Fever Read Free Page B

family.”
    â€œWhat was your brother?” Studer asked.
    â€œA geologist. He prospected for ore in the south of Morocco: lead, silver, copper. For the French government. Then he died in Fez.”
    â€œYou’ve seen his death certificate?”
    â€œIt was sent to his second wife in Basel. My niece has seen it.”
    â€œYou know your niece?”
    â€œYes. She lives in Paris. She had a job here with my late brother’s secretary.”
    â€œNow,” said Studer, taking his notebook out of his pocket – it was a new ring binder that gave off a strong scent of Russia leather, a Christmas present from his wife, who was fed up with the cheap jotters bound in oilcloth he used. He opened it.
    â€œWould you be so good as to give me the addresses of your two sisters-in-law?”
    â€œJosepha Cleman-Hornuss, 12 Spalenberg, Basel; Sophie Hornuss, 44 Gerechtigkeitsgasse, Bern.” The priest was slightly out of breath as he spoke.
    â€œAnd you really believe the two old women are in danger, Father?”
    â€œYes . . . really . . . as I hope to be saved, it is my belief that that is the case.”
    Again Studer felt like telling him to stop speaking in such an affected manner, but he couldn’t do that, so he just said, “I’m staying here in Paris for the New Year’s Eve celebrations, then I’ll take the overnight train and be in Basel on the morning of New Year’s Day. When are you going to Switzerland?”
    â€œToday . . . tonight.”
    â€œThen,” came Godofrey’s parrot voice, “you’ve just got time to get a taxi.”
    â€œMy God, you’re right. But where . . .?”
    Commissaire Madelin dipped a sugar lump in his rum and, sucking his canard , called out to the snoring landlord, who leapt up, rushed to the door, stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. It was so piercing Father Matthias put his hands over his ears.
    Then the storyteller was gone.
    Commissaire Madelin growled, “There’s just one thing I’d like to know. Does the man think we’re little children? I’m sorry, Studère, I thought he would have something more important to tell us. He came with a recommendation. From above. He has friends in high places – and he didn’t even pay for a single round! It’s him who’s the child, really, a little child.”
    â€œExcuse me, chef ,” said Godofrey, “but that’s not true. Children can talk to the angels, but our White Father’s certainly not on speaking terms with the angels.”
    â€œEh?” Madelin stared, wide eyed, and Studer, too, gave the over-elegant manikin a look of astonishment.
    Godofrey remained unperturbed.
    â€œYou can only talk to the angels,” he said, “if you’re pure in heart. Our White Father’s heart is full of deviousness. You haven’t heard the last of him. Butnow we’re going to drink the health of our inspector’s grandson.” He waved the landlord over. “In champagne!” And he repeated the German words of the telegram, “greetings from young zhakoblee to old zhakobbe.” Studer laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks, then he raised his glass to his two companions.
    And it was a good thing Commissaire Madelin had his police identity card on him, otherwise the three of them would have been arrested for disturbing the peace at two in the morning. Studer had taken it into his head to teach his two friends the song of “The Farmer from Brienz” and a uniform policeman was of the opinion that a Paris boulevard was not the place for a singing lesson. He withdrew his objection, however, after he had established their profession. Thus it was that Sergeant Studer was able to continue to regale his colleagues from the Paris Sûreté with jewels of Bernese culture. He taught them “I Know a Vale So Fair and Merry” in which the word “Emmental” gave him the