The Riddle of Monte Verita

by Jean-Paul Torok

  I concluded that the disappearance of the body occurred under the same circumstances as that of the presumed murderess from the interior of the same building, and remains equally inexplicable in the current state of the investigation.

  I felt it necessary to inform Superintendent Füssli of the regrettable fact that Agents Mangin and Fantoni had left the bungalow without proper surveillance for one minute thirty seconds at 5.00 a.m., the time at which the Locarno police arrived.

  I personally deplore the delay introduced by Department of Security before calling in the police, as well as their refusal to allow them to enter the crime scene. It seems quite apparent that these arrangements delayed the start of the investigation and compromised the proceedings.

  The park and the adjacent hotel buildings are being searched, but without result at the time of writing.

  VII

  Tuesday 27 September

  At nine thirty in the morning Superintendent Brenner gathered the principal witnesses together in a small room at the Grand Hotel that he had taken as his headquarters. The five: Lippi, Mestre, Harvey, Prokosch and Pierre Garnier were all warned not to leave the Locarno area and to remain until a new order regarding the investigation was issued, even though the tragic events had sounded the death knell of the and the other participants had already started to pack their bags.

  Pierre stood away from the others, his back to the window in order to hide his haggard features and his tired eyes. Unlike the previous night when he had slept like a log, he had felt extremely tense and anxious, and his sleep had been troubled. He had woken up several times, groping the empty place next to him in the darkness and trying to persuade himself it was all just a nightmare.

  No longer able to contain his restlessness, he had risen around six o’clock. The faint rays of daylight had already penetrated the room. He had started to search his wife’s things. He had rummaged through her suitcases, inspected her clothes and explored the contents of her pockets. What exactly was he looking for? He would have been hard pressed to say, so much had his sense of shame clouded his judgment. At the back of a drawer filled with underwear, his hand had touched a hard object which he had brought out cautiously. It was a small bottle half full of blue pills. He had known what it was even before reading the label. He had put it back in its hiding place and, overcome with dizziness, had fallen back on the bed.

  The little room tucked away at the rear of the Grand Hotel must not have been used often, for it smelled stale. The only window overlooked a dimly lit interior courtyard. Lippi was seated, legs crossed, in an armchair looking decidedly Mephistophelean. Next to him on a sofa sat Prokosch, eyes half-closed, which made him appear asleep. Harvey paced up and down on the threadbare carpet, muttering for the hundredth time a scathing remark about bringing the wrath of His Majesty’s embassy down on the heads of the local authorities. And Mestre was leaning against the panelling under a painting of sunset on the lake, casually rolling a cigarette, his perpetually sceptical smile on his face.

  Brenner dominated the group by his sheer presence. He was leaning on the upright piano, having raised its lid, and was picking out an unrecognisable tune with one finger. Ash was falling on his jacket from a half-smoked cigarette that dangled from his lips, but he made no effort to dust it off.

  ‘Do you really need to torture us with that bloody noise?’ exclaimed Harvey, in exasperation.

  Brenner stopped and allowed the lid to fall with a thud. Prokosch awoke with a jolt and the room fell silent. If the policeman had intended to play on their nerves, he had succeeded admirably.

  ‘We’re waiting for Herr Strahler,’ he announced calmly, checking his wrist-watch. ‘So. We’ll start without him, if Mister Harvey would be good enough to sit down.’

  The latter grumblingly obliged, taking a position adjacent to Prokosch. The superintendent looked slowly round his audience.

  ‘So. I called you here because you are all avid readers and eminent specialists in those novels mistakenly called detective stories. I’m a detective myself and I confess I don’t hold that form of literature in very high esteem. I simply can’t appreciate stories whose only justification seems to be that they could never have happened in real life. In real life, may I remind you, a murder is a relatively straightforward act, brutal and even sordid, generally committed by someone pretty stupid, and there isn’t a criminal alive who would amuse himself setting insoluble problems solely for the purpose of giving some poor detective a headache. Having spent twenty years of my life conducting criminal investigations I can assure you I’ve never once had to deal, directly or indirectly, with the situation known to the rest of you as “a hermetically sealed room.” You, however, are all too familiar with the problem. So I ask you, in all humility: what advice could you give me that would help me solve it?’

  ‘My advice is threefold,’ replied Lippi tartly. ‘The first is to get it our of your head that any of us is involved; the second is not to jump to conclusions before clearly setting out all the facts; and the third is to understand that the solution always depends on a trick cunningly hidden in the statement of the problem.’

  ‘Thank you,’ retorted Brenner, ‘but I think I’ve correctly posed all the questions. For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve turned the problem over and over in my head and examined every angle. I’ve –.’

  ‘Very well. If you’ve done all that you should have discovered the trick.’

  ‘If I’d found it,’ replied Brenner testily,’ I wouldn’t have needed to ask you for help.’

  ‘The superintendent is right,’ interjected Harvey. ‘In a truly special case, one has to involve the specialists.’

  Brenner nodded approvingly.

  ‘Precisely. And, as far as I understand, you’re among the best. I’m just a local flic; I’m used to working with the real and the possible. But in this case, the impossible has happened. We have irrefutable proof that no human being, living or dead, could have got out of that bungalow. And yet the murderer escaped and the corpse vanished! I’m telling you, it’s a wretched business and we’re nowhere near the end of it.’

  Pierre stepped forward.

  ‘And yet,’ he exclaimed, ‘you told me as recently as yesterday that you were about to make an arrest!’

  ‘Did I say that? I may well have done. But that was before someone managed to whisk away the corpse. I may as well confess now that I never believed in the trail we were following. And I don’t give a damn about those stories of political deals and secret agents. That’s Superintendent Fussli’s territory. He found what he wanted and the documents are now in the hands of the authorities in Berne. It’s their business, not mine.’

  ‘Speaking of documents,’ said Mestre, ‘what’s become of the notes of the doctor’s speech?’

  ‘What notes? Are you talking about the papers on the lounge table? The superintendent handed them back to me. After examining them, he felt they were of no use to him. Here they are.’ He opened his briefcase and showed them some papers. ‘You all thought he was writing the draft of his speech. In fact, they’re notes scribbled higgledy-piggledy and they’re completely meaningless as far as I’m concerned. If you want to take a look….’

  ‘Pass them over,’ said Lippi.

  ‘Don’t jumble them up: the pages are in the order we found them in.’

  Lippi consulted them rapidly, muttering incomprehensibly as he did so. Then he announced his verdict:

  ‘It’s a form of aide-memoire which he was, apparently, the only one to use. There are a few dates and events which he presumably was going to cite… “1925: Kaiser affair; 1927 …” – I can’t read what he’s written. On the first page, which should in fact be the last, there is an interrupted sentence – which is probably due to him being stabbed right then: “In truth, all external events only have their roots in our own interior: thus, all chance is deliberate, every accidental meeting is a rendezvous, every crime – .”’

  ‘“—a suicide”,’ completed Mestre. ‘It’s
Schopenhauer.’

  ‘Well, that’s a great help,’ sighed Brenner.

  ‘However, it’s interesting: it tells us where the doctor turned for inspiration.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll leave you to your philosophers; I’ve got a murder to solve. What interests me is how it was done. In any case, I’m sure of one thing: the Soviet special envoy had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘She was seen in Basel yesterday morning,’ explained Prokosch. ‘She was boarding the express to Moscow which leaves at five forty in the morning. Note there is no night train between Locarno and Basel. As for a car, forget it. To cross Switzerland in six hours you need a flying carpet.’

  ‘Or an aeroplane,’ observed Pierre, his heart pounding.

  Brenner shook his head.

  ‘Bad weather. No aeroplane could have taken off that night. So,’ he added after a short pause, ‘I’m listening. Let’s assume we are in a detective story. Explain to me how one goes about escaping from a hermetically sealed room.’

  ‘There’s a multitude of ways,’ began Lippi ponderously.

  ‘Sixty two, to be precise,’ interjected Harvey. ‘They’re all listed by Arthur Carter Gilbert in his Treatise on Impossible Crimes. The book’s in my suitcase. I can get it if you want.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Brenner hastily. ‘Just tell me the ones that apply to the present case.’

  ‘None of them,’ observed Mestre wrily. He was obviously amused by the proceedings. ‘They’re all about blocks of ice that melt; keys turned using string and knitting needles; magnets used to slide bolts and other poppycock. Not to mention idiotic schemes such as the murderer locking the door from the outside before sounding the alarm, then being the first to break into the room, where he pretends to find the key in the door.’

  ‘Precisely what I said in my lecture,’ said Lippi approvingly. ‘All those tricks and illusions only work in the minds of detective story writers who, as Coleridge put it, require “the willing suspension of disbelief” on the part of the reader. Not one of them has ever invented a scheme that would work in real life.’

  Brenner shot him a dirty look.

  ‘If you say so, Professor. However, I seem to remember that one of your eminent colleagues – Doctor Hoenig, who shall remain nameless – took the opposite view. And, unfortunately for him, the facts appear to have proved him right.’

  ‘“Facts are stubborn things”,’ Harvey declared, scratching his head in the vain hope of finding the source of the quotation; luckily, nobody asked him for it.

  ‘Come now, Superintendent,’ said Mestre indulgently, blowing smoke out of his nose the while. ‘You’re not going to find the solution in those boring old stories. Let’s think logically about this. The scientific mind starts with simple, verifiable facts. If we’re all agreed that it’s absolutely impossible to escape from a hermetically sealed room without violating the laws of nature, one can logically infer that it’s highly improbable for the woman with the knife to have done so. From which a child of four could deduce that she stayed inside.’

  ‘Certainly,’ agreed Brenner. ‘But a child of four would also have seen that she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Allow me to proceed,’ replied Mestre, imperturbably. ‘Logic does not bother with phenomena. As far as our main problem, the disappearance of the body, is concerned, since no-one could have got into the bungalow, the body must have got out on its own. And since that couldn’t have happened without witchcraft, it follows that we have to disregard the evidence of our own eyes. Hence the victim, whilst appearing to be so, was not in fact dead when we went into the place.’

  ‘That is, however, what you maintained previously,’ purred Lippi.

  ‘It was only an impression. I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘Dr. Hoenig was dead,’ said a solemn voice. ‘I can vouch for it.’

  All heads turned to look at the emaciated figure framed in the doorway. It was Strahler. He must have been there for several minutes and heard what was said.

  ‘I studied for eight years at the University of Leipzig,’ he added, advancing towards Mestre, ‘and I was assistant to Dr. Hoenig for four more. Don’t tell me, Monsieur, that I can’t recognise a dead body when I see one. Death appeared to have been caused by an internal haemorrhage. The victim’s eyes were rolled up, there was no sign of breathing and there was no pulse. Signs which a first year medical student would have recognised.’

  They looked at him with astonishment. The once self-effacing character had become a self-confident individual who spoke with authority.

  ‘Don’t get upset, Herr Strahler, nobody’s questioning your competence,’ said Brenner in a soothing voice. ‘What news do you have of Frau Hoenig?’

  ‘Frau Hoenig was the victim of a violent emotional shock, or trauma as we call it,’ replied the doctor in a coldly professional voice. ‘She was given an analgesic to lessen her pain and her state, on awakening, was judged satisfactory.’ He turned to Pierre. ‘She would welcome a visit from your wife.’

  ‘Where is Madame Garnier, by the way?’ asked Brenner casually.

  ‘She… she’s still in bed.’

  ‘Well, well.’

  Pierre tried to convince himself there was probably nothing in that last remark and that the superintendent had simply made it in passing. Nevertheless, it struck home.

  ‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Harvey suddenly and all eyes turned to him.

  ‘What’s come over you, mon vieux?’ exclaimed Mestre. ‘You gave me a fright.’

  ‘I’ve just remembered something. It’s your remark which made me think of it. You suggested just now that the body could have got about by itself….’

  ‘Which is ridiculous!’ scoffed Brenner. ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, that night, as I already told you, after that fellow forbade me to approach Hoenig’s bungalow, I went back and went to bed. I must tell you that, for reasons of hygiene, I always sleep with the windows open. I fell asleep almost immediately and had a terrible nightmare. I dreamt that I was awake and heard steps outside. They were heavy yet soft, as if someone was squelching around in mud. So, still in my dream, I went to the window. The room was in total darkness and I didn’t think to turn the light on. And I saw … My God! It was horrible!’

  ‘What did you see?’ asked Lippi impatiently.

  ‘Nothing at all at first. It was drizzling and it was too dark. Then, I started to make out a figure under the trees that was moving slowly and making a “plop, plop” noise. It seemed as though it would come up the path and pass in front of my window. And when it came into the light from the streetlamp, I recognised Dr. Hoenig!’

  ‘You watch too many horror films,’ mocked Lippi.

  ‘Let Harvey talk,’ said Mestre.

  ‘I haven’t told you the worst bit. He was moving like a sleepwalker or, rather, like a robot, jerkily with his eyes turned up. I could see him as clearly as I can see you now. His dressing-gown was soaking wet and he had a large knife between his shoulder blades.’

  There was a heavy silence in the room and even Brenner himself seemed impressed.

  ‘It wasn’t Dr. Hoenig, it was Frankenstein’s monster,’ sneered Lippi, who appeared nervous nonetheless. He was the only one who made a joke. The others felt a chill down the spine and looked at each other anxiously. Realising that Harvey was visibly terrified, Pierre could not suppress a shiver. Only Brenner remained expressionless.

  ‘You wouldn’t have been hitting the whisky bottle a little hard, would you, old boy?’ Lippi asked, still facetious.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Mestre. ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s all,’ said Harvey. ‘I don’t remember anything else other than I’d had a terrible fright and woke up bathed in perspiration. I still tremble thinking about it.’ With those words, he closed his eyes and slumped back on the sofa.

  ‘We’re in fairy-tale land,’ groused Lippi.

  ‘Harvey’s tale was full of information,’ stated Prokosch, as if he were turning something over in
his mind. ‘A fairy tale is like a dream. And there is more truth in dreams than in the real world.’

  Brenner looked at him sceptically.

  ‘Like the truth that a dead man can still be alive? Leave such rants to Dr. Freud, Monsieur.’

  ‘Your incredulity is getting us nowhere, Superintendent,’ said Mestre, raising his voice.’ You should make more effort to understand what Prokosch is trying to say.’

  ‘I do understand one thing, and that’s that you’re all starting to lose your wits.’

  Brenner appeared to make a decision. He opened his cigarette packet and circulated it. Everyone helped himself except Harvey, who sat up and took a pipe out of his pocket.

  ‘If it’s all right with you, Gentlemen,’ he said calmly, ‘we’ll dispense with the stories about the living dead. We have more important things to worry about.’

  ‘Such as what?’ exclaimed Mestre. ‘Everything we have to deal with is an absurdity, a quirk, or a material impossibility, the least of which is the inexplicable disappearance of the corpse. Where do we start?’

  ‘By finding the body, of course,’ replied Brenner. ‘Without it, we can’t do anything. The murderer, realising that the bungalow wasn’t under surveillance, took advantage and arranged for it to disappear. Don’t ask me how, but I can tell you why. As long as there’s no body, we can’t prove there’s been a crime.’

  Harvey let out a cry.

  ‘What is it now,’ groaned Lippi.

  ‘I’ve just thought of something. Since I didn’t know before I fell asleep that Hoenig had been stabbed, how is it that in my dream he had a knife in his back?’