The Pledge

by Friedrich Dürrenmatt

  “‘Matthäi,’ I said, ‘let’s stop fooling around.’

  “He said nothing. I heard some loud popping and whistling nearby, probably another shooting booth. It was shortly before eleven. I watched him attend to an Alfa-Romeo.

  “‘He served three and a half years,’ I said as the car took off. ‘Can’t we go inside? All this shooting makes me nervous. I can’t take it.’

  “He led me into the house. In the hallway we met with Lotte Heller. She was coming up from the cellar with potatoes. She was still an attractive woman, and as a policeman I was a little embarrassed—a bad conscience. She gave us a quizzical look, a little disturbed, it seemed, but then she gave me a friendly greeting. She made an altogether good impression.

  “‘Is that her child?’ I asked, after she had left the kitchen.

  “Matthäi nodded.

  “‘Where did you find her?’ I asked. ‘Lotte Heller, I mean.’

  “‘Near here. She was working in the brickyard.’

  “‘And why is she here?’

  “‘Well,’ Matthäi said, ‘someone has to do the housework.’

  “I shook my head.

  “‘I need to talk to you in private,’ I said.

  “‘Annemarie, go to the kitchen,’ Matthäi said.

  “The little girl went out.

  “The room was poorly furnished but clean. We sat down at a table by the window. A series of loud bangs erupted outside, one salvo after the other.

  “‘Matthäi,’ I said, ‘what’s this all about?’

  “‘Very simple, Chief,’ my former first lieutenant replied. ‘I’m fishing.’

  “‘What do you mean?’

  “‘Detective work, Chief.’

  “Annoyed, I lit a Bahianos.

  “‘I’m not a beginner, but I still don’t understand.’

  “‘Let me have one of those.’

  “‘Help yourself,’ I said, shoving the box over to his side. “Matthäi put a bottle of kirsch on the table. We were sitting in the sun; the window was half-open. Outside, the geraniums, mild June weather, and banging guns. Whenever a car stopped—which happened more rarely now, since it was around noon—Lotte Heller worked the pump.

  “‘You got Locher’s report on our conversation,’ Matthäi said after carefully lighting the Bahianos.

  “‘That didn’t get us anywhere.’

  “‘But it did me.’

  “‘How so?’ I asked.

  “‘The child’s drawing reflects the truth.’

  “‘I see. And what are those hedgehogs?’

  “‘That I don’t know yet,’ Matthäi replied, ‘but I do know what that beast with the strange horns was supposed to be.’

  “‘Well?’

  “‘It’s an ibex,’ Matthäi said, with a leisurely draw at his cigar. Then he puffed the smoke into the room.

  “‘That’s why you went to the zoo?’

  “‘For days,’ he replied. ‘I also had children draw ibexes. Their versions are like Gritli Moser’s.’ I understood.

  “‘The ibex is the emblem of Graubünden,’ I said. ‘It’s the old heraldic beast of this region.’

  “Matthäi nodded. ‘It appears on the license plates issued here. It caught Gritli’s eye.’

  “The solution was simple.

  “‘We should have thought of that right away,’ I muttered.

  “Matthäi watched the ash growing on his cigar, the faint curling of the smoke.

  “‘The mistake we all made,’ he said, ‘you, Henzi, and I, was to presume that the killer was operating from Zurich. He’s actually from Graubünden. I checked the scenes of the other murders—they’re all on the route from Graubünden to Zurich.’

  “I reflected on that.

  “‘Matthäi, there may be something to that,’ I had to admit.

  “‘There’s more.’

  “‘Well?’

  “‘I met some anglers.’

  “‘Anglers?’

  “‘Well, boys who were fishing.’

  “I didn’t know what to make of that.

  “‘You see,’ he said, ‘the first thing I did after my discovery was drive out to the Graubünden canton. Logical. But I soon realized how pointless it was. Graubünden canton is so big—how are you going to find a man about whom you only know that he’s big and that he drives a black American car? More than seven thousand square kilometers, more than a hundred and thirty thousand people scattered around countless valleys—it’s simply impossible. So there I was, at the end of my tether. One cold day, then, I was sitting by the Inn River, in the Engadine, watching some boys by the water. I was about to turn away when I noticed that the boys had become aware of me. They looked frightened, as if put on the spot. One of them was holding a homemade fishing rod. “Go ahead and fish,” I said. The boys eyed me suspiciously. “Are you from the police?” one of them asked, a redhead with freckles. “Is that what I look like?” I replied. “Well, I don’t know,” the boy said. “I’m not from the police,” I said. Then I watched them toss the bait into the water. There were five boys, all absorbed in their activity. “No bites,” the freckled boy finally said with a resigned shrug, and climbed up the bank to where I was sitting. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked. “At your age?” I replied with amusement. “You look as if you’d give me one,” the boy declared. “In that case, I’ll have to,” I replied, and held out my pack of Parisiennes. “Thanks,” the boy said, “I’ve got my own matches.” Then he blew out the smoke through his nose. “That sure feels good after a total bust with the fishes,” he said grandly. “Well,” I said, “your friends aren’t giving up as quickly as you are. I bet they’ll catch something soon.” “They won’t,” the boy said. “Or at most a grayling.” “I guess you’d prefer a pike,” I teased him. “I’m not interested in pike,” the boy replied. “Trout. But that’s a question of money.” “How come?” I wondered. “When I was a kid, I used to catch them by hand,” I said. He shook his head disparagingly. “Those were young ones. Just try and catch a full-grown trout with your hand. They’re predators, just like pike, but they’re harder to catch. And you need a license, and,” the boy added, “a license costs money.” “Well, you and your buddies are doing it without money.” I laughed. “But the disadvantage,” the boy said, “is that we can’t get to the right places. That’s where the guys with the licenses are.” “What’s a right place?” I asked. “You obviously don’t know a thing about fishing,” the boy noted. “I’ll admit that,” I said. We had both sat down on the embankment. “You think you just drop your bait any old place and wait?” he said. I thought about that and finally said: “What’s wrong with that?” “Typical beginner,” the freckled boy said, blowing smoke out through his nose again: “To get anywhere with fishing, you have to have two things before anything else: the right place and the right bait.” I listened attentively. “Let’s say you want to catch a trout,” the boy continued, “and I mean one that’s full-grown. Remember, the trout needs prey, he’s a predator. The first thing you have to figure out is where the fish likes to be. Naturally that would be a place that’s protected against the current, but near a strong current, because that’s where a lot of animals come swimming along. So I’m talking about a place downstream behind a big rock, or even better, downstream behind a bridgehead. And unfortunately those places are booked by the guys with the licenses.” “The stream has to be blocked,” I said. “You got it,” he said proudly. “And the bait?” I asked. “Well, that depends on what you’re after, a predator, or a grayling, or a burbot, which are vegetarians,” he replied. “A burbot you can catch with a cherry. But for a predator like a trout or a bass you need something that’s alive. A mosquito, a worm, or a little fish.” “Something alive,” I said thoughtfully, and stood up. “Here,” I said, giving the boy the whole packet of Parisiennes. “You’ve earned these. Now I know how to catch my fish. First I have to find the place and then the bait.”’

  “Matthäi fell silent. For a long time I said nothi
ng, drank my schnapps, stared out into the lovely late spring day, listened to the rifles popping, and relit my cigar.

  “‘Matthäi,’ I finally said, ‘now I understand what you meant by fishing before. This gas station is the propitious spot, and the road is the river, right?’

  “Matthäi’s face was impassive.

  “‘Whoever wants to get from Graubünden to Zurich has to use this road,’ he quietly replied. ‘Otherwise he has to go out of his way through the Oberalp Pass,’ he quietly replied.

  “‘And the girl is the bait,’ I said. My own words frightened me.

  “‘Her name is Annemarie,’ Matthäi replied.

  “‘And now I know who she reminds me of,’ I said. ‘Gritli Moser.’

  “We both fell silent again. It had grown warmer outside; the mountains were shimmering in the haze, and the shooting continued. There must have been some kind of contest.

  “‘Isn’t that a rather devilish scheme?’ I finally asked hesitantly.

  “‘Possibly,’ he said.

  “‘You intend to wait here until the murderer comes along, sees Annemarie, and falls into the trap you laid out for him?’

  “‘The murderer has to come by here,’ he replied.

  “I thought about that. ‘All right,’ I said then, ‘let’s assume you’re right. This murderer exists. Obviously, it’s possible. Anything’s possible in our profession. But don’t you think your method is too risky?’

  “‘There is no other way,’ he declared, and threw his cigarette butt out the window. ‘I know nothing about the murderer. I can’t search for him. So I had to search for his next victim, a girl, and use the child as a bait.’

  “‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but you adapted this method from the art of fishing. Those are two different worlds. You can’t keep a little girl near the road as bait all the time. She has to go to school, she’ll want to get away from your damn highway.’

  “‘Summer vacation’s coming,’ Matthäi replied stubbornly.

  “I shook my head.

  “‘I’m afraid you’re getting obsessed,’ I replied. ‘You can’t just stay here waiting for something you think should happen that may not happen at all. It’s true, the murderer probably does pass through here, but that doesn’t mean he’ll reach for your bait—to use your comparison. And then you’ll be waiting and waiting….’

  “‘Anglers have to wait, too,’ Matthäi replied stubbornly.

  “I gazed out the window, watched the woman filling up Oberholzer’s tank. Six years in Regensdorf jail altogether.

  “‘Does Lotte Heller know why you’re here, Matthäi?’

  “‘No,’ he replied. ‘I told the woman I needed a housekeeper.’

  “I felt very uneasy. The man impressed me; his method was certainly unusual, in fact there was something magnificent about it. I suddenly admired him, and wished him success, if only to humiliate that awful Henzi; but still I considered his undertaking to be hopeless, the risk too great, the chances of winning too small.

  “‘Matthäi,’ I said, trying to reason with him, ‘there’s still time for you to assume that post in Jordan. If you don’t, the guys in Berne will send Schafroth.’

  “‘Let him go.’

  “I still wouldn’t give up. ‘Wouldn’t you like to join us again?’

  “‘No.’

  “‘We would have you work in the office for the time being, at your old salary.’

  “‘Don’t feel like it.’

  “‘You could switch to the municipal police. Consider that just from a financial point of view.’

  “‘At this point I’m almost making more money here than I did working for the state,’ Matthäi replied. ‘But here’s a new customer, and Fraulein Heller is probably busy preparing her roast.’

  “He stood up and walked out. Then another customer arrived. Pretty-boy Leo. When Matthäi was done with him, I was already in my car.

  “‘Matthäi,’ I said as I took leave, ‘you’re really beyond help.’

  “‘That’s the way it is,’ he replied, and signaled to me that the road was clear. Next to him stood the girl in the red skirt, and in the doorway stood Lotte Heller, wearing an apron, looking extremely mistrustful. I drove home.”

  25

  “So he waited. Relentlessly, obstinately, passionately. He served his customers, did his work—pumping gas, checking the fluids, washing the windshields, always the same mechanical operations. The child was always next to him or playing with her dollhouse when she came back from school, skipping, hopping, watching the goings-on with wondering eyes, talking to herself; or else she would sit on the swing in her red skirt, singing, pigtails flying. He waited and waited. The cars drove past him, cars of all colors and price ranges, old cars, new cars. He waited. He wrote down the license plates of vehicles from Graubünden canton, looked up their owners in the records, called the town registrars to inquire about them. Lotte Heller worked in a small factory near the village up toward the mountains, and would come back in the evening down the little incline behind the house, with her shopping bag and a net full of bread. Sometimes at night they heard footsteps around the house, and low whistles, but she never opened the door. Summer came, a shimmering, heavy, endless heat that frequently discharged its tension with thunderous downpours, and finally the schools closed and the long summer vacation began. Matthäi’s chance had come. Annemarie was now always with him by the edge of the road and thus always visible to everyone who drove past. He waited and waited. He played with the girl, told her fairy tales, the whole Brothers Grimm, all of Andersen, A Thousand and One Nights, invented some stories of his own, desperately did everything he could to attach the girl to himself and to the road where he needed her to be. The child stayed, content with the stories and fairy tales. The drivers regarded the pair with wonderment or were touched by this idyll of father and child, gave the girl chocolate, chatted with her, while Matthäi lurked and watched, waiting for his moment. Was that big heavy man the killer? His car had Graubünden plates. Or that long tall thin one who was talking to the girl now? Owner of a candy store in Disentis, as Matthäi had found out long ago. ‘Want your oil checked? As you wish. I’ll fill your tank. That’ll be twenty-three ten. Have a pleasant trip, sir.’

  “He waited and waited. Annemarie loved him, was content with him; he had only one thing in mind, the arrival of the killer. Nothing existed for him but this faith, this hope that he would arrive. He longed for no other fulfillment. He imagined how the fellow would look when he came—powerful, clumsy, childlike, trusting, and full of bloodlust; how he would keep coming back with a friendly grin, in his Sunday suit, a retired railroad man or customs official; how she would gradually respond to his luring advances, how Matthäi would follow them to the woods behind the station, treading softly, ducking low, and how at the crucial moment he would leap out, how they would fight then, man to man, a wild, bloody battle, then the deciding blow, the final resolution, the murderer lying before him, beaten to a pulp, whining, confessing. But then he had to admit to himself that all this was impossible because he was much too obviously keeping an eye on the child, that he would have to allow her more freedom if he wanted to see results. Then he allowed Annemarie to wander away from the street but secretly followed her, leaving the gas station unattended, while the cars angrily honked their horns. The girl would skip off to the village, a half hour away, and play with other children near the farmhouses or by the edge of the woods, but always she would come back after a short time. She was used to solitude, and she was shy. And the other children avoided her. Then Matthäi changed his tactics again. He invented new games, new fairy tales, to draw Annemarie back to his side. He waited and waited. With unswerving, unbending resolution. And without explanation. For Annemarie’s mother had long since noticed how much attention he gave the child. She had never believed that Matthäi had hired her as a housekeeper out of pure kindness. She sensed that he had some ulterior motive, but she felt safe with him, perhaps for the first time in her life, and
so she gave it no further thought. Perhaps she was hopeful of further developments; who knows what goes on in a poor woman’s mind. In any case, after a while she ascribed Matthäi’s interest in her daughter to genuine affection, although from time to time her old distrust and her old realism returned.

  “‘Herr Matthäi,’ she said once, ‘this may be none of my business, but did the chief of the cantonal police come here on my account?’

  “‘Of course not,’ Matthäi said. ‘Why would he?’

  “‘People in the village are talking about us.’

  “‘Who cares?’

  “‘Herr Matthäi,’ she began again, ‘is your being here in some way connected with Annemarie?’

  “‘Nonsense.’ He laughed. ‘I just love her, that’s all, Fraülein Heller.’

  “‘You’re good to me and Annemarie,’ she replied. ‘I wish I knew why.’

  “Then the summer vacation was over; fall came, the landscape turned red and yellow, everything sharply contoured as if under a huge magnifying glass. Matthäi felt as if a great opportunity had slipped away; but still he waited. Tenaciously, stubbornly. The child walked to school. Matthäi usually went to meet her at noon and in the evening, driving her home in his car. His plan was looking more and more senseless, impossible; his chances of winning were getting slimmer and slimmer, and he knew it. He wondered how often the murderer had driven past his gas station. Maybe every day. Certainly once a week. And yet nothing had happened. He was still groping in the dark, without a clue, without even a hunch; just drivers coming and going, occasionally chatting with the girl in a harmless, casual manner, nothing to pin a suspicion on. Which one of them was the one he was looking for? Was he one of them at all? Perhaps the reason he wasn’t succeeding was that too many people knew about his old profession; here was an obstacle he hadn’t reckoned with, though it couldn’t have been avoided. But still he persevered, waited and waited. He could no longer turn back; waiting was the only method, even though it was wearing him out, even though there were times when he was ready to pack his bags and go anywhere, even to Jordan, just to get away, and other times when he was afraid of losing his mind. Then there were hours, days, when he became indifferent, apathetic, cynical, and let things take their course, sat on the bench in front of the gas station drinking one schnapps after the other, staring into space, littering the ground with cigarette butts. Then he would pull himself together again. But more and more he would sink into apathy, dozing away the days and weeks in a perpetual round of cruel, absurd waiting. But one day as he sat there, unshaven, weary, grease-stained, he was startled by the realization that Annemarie wasn’t back from school yet. He set out to meet her, on foot. The unpaved, dusty country road rose slightly behind the house, then dipped down, crossing a barren plain and leading through the woods, from the edge of which one could see the village from afar, old houses huddled around a church, blue smoke over the chimneys. From here one could also see the whole stretch of road down which Annemarie had to come, but there was no sign of her. Matthäi turned back to the forest, suddenly tense and wide-awake; low fir trees, bushes, rustling red and brown leaves on the ground, a woodpecker hammering somewhere in the background where larger fir trees blocked the sky except for slanting shafts of light that broke through their branches. Matthäi left the road, forced his way through briers and undergrowth; branches struck him in the face. He reached a clearing, turned around in surprise; he had never seen it before. From the opposite side, a wide path cut through the woods and ended in the clearing; evidently this was a road used to cart refuse out of the village, for a mountain of ashes was heaped up in the clearing. Along its edges lay tin cans, rusty wires, and similar junk, a regular garbage collection sloping down to a little brook that was bubbling through the middle of the clearing. Only then did Matthäi notice the girl. She was sitting by the bank of the silvery stream with her doll and her school bag beside her.