His response triggered mutterings in the public gallery, but a look from Havel was enough to restore order. Meanwhile, an assistant had stepped forward to whisper something in Ferrati’s ear. The latter nodded, and stepped forward in turn to whisper something to the judge that Mitter was unable to hear. Havel seemed to hesitate, but then nodded.
Ferrati continued:
“Have you ever been violent toward your pupils, Mr. Mitter?”
“Objection!” yelled Ruger, who was beginning to look indignant.
“Overruled!” bellowed Havel. “Answer the question!”
“Never,” said Mitter.
“Is it not a fact that you were reported for striking a pupil?
In March 1983, according to the information at my disposal?”
Ferrati looked pleased with himself. Mitter said nothing.
“Do you intend to reply, or don’t you remember?”
“I was reported, yes.”
“But nevertheless you claim that you have never been violent toward your pupils?”
“I was falsely accused. Declared wrongfully convicted, just as I shall be again now.”
More reaction from the gallery. This time it was so loud that Havel was forced to resort to his gavel.
“I must ask the public to remain silent during court proceedings. . and to request the defendant to answer the questions put to him! Nothing else!”
Ruger obviously felt that this was the time to make a decisive intervention.
“My Lord, I really must insist that we call a halt to this line of questioning. My learned friend the prosecuting attorney has been asking irrelevant questions for far too long. His intention is clear: he is intent on maligning my client, because he has no solid evidence to support the prosecution case. If he is going to be allowed to continue, I must insist that he ask questions that are relevant to the case!”
For a moment it looked as if Havel were intent on aiming his gavel at Ruger’s skull, but in fact he turned to Ferrati: “May I ask that my learned friend come to the point!”
“By all means.”
Ferrati produced his friendly smile once more, this time directed at the jury. The two lady members were only too keen to smile back.
“Mr. Mitter, did you drown your wife?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because. . because I didn’t do it.”
“You mean that you didn’t kill her because you didn’t kill her?”
Mitter allowed himself a couple of extra seconds’ thinking time before replying. Then he said, calm and restrained, “No, I know I didn’t kill her, because I didn’t kill her. Just as I’m sure that you know you are not wearing frilly knickers today, because you aren’t. Not today.”
The gallery exploded. Ferrati sat down. Havel hammered away at his desk. Ruger shook his head, while Mitter stood upright in the dock and then bowed modestly to acknowledge the applause.
Now he was in an excellent mood, albeit dying for a cigarette. Nevertheless, his next comment came as a surprise to himself, not to mention everybody else.
“I admit everything!” he yelled. “Provided somebody gives me a cigarette!”
When Judge Havel was eventually able to make himself heard, he announced, “The court will adjourn for twenty minutes! The prosecuting and defending attorneys will report to my room immediately!”
And with a resounding blow of his gavel, he concluded the proceedings for the time being.
12
“Excuse me.”
Van Veeteren elbowed aside two reporters and forced his way into the telephone kiosk. Slammed the door shut so as not to hear the curses and protests. . Who did they think they were? Surely the police took precedence over the press?
While he was waiting for a reply he observed the grotesque face glaring at him from the shiny surface above the telephone.
It was a few seconds before it dawned on him that he was looking at his own reflection. There was something unusual about it, evidently, and it took him a few more seconds to realize what it was.
He was smiling.
The corners of his mouth were raised to form a generous curve and gave his face an expression suggesting a touch of lunacy.
Like a posturing male gorilla, he thought glumly, but that didn’t help much. The smile stayed in place, and deep down inside himself he began to feel vibrations, a sort of muffled purring, and he realized that all this must combine to form an expression of satisfaction. Warm and grateful satisfaction.
He couldn’t recall having experienced anything funnier; not since the former chief of police ran over his wife on a pedestrian crossing, in any case. The image of the prosecuting attorney, 6 9
Ferrati, in frilly knickers was something he could hide in the innermost recesses of his mind, to be dug out whenever it suited him for the rest of his life. Ponder over it, and enjoy it.
Not to mention the sheer pleasure to be derived from entering Ferrati’s office on Monday mornings and saying:
“Hi there! What color are your knickers today, then?”
It was priceless. As he stood there glowering at the gorilla, it struck him that his present state was something reminiscent of a kind of happiness.
Measured by his own standards, at least.
It didn’t last long, more’s the pity; but at least it was real.
However, the problem at the moment was Munster. The badminton match scheduled for noon would have to be postponed. Van Veeteren would have to blame his foot.
“It’s this damned awful weather. I don’t think it feels stable enough yet. I’m sorry, but it’s just not on.”
Munster understood. No problem. He could take on PC
Nelde instead. The chief inspector didn’t need to worry.
Worry? Van Veeteren thought. Why the hell should I
worry? Who does he think he is?
But then he turned his mind to the real reason.
The fact was that he had no desire to leave the courtroom for the sports hall. Not yet.
Mitter.
This damned Mitter.
Those vibrations were starting up again, but he suppressed them. Anyway, this case. He had come here this morning because he didn’t feel like starting on anything new. An arsonist was lying in wait on his desk, he knew that; and if there was anything he hated, it was arsonists.
He had thought he would hang around for an hour or so.
Just to see how the schoolteacher coped with being in the dock, and with Ferrati. He wouldn’t stay very long-he would just fill in an hour or two before it was time for badminton and lunch.
But now he was hooked. Couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Not yet. It wasn’t the line about Ferrati’s knickers that compelled him to stay, despite the fact that on grounds of pure courtesy he’d have been prepared to hang around for hours simply to have had the privilege of being there at that moment.
No, it was something else. Even before the palaver and the adjournment, it had become clear to him that he would have to stay on and see how the trial developed-not because he thought that Mitter had a cat’s chance in hell in the long run: that wasn’t the point. He had no doubt that Mitter would be found guilty in the end.
But had he done it?
Had this crazy schoolteacher really pressed his wife’s head down under the water and held it there until she was dead?
Two minutes? No, that wouldn’t have been long enough.
Three, three and a half?
Van Veeteren doubted it. And he didn’t like doubts.
And was Mitter in his right mind?
He certainly had been at the time of the murder.
But now?
You’re not wearing frilly knickers. Not today!
I’ll admit everything if somebody gives me a cigarette!
In court. That was brilliant.
And then, when all was said and done, if Mitter hadn’t killed his wife, who had?
He recalled Reinhart once saying that no two professions were more similar than those of teachers and actors.