The Pledge

by Friedrich Dürrenmatt

  “‘You’re afraid.’

  “‘I hate to waste my time.’

  “‘What you call a waste of time may just be an old method,’ Matthäi declared. ‘You’re a scientist, you know what a working hypothesis is. My assumption that this is a picture of the murderer is a working hypothesis. I am asking you to make believe with me. Let’s see what comes of it.’

  “Locher looked at the inspector thoughtfully for a moment and then examined the drawing once more.

  “‘What did the peddler look like?’ he asked.

  “‘Inconspicuous.’

  “‘Intelligent?’

  “‘Not stupid, but lazy.’

  “‘Wasn’t he convicted of a sex crime once?’

  “‘He got involved with a fourteen-year-old.’

  “‘Relations with other females?’

  “‘Well, as a peddler, yes. He was known to chase skirts all over the place,’ Matthäi replied.

  “Now Locher was interested. Something didn’t sound right.

  “‘Too bad this Don Juan confessed and hanged himself,’ he grumbled, ‘because he doesn’t sound like a sex maniac at all. But let’s adopt your hypothesis. The hedgehog giant on the drawing—I could imagine him being a sex fiend. He looks big and massive. People who commit these kinds of crimes against children are usually primitive, more or less feebleminded, imbeciles, mental defectives, as we say in the profession, robust, tending toward violence, and hampered by impotence or inferiority complexes with regard to women.’

  “He stopped and peered more closely at the drawing.

  “‘Strange,’ he said.

  “‘What?’

  “‘The date underneath the drawing.’

  “‘Well?’

  “‘More than a week before the murder. Gritli Moser must have met her murderer before, presuming your hypothesis is correct, Matthäi. It seems peculiar, though, that she would tell the story of her encounter in the form of a fairy tale.’

  “‘It’s a child’s way.’

  “Locher shook his head. ‘People don’t do things without a reason, and that goes for children as well,’ he said. ‘Probably the big black man forbade Gritli to tell anyone about their mysterious meeting. And the poor girl obeyed him and told a fairy tale instead of the truth. Otherwise someone would have become suspicious and she might have been saved. I have to say that in this case the story becomes downright ghoulish. Was the girl raped?’ he suddenly asked.

  “‘No,’ Matthäi replied.

  “‘And the same thing happened to the girls who were killed years ago in St. Gallen and Schwyz?’

  “‘Exactly.’

  “‘Also with a razor?’

  “‘The same.’

  “Now the doctor also poured himself a cognac.

  “‘This is not a sex crime,’ he said. ‘It’s an act of revenge. These murders were supposed to wreak some kind of revenge against women—regardless now of who did it, the peddler or poor Gritli’s hedgehog giant.’

  “‘But a little girl is not a woman.’

  “Locher continued undeterred. ‘No, but to a sick man, she could replace a woman,’ he said. ‘Since the murderer is afraid of approaching women, he plucks up his courage when he sees a little girl. He kills her in place of the woman. That’s why he will always approach the same sort of girl. Look at your records, you’ll find that the victims are all alike. Don’t forget that this is a primitive person. It doesn’t matter whether the feeblemindedness is inborn or due to an illness—such people have no control over their instinctual drives. Their ability to resist their impulses is abnormally weak. It takes very little—an altered metabolism, a few degenerated cells—and such a person becomes a beast.’

  “‘And the reason for his revenge?’

  “The doctor considered the question. ‘Maybe sexual conflicts,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps the man was oppressed or exploited by a woman. Maybe his wife was rich and he was poor. Maybe she occupied a higher social position than he did.’

  “‘None of that applies to the peddler,’ Matthäi said.

  “The doctor shrugged.

  “‘Then something else will apply. Every kind of absurdity is possible between a man and a woman.’

  “‘Is there a continuing danger of new murders?’ Matthäi asked. ‘Assuming the murderer isn’t the peddler.’

  “‘When did the murder in St. Gallen happen?’

  “‘Five years ago.’

  “‘And the one in Schwyz?’

  “‘Two years ago.’

  “‘The intervals are getting smaller,’ the doctor noted. ‘That could indicate an accelerated psychological deterioration. Apparently the sick man’s resistance to affects is weakening, and he would probably commit another murder in a few months, perhaps even weeks, if an opportunity presents itself.’

  “‘And how would he behave in the meantime?’

  “‘At first he would feel something like relief,’ the doctor said a little hesitantly, ‘but soon new feelings of hatred would start building up, and a new need for revenge would make itself felt. He would start loitering in places where there are children—in front of schools, for instance, or in public squares. Then he would gradually move on to driving about in his car in search of a new victim. And once he found the girl, he would befriend her, until eventually it would happen again.’

  “Locher fell silent.

  “Matthäi took the drawing, folded it, and put it in his breast pocket. Then he stared at the window. It was night outside.

  “‘Wish me luck in finding the hedgehog giant, Locher,’ he said.

  “Startled, the doctor looked at him. Suddenly he understood: ‘This hedgehog giant is more than just a working hypothesis for you, isn’t it, Matthäi?’

  “Matthäi admitted it. ‘For me, he is real. I don’t doubt for a moment that he is the murderer.’

  “‘But everything I told you was mere speculation,’ the doctor explained. ‘I was just toying around with ideas; there’s no scientific value in that!’ The doctor was irritated. How could he have allowed himself to be tricked like that? He had realized too late what Matthäi’s intentions were.

  “‘I was just pointing out one of a thousand other possibilities,’ he continued. ‘With this method, you could prove anyone guilty of killing that child. Why not? Any absurdity can be imagined and somehow logically supported, and you know that very well. I went along with your hypothesis just to be friendly and helpful, but please, be man enough now to look at reality without hypothetical ifs and maybes, and have the courage to accept the factors that plainly prove the peddler’s guilt. That drawing is just a product of a child’s imagination, or else it corresponds to her meeting with some person other than the murderer, someone who couldn’t possibly be the murderer.’

  “‘You can safely leave it to me,’ Matthäi replied as he finished his glass of cognac, ‘to determine the degree of probability that can be assigned to your deductions.’

  “The doctor did not reply immediately. He was sitting behind his old desk again, surrounded by his books and files, worn out by the daily effort to keep afloat the antiquated and poorly equipped hospital whose director he was. ‘Matthäi,’ he said finally, by way of conclusion, and his voice sounded weary and bitter, ‘you are trying to do the impossible. I don’t want to get carried away, but this is what I feel: you have your will, your ambition, your pride, you don’t like to give up. I understand that, I’m the same way. But when you set out to find a murderer who in all probability doesn’t exist, and whom you would not find even if he did exist, because there are too many of his kind who just by chance haven’t killed anyone—then things start getting ticklish. You’re choosing madness as a method, and it takes courage to do that, no question; extreme positions impress people generally these days; but if this method does not lead to its goal, I’m afraid that in the end, all you’ll be left with is the madness.’

  “‘Farewell, Dr. Locher,’ Matthäi said.”

  23

  “T
his conversation was reported to me by Locher. As usual, his Gothic script, minute and precise as if engraved, was almost illegible. I sent for Henzi. He, too, had a hard time reading the document. His comment was that the doctor himself was calling Matthäi’s hypotheses untenable. I wasn’t so sure; it seemed to me that the doctor just lacked the courage to stand by his own convictions. I had doubts after all. The peddler had left us no detailed confession, just a general statement concerning his guilt in the crime. Nor had the murder weapon been found. None of the razors found in the basket showed traces of blood. Naturally, this did not clear von Gunten; our original grounds for suspecting him still weighed heavily against him. But I felt uneasy. And Matthäi’s actions made more sense to me than I cared to admit. To the investigating magistrate’s annoyance I went so far as to have the woods near Mägendorf searched again. Nothing came of that either. The murder weapon was not to be found. Apparently it still lay at the bottom of the gorge, as Henzi believed.

  “‘Well,’ he said, pulling one of his awful perfumed cigarettes from the box, ‘that’s all we can do about this case for the moment. Either Matthäi is crazy or we are. We have to make up our minds.’

  “I pointed to the photographs I had ordered. The three murdered girls resembled each other.

  “‘That does seem to point to the hedgehog giant,’ I said.

  “‘Why?’ Henzi replied cold-bloodedly. ‘All it means is that the girls were the peddler’s type.’ Then he laughed. ‘I just wonder what Matthäi’s up to. I wouldn’t like to be inside his skin.’

  “‘Don’t underestimate him,’ I muttered. ‘He’s capable of anything.’

  “‘Is he capable of finding a murderer who doesn’t exist, Chief?’

  “‘Perhaps,’ I replied, putting the three photographs back among my files. ‘All I know is that Matthäi doesn’t give up.’

  “As it turned out, I was right. The first report came from the chief of the municipal police. After a meeting. We had just settled one of those cases of incompetence that comes up from time to time, when, in the middle of saying good-bye, this bumbler brings up Matthäi. I guess to annoy me. He said Matthäi had been seen at the zoo a number of times, and that he had bought himself an old Nash at a garage on Escher-Wyss Square. Shortly after that, I received another report. This one completely confused me. It was in the Kronenhalle, on a Saturday evening, I remember it exactly. The place was full—everyone who was anybody in Zurich and interested in a good meal was there. Waitresses scurrying around, the food on the trolley steaming, and the rumble of traffic sounding in from the street. I was sitting under the Miró, all unsuspecting, eating my liver dumpling soup, when the sales representative of one of the big fuel companies came up to me, said hello, and sat down at my table, just like that. He was slightly drunk and in high spirits, ordered a marc, and told me, laughing, that my former first lieutenant had changed his profession; that he had taken over a gas station in Graubünden, near Chur—a business the company had been intending to close down, because it had never brought in any profits.

  “At first I refused to believe him. The story seemed incongruous, silly, absurd.

  “The salesman insisted that what he was saying was true. He praised Matthäi for the way he was handling the job. The gas station was flourishing. Matthäi had many customers. Almost exclusively people he had had dealings with in the past, although in a different capacity. The news must have spread that ‘Dead-end Matthäi’ had been promoted to gas-station attendant, so all the ‘old-timers’ were pulling up and zooming in on whatever wheels they had, from the most antediluvian jalopies to brand-new Mercedes. Matthäi’s gas station, he said, had become a mecca for the underworld of all eastern Switzerland. Sales were soaring. The company had just installed a second pump for premium gasoline. They had also offered to build him a modern house instead of the shack he was living in. He turned down the offer with thanks, refused to hire an assistant, too. Often there’d be long lines of cars and motorcycles, but everyone was patient. Apparently the honor of having a former first lieutenant of the cantonal police fill your tank was worth a lot.

  “I didn’t know what to say. The salesman said good-bye, and when the trolley came steaming along I had lost my appetite, just nibbled a little, ordered beer. Later Henzi came, as usual, together with his former Fräulein Hottinger, in a foul mood because the results of some referendum didn’t accord with his wishes. I told him the news. He said: ‘That proves it, I always predicted Matthäi would go out of his mind, and now it’s happened.’ He was suddenly in the best of spirits, ate two steaks, while his wife kept talking about some show where she knew some of the actors.

  “A few days later, the phone rang. During a meeting. With the municipal police again, naturally. It was the director of an orphanage. The old lady told me in great excitement that Matthäi had appeared at her door, solemnly dressed in black, evidently in order to impress her with his seriousness, and asked her whether he might adopt a certain girl from among her ‘charges,’ as she put it. It had to be that particular child; he had always wanted a child, he said, and now that he was running a garage in Graubünden by himself, he was in a position to raise one. Naturally she had rejected his request, politely referring to the statutes of the orphanage; but my former first lieutenant made such a peculiar impression on her that she considered it her duty to inform me. Then she hung up. Now, this was indeed a strange state of affairs. I drew on my Bahianos, completely bewildered. But what made Matthäi’s behavior impossible for us at headquarters was an entirely different affair. We had arrested a highly questionable character, an unofficial pimp and official hairdresser who had set himself up in a handsome villa by the edge of a lake in a village favored by many poets. At any rate, traffic in that direction got pretty lively—taxis and private cars, everything. Now, no sooner had I started questioning him than he popped out with an answer I didn’t expect, beaming with pleasure as he rubbed the news under our noses. Matthäi, he said, was shacking up with the Heller girl in his gas station. I immediately called the police in Chur; the story was true. I was dumbstruck. The hairdresser sat gloating in front of my desk, chewing his gum. I gave up. I gave orders to let the old sinner go in the name of God. He had outplayed us.

  “The situation was alarming. I was perplexed, Henzi was outraged, the examining magistrate disgusted, and when the federal councillor heard about it, he used the word ‘disgrace.’ Lotte Heller had once been our guest at headquarters. A colleague of hers—a lady well known all over the city—had been murdered. We suspected that Heller knew more than she was telling us, and eventually she was summarily expelled from the canton of Zurich, even though, apart from her profession, there was no evidence against her. But there are always people in the administration who have their prejudices and feel the need to act on them.

  “I decided it was time to intervene, to drive out there. I sensed that Matthäi’s actions had something to do with Gritli Moser, but I couldn’t imagine how. My ignorance infuriated me; it also made me unsure of myself. But aside from that, I felt a detective’s curiosity. As a law-and-order man, I wanted to know what was going on.”

  24

  “I set out in my car, alone. It was a Sunday again, and it seems to me, looking back, that many of the crucial moments in this story took place on Sundays. Bells ringing all around, the whole country seemed to be clanging and chiming; and somewhere in Schwyz canton I got held up by a procession. One car after another on the road, and on the radio, one sermon after the other. Later the sounds of guns banging, whistling, clattering, booming away in shooting booths in every village. A monstrous, senseless commotion—the whole of eastern Switzerland seemed to be on the move; somewhere an automobile race was being held, and droves of cars came rolling in from the west, whole families, clans. It was the noisiest day of rest I had ever experienced. By the time I reached the gas station—the one you saw earlier—I was exhausted. I looked around. The place wasn’t as run-down as it is today. It looked friendly, everything clean, geranium
s in the windows. There was no tavern yet. The whole thing had a solid, reliable, lower middle-class look about it. There were various objects, too, alongside the street, that indicated the presence of a child: a swing, a large dollhouse on a bench, a doll’s carriage, a rocking horse. Matthäi himself was just attending a customer who hastily took off in his Volkswagen as I stepped out of my Opel. Next to Matthäi stood a seven- or eight-year-old girl with a doll tucked under one arm. She had blond braids and was wearing a red skirt. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I had seen her; she didn’t resemble Lotte Heller at all.

  “‘That was Red Meier, wasn’t it?’ I said, pointing at the Volkswagen as it moved away. ‘He was let out a year ago.’

  “‘Regular?’ Matthäi asked indifferently. He was dressed in a pair of blue mechanic’s overalls.

  “‘Super.’

  “Matthäi filled the tank, washed the windshield.

  “‘Fourteen-thirty.’

  “I gave him fifteen. ‘Keep the change,’ I said. Then I blushed. ‘Excuse me, Matthäi, that just slipped out.’

  “‘That’s all right,’ he said, slipping the bills in his pocket. ‘I’m used to it.’

  “Embarrassed, I looked at the little girl again.

  “‘Cute little thing,’ I said.

  “Matthäi opened the door of my car. ‘I wish you a pleasant ride.’

  “‘Come on, now,’ I muttered. ‘I’m really here to talk to you. For Pete’s sake, Matthäi, what’s all this about?’

  “‘I promised not to bother you any more with the Gritli Moser case, Chief. Now I must ask you to do the same for me,’ he replied, and turned his back on me.