’s peculiar behavior does implicate Gastmann. We must have a talk with Gastmann. Unless, of course, you can furnish a satisfactory explanation as to why Schmied visited your client under a false name, not just once but several times, according to our findings.”

  “All right,” von Schwendi said. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. You will see in due course that it’s you and not I who will have to furnish a satisfactory explanation as to what Gastmann was after in Lamboing. It’s you, the police, who are in the dock here, not we, my dear Lutz.”

  With these words he pulled out of his briefcase a large white sheet of paper, unfolded it, and laid it on the police chief’s desk.

  “These are the names of the persons who have been guests at Gastmann’s house,” he said. “The list is complete. I have divided it into three sections. The first we’ll ignore, it’s irrelevant, those are the artists. No offense against Kraushaar-Raffaeli, he’s a foreigner; no, I mean the local types, the ones from Utzendorf and Merlingen. They either write plays about Niklaus Manuel and the battle of Morgarten or else it’s one mountain landscape after another. The second section are the industrialists. You’ll see the names, they have a proud ring to them, these are men whom I regard as the finest representatives of Swiss society. I say this quite openly, even though I myself come from peasant stock on my maternal grandmother’s side.”

  “And the third section?” asked Lutz, since the state councillor had suddenly
stopped talking. Von Schwendi’s calm made the police chief nervous, which of course was his intention.

  “The third section,” von Schwendi finally continued, “makes the Schmied affair unpleasant for you and also, I have to admit this, for the industrialists; because now I am compelled to disclose certain matters that should really be kept secret from the police. But since you people couldn’t resist tracking down Gastmann and digging up the embarrassing fact that Schmied was in Lamboing, the industrialists now find themselves forced to instruct me to give the police as many details as the investigation of the Schmied case may require. The unpleasantness for us consists in having to divulge political matters of eminent importance, and the unpleasantness for you is that your authority as policemen extends to all Swiss and foreign nationals in this country except for the ones listed in section three.”

  “I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying,” Lutz said.

  “You’ve never understood a thing about politics, my dear Lucius,” von Schwendi replied. “The third section contains the names of members of a foreign embassy. That embassy does not want to be mentioned in association with a certain class of industrialists.”

  9

  Now Lutz understood the state councillor, and there was a long silence in the police chief ’s room. The telephone rang, and Lutz lifted the receiver only to shout the word “Conference!” into it, after which he fell silent again. At long last he spoke:

  “But as far as I know, our government is now officially negotiating a new trade agreement with this same foreign power.”

  “That’s absolutely true, negotiations are under way,” the colonel replied. “Official negotiations—why not, the diplomats want to have something to do. But there are also unofficial negotiations, and in Lamboing, the negotiations are private. Modern industry, my dear Lutz, involves negotiations in which the state may not and must not interfere.”

  “Of course,” Lutz agreed, thoroughly intimidated.

  “Of course,” von Schwendi repeated. “And as we now both know, the unfortunately murdered police lieutenant Ulrich Schmied secretly attended these meetings under a false name.”

  The police chief sat as if stunned, and von Schwendi saw that his calculation was paying off. Lutz was now so deflated that the state councillor would be able to do with him as he wished. As is frequently the case with determined and simpleminded natures, this earnest official was so upset by the unexpected developments in the Schmied murder case that he allowed himself to be influenced and made concessions that a more objective reflection would have counseled him against. To spare himself further humiliation, he tried to make light of his predicament.

  “Dear Oscar,” he said, “it doesn’t look all that grave to me. Of course Swiss industrialists have a right to negotiate privately with whoever is interested, even with that foreign power. I would never dispute that, nor do the police interfere in these matters. I repeat, Schmied went to Gastmann on his own initiative, and I want to officially apologize for that; it was certainly irregular for him to hide behind an assumed name and pretend to have another profession, although, being a policeman myself, I can understand why he might have felt inhibited in that company. But he wasn’t the only one there. What about all those artists, my dear State Councillor?”

  “Decoration. We live in a cultured society, Lutz, and we need to advertise that. The negotiations have to be kept secret, and artists are good for that. Everyone dining together, a nice roast, wine, cigars, women, conversation, the artists get bored, huddle in little groups, drink, and never notice that the capitalists and the representatives of that foreign power are sitting together. They don’t want to notice, because they’re not interested. Artists are only interested in art. But a policeman sitting there can find out everything. No, Lutz, there’s something very dubious about this Schmied of yours.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can only repeat that as yet, we have no clue as to why Schmied visited Gastmann.”

  “If the police didn’t send him, someone else did,” replied von Schwendi. “There are foreign powers, dear Lucius, that are interested in what’s going on in Lamboing. I’m talking about world politics.”

  “Schmied was not a spy.”

  “We have every reason to suspect that he was one. It is better for Switzerland’s honor if he was a spy than if he was a police agent.”

  “Now he is dead,” sighed the police chief, who would have given anything to be able to ask Schmied himself.

  “That’s not our concern,” said the colonel. “I don’t want to cast suspicion on anyone, but the fact is that the only conceivable party interested in keeping the negotiations in Lamboing secret is that foreign power. For us, it’s a question of money; for them, it’s political principle. Let’s not deceive ourselves. But if Schmied’s death is their doing, the police will be rather severely handicapped.”

  Lutz stood up and went to the window. “I still don’t quite see how your client Gastmann fits into this picture,” he said, speaking slowly. Von Schwendi fanned himself with the large sheet of paper and replied, “Gastmann put his house at the disposal of the industrialists and diplomats attending those meetings.”

  “But why Gastmann?”

  “My highly respected client,” growled the colonel, “was a man of the requisite caliber. As a former Argentine ambassador to China, he enjoyed the trust of the foreign power, and as former chief of the tin syndicate, he had the confidence of the industrialists. And besides, he lived in Lamboing.”

  “How do you mean, Oscar?”

  Von Schwendi smiled. “Did you ever hear of Lamboing before Schmied was murdered?”

  “No.”

  “That’s just it,” said the state councillor. “No one has ever heard of Lamboing, and we needed an obscure site for our meetings. So you may as well leave Gastmann alone. I’m sure you can understand that he doesn’t relish close contact with the police, that he doesn’t appreciate your sniffing and prying, your endless questions. You can do that with your common crooks and gangsters, but not with a man who refused to be inducted into the French Academy. And besides, the men you sent out there couldn’t have been more clumsy if they tried. You don’t shoot a dog during a Bach recital. Not that Gastmann is insulted. He’s completely indifferent. If your men machine-gunned his house he wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. It’s just that there’s no sense in bothering him any longer, since the forces behind this murder have nothing to do with our decent Swiss industrialists or with Gastmann.”

  The police chief paced back and forth in front of the window. “We will now have to focus our investigation on Schmied’s life,” he said. “As for that foreign power, we will make a report to the attorney general. To what extent he will want to take over the case I can’t say yet, but he will leave most of the job to us. I will comply with your request that we spare Gastmann any unnecessary inconvenience; we certainly won’t search his house. However, if I should need to speak to him, I must ask you to arrange a meeting at which you would be present. That way Gastmann and I could dispose of the necessary formalities in a relaxed and casual way. I’m not talking about a formal inquest but about a formality within the framework of the inquest, since, under certain conditions, the inquest may require that we interrogate Gastmann, meaningless though that may be; but an inquest has to be complete. We’ll talk about art, that’ll keep the procedure as innocuous as possible, and I won’t ask any questions. If I should be forced to ask a question—for formal reasons—I would let you know that question in advance.”

  By now, the state councillor had also risen to his feet, and the two men stood facing each other. The state councillor tapped the police chief on the shoulder.

  “So we’re in agreement,” he said. “You will leave Gastmann alone, my dear little Lucius, I’m holding you to that. I’ll leave the list with you: it’s accurate and complete. I’ve been busy telephoning all night, everyone’s very upset. No one knows whether the foreign embassy will want to continue negotiating once they learn about the Schm
ied case. Millions are at stake, doctor: millions! I wish you luck with your investigation. You’ll need it.”

  With these words von Schwendi stomped out of the room.

  10

  Lutz had just enough time to glance through the state councillor’s list, a roster of some of the nation’s most illustrious names, and lower it again with a groan—good God, he thought, how did I ever get myself involved in this—when Barlach stepped in, without knocking, as usual. The old man had come to ask for authorization to interrogate Gastmann in Lamboing, but Lutz put him off until the afternoon. “It’s time to go to the funeral,” he said, and stood up.

  Barlach did not object, and left the room with Lutz, who was beginning to regret his foolhardy promise to leave Gastmann alone. He was also beginning to fear Barlach’s opinion, which was not likely to be sympathetic. They stood on the street, both of them silent, both of them dressed in black coats with turned-up collars. It was raining, but since it was just a few steps to the car, they didn’t open their umbrellas. Blatter was driving. The moment they took off, the clouds burst and the rain came down in violent cascades that were driven slantwise against the car windows. Lutz and Barlach sat motionless, each in his own corner. Now I have to tell him, thought Lutz, looking at Barlach’s calm profile. The inspector put his hand on his stomach.

  “Are you in pain?” Lutz asked.

  “Always,” Barlach replied.

  Then they fell silent again, and Lutz thought, I’ll tell him in the afternoon. Blatter drove slowly. The downpour was so heavy that everything around them vanished behind a white wall. Somewhere, streetcars and automobiles swam about in these monstrous falling seas. Lutz did not know where they were, the dripping windows permitted no view. It was getting darker in the car. Lutz lit a cigarette, exhaled, decided to avoid any discussion of Gastmann with the old man, and said:

  “The newspapers will report the murder, there was no way to keep it secret.”