Certified Insane, page 12
The secretary disappeared, and soon afterwards Ewald Peltzner came into the room. “How do you do, Herr Peltzner? I’m quite glad to have this chance of discussing your niece’s case with you,” said the Professor.
“Anything wrong?” asked Ewald Peltzner warily, sitting down.
Maggfeldt shook his head. “No, far from it, she’s very well and has overcome her initial phase of violent rejection, though she is depressed. We continue observing a patient, you know, even after he or she has been certified—and to be frank with you, there’s some variance of opinion among the staff about your niece. My senior consultant Dr Pade thinks that she is sane, while others of us do see certain syndromes denoting mental illness, such as compulsive neurosis—the kind of thing which justified my certifying her. But I don’t consider a patient in your niece’s mental state a danger to society, and at the moment, therefore, I see no real need to keep her here. So far as we can tell at present, she is only a mild case, who could be discharged for home nursing.”
Ewald Peltzner was thinking hard, and fast. It was out of the question to have Gisela at home! Once outside the hospital walls, she would have all sorts of opportunities to reveal the monstrous deception he had practised. It would mean his financial and social ruin— a trial, maybe even prison . . .
“However, you can never tell just how a poor, sick mind like that may work, am I right?” he asked. “One reads about those cases where the mentally disturbed are discharged from psychiatric hospitals as harmless—and then killing a child, or a relative, or committing suicide. You know, Professor, without wishing to influence your own opinion, I myself would rather leave Gisela here for a year than have her let out a moment too soon.” Ewald Peltzner sat up very straight, looking Professor von Maggfeldt in the eye. “Can you guarantee that Gisela is harmless, completely harmless, and won’t turn violent some day and attack me or my sister, or anyone else, maybe even murder someone?”
“Can I guarantee it?” Maggfeldt looked at the documents littering his desk top, and thought of Gisela Peltzner’s persistent persecution mania and obsessive hatred of her family. “A human being is not a conveyor belt product whose functioning can be guaranteed,” he said firmly.
Ewald Peltzner nodded sadly. “You see,” he said, “in your heart you share my fears. You suggest discharging my niece because she is not dangerous. But suppose she comes home, still suffering from the delusion that her whole family are plotting against her, say she gets hold of—oh, a garden chemical, something of that nature—and poisons us? Are you ready to shoulder the responsibility, Professor? You see, I’m concerned for my family’s safety.”
“Then rent your niece a place somewhere else: Switzerland, Italy—there are plenty of delightful places where she could live.”
“Still believing she has grounds to get her revenge on us? She’d be capable of going half-way round the world to find us.”
“Are you afraid, Herr Peltzner?”
“Yes, I am. I thought I’d made that clear.” Ewald Peltzner was quick to pick up the ball unintentionally thrown to him. Fear is something anyone can understand.
“We can’t keep patients locked up here on mere suspicion, you see,” said Maggfeldt. “This is a psychiatric hospital, not a rest home for the slightly disturbed, such as your niece. And as I said, some of the staff doubt whether—”
Ewald Peltzner put his hand in his coat pocket and produced a cheque book. He knew he was playing a difficult game; it would be fatal to give the Professor any reason to suspect him at this stage. “I am afraid, I’ll admit,” he said, shielding behind this very human weakness. “I see that you don’t want Gisela to stay when you need the space, and you have too few beds and are understaffed; it’s the same in hospitals everywhere. I’d like to help you—to make room for Gisela here, and to set my own mind at rest. I’m particularly anxious for you personally to go on treating my niece. May I make you a donation of a hundred and fifty thousand marks for new buildings?”
He leaned over his cheque book, rapidly filled in the figure and tore out the cheque: a well-planned gesture which appeared spontaneous and convincing. He held the cheque out to Maggfeldt. It represented a small fortune. Anna will have to pay half, he was thinking. I’m saving her share too.
“I can’t accept that,” said Maggfeldt slowly. “I don’t want to take advantage of the difficult position you’re in . . .”
“Consider it a donation from the Peltzner Works, Professor. Think how my niece’s dreadful fate has haunted me for weeks! Use the money to build a new ward, to give a sense of security to those poor people in here, including my niece. You could add a personal apartment for her, where she could live under your care. I just don’t know where else I could send her.”
“Taking money isn’t quite so simple, Herr Peltzner. I must discuss your niece’s medical and legal situation with my staff again.”
But Ewald Peltzner left the cheque lying on the desk.
“Don’t you want to speak to your niece?” asked the Professor.
“Speak to her? No.” Peltzner buttoned up his coat. “I—I’m afraid I just don’t feel up to it. Some other time . . . though perhaps I could simply see her?”
“Of course.” Maggfeldt turned to a timetable pinned to the wall behind his desk. “In fact, this is a very good moment. The milder cases are watching television in the common-room just now, and your niece will be there.”
“Will she be able to see me?”
“No; we can look through a side door.”
They could hear they were approaching the common-room well before they reached it, from the sounds of laughter, inarticulate cries and confused voices coming from it. Ewald Peltzner stopped in his tracks.
“What’s that?”
“We do get this sort of thing,” said Maggfeldt. “It sounds worse than it is. It’ll be some of the simple-minded or schizophrenic patients making the noise; don’t worry, Herr Peltzner.” He opened a side door, and pointed. “Your niece is in the fourth row. You can see her quite clearly—she’s wearing a red cardigan.”
The room was a large one, with twelve rows of seats, about half of them full of women. Although there was plenty of room for everyone, they tended to crowd to the front. Some of the patients were gesturing vigorously, others spat now and then, staring dully at the flickering television screen, others were singing, pulling their neighbours’ hair, or giggling. One woman, with big breasts, had torn her blouse open and was marching up and down, displaying her bosom. As Peltzner looked into the room, another, elderly patient was pulling up her skirt to relieve herself; two nurses were having some difficulty in removing her from the row of seats.
In the middle of this turmoil sat Gisela, her hands in her lap, her blonde head held high, watching the screen. She might have had an invisible wall around her, isolating her, but the pallor and rigidity of her face showed how painfully aware she was of her own surroundings.
Ewald Peltzner closed the door abruptly, trembling at the knees. “How can she stand it—how can anyone stand it?” he stammered. He was not playing a part now; he had looked his own crime in the face, and seen the horror of it.
“Oh, those are the harmless patients.” Professor von Maggfeldt put his hands in the pockets of his white coat. “If I were to show you the wards with the more serious cases . . .”
“For God’s sake, no!”
That night, Peltzner dreamed he was a patient in that common-room, spitting at the others and being spat at, and the whole time he felt Gisela’s big, grave eyes resting accusingly on him.
Dr Hartung met Monique Peltzner on the very day of his arrival at St Tropez. He had never seen her before, but Klaus Budde had described her: black hair, lovely, seductive figure, a rather stupid expression on her pretty face. The description proved adequate; he recognized the girl floating on a rubber raft in a bay surrounded by rocks, a little way from the shore. Her hair was loose, she wore a white bikini, and her hands were trailing in the water.
Standing on the beach, Hartung looked across at the rubber raft. He had flippers and a diving mask on, and was carrying a light-weight harpoon. His naturally brown, muscular body was gleaming with oil to protect his skin from sun and salt water. He had intended to go exploring the rocks, but the appearance of Monique, like a dark-haired mermaid adrift on her raft, made him alter his plans at once. He pulled the diving mask down over his face, dived in, and stayed under water until he had a good view of the outline of the raft. Then he aimed his harpoon at it. Thjere was a hissing sound, air bubbles rose, the raft deflated, and Monique Peltzner, with a shrill squeal, disappeared beneath the gently lapping waves.
Hartung dropped his harpoon—he could retrieve that later—seized the girl, brought her to the surface and swam with her to one of the rocks rising from the water. He pulled her up on it, placed her head on his mask, and began artificial respiration, raising and lowering her arms, pressing down on her rib-cage and letting it rise again. He was genuinely alarmed; he had not thought that his ruse might turn out to be dangerous. But when he stopped to rest for a moment, Monique’s voice brought him down to earth.
“You mean you’re tired already? Marvellous! Didn’t you even notice I hadn’t swallowed any water?”
Gerd Hartung pushed the wet hair back from his forehead. “I ought to throw you straight back in again!” he said.
Monique uttered a peal of laughter. She sat up and let her feet dangle in the sea. “Actually, I’m a very good swimmer,” she said coolly, “so go ahead! But what happened? Where did you come from, all of a sudden? And where’s my raft?”
“Down on the sea bed, with three small holes in it. I harpooned it.”
“You what?” Monique jumped up. Hartung looked at her well-proportioned figure with an expert eye. What a pity she’s a Peltzner, he thought.
“How did it happen?” asked Monique.
“By accident, I’m afraid. I was swimming under water, saw something big ahead and thought it was a squid or an octopus. So I harpooned it in rather too much of a hurry. And what did I really hit? A dear little shrimp.”
“What a charming compliment! You could do with some lessons in gallantry from the French or Italians!” said Monique. She sat down on the rock again. Her wet bikini fitted like a second skin; the mere sight of her was provocative. Klaus’s job is much easier, thought Hartung ironically. He’s plodding along the foggy London streets, shadowing Heinrich Fellgrub—nothing to lead him into temptation.
“Who are you, anyway?” asked Monique. “Coming swimming along like that, harpooning my raft, rescuing me and practically crushing my rib-cage, and then offering me that sort of remark by way of a compliment!”
“Well, what about you? You let me rescue you, you pretend to be half drowned, and allow me to knock myself out trying to revive you—and then you laugh at me! How’s that for feminine charm?” He slapped his flippers against the rock. “My name’s Hartung. Dr Gerd Hartung.”
Monique smiled and leaned back. “And I’m Monique Peltzner.”
“What a pretty name.” He put an arm round her shoulders. “Monique.”
She did not resist until he tried to kiss her, when she raised a hand. “Dr Hartung, I ought really to slap your face—don’t you agree?”
“Well, if you put it like that, yes, I do. Don’t repress your natural instincts!” He offered her his face, and she slapped his cheek, not very hard, with her small, slim hand. Hartung shook himself like a wet dog.
“And again!” he said.
“What for?”
“Payment in advance.”
“If you say so!” Monique brought her hand down on Hartung’s cheek again, very lightly this time; it was more of a caress than a slap.
“Right!” said Gerd Hartung. “So now I’ve paid in advance for something I haven’t even done yet!” And he quickly pulled Monique towards him. Before she could push him away, he had bent her head back and was kissing her with enthusiasm and genuine enjoyment. Monique’s resistance was only a token one. Soon her arms slid gently round Hartung’s neck.
An hour later they were swimming back to the beach side by side, sometimes touching hands. He’s not like the St Tropez playboys, thought Monique as they swam. I could really fall for a man like that . . .
She dipped her face in the water and shot forward like a little silver fish. He swam after her, and then they waded to the beach.
“You’ll have to pay for my raft,” she said, shaking the water from her long black hair.
Dr Hartung nodded. There spoke Ewald Peltzner’s daughter, he thought, rather glad to hear the mercenary note.
In London, Klaus Budde was certainly in no danger of being distracted from duty by pleasure. He booked into a small, cheap hotel and looked up the whereabouts of the London branch of Peltzner’s in the London A-Z. Next day he spotted Heinrich Fellgrub as they passed in Fleet Street. Startled, Fellgrub stopped as if he could not believe his eyes. He turned, and stared after Budde as if he were a ghost.
“No, it can’t be!” he said, loud enough for Klaus to hear him. Budde in London . . . the mere idea sent shivers down his spine. Klaus Budde—or his double—walked slowly off towards the City, stopping now and then to look into a plate glass window, where he could see the reflection of Fellgrub still staring at him. When he thought he had tormented Gisela’s cousin long enough, he turned up a side street and disappeared.
The following day he turned up at the Peltzner office building: a tall, narrow, grey and inconspicuous place, whose façade gave no inkling that deals worth millions were done behind those small windows. As if acting under some compulsion, Heinrich Fellgrub had come to the window and was looking down at the street. Dr Budde took up his position on the opposite side of the road, hands in his coat pockets, gazing at the doorway of the building, apparently waiting for something.
Fellgrub left the offices about noon. He was dressed in a conventional and very English dark suit, and carried an umbrella. Walking with a firm tread, he crossed the road to Dr Budde. “What are you doing here?” he asked straight out. He tried to make his voice confident and incisive; the attempt was not entirely successful. Klaus Budde smiled politely .
“A man can go about where he likes in a free, democratic country, can’t he, Herr Fellgrub? And stand about where he likes too.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s right. I’m just sight-seeing. As you know, on account of your uncle’s benevolence, I’m out of a job, and the unemployed have plenty of time on their hands. I’m spending it looking at business offices, telling myself that of course only upright, honourable men are working inside them . . .”
“ Just what do you mean by that?”
“Good heavens, what do you think I mean? I’m sure you’re the perfect gentleman. At least, you certainly look the part.”
“You can’t tell me you’re loitering here just because you have time on your hands!”
“Oh, but I can. I did think of taking a walk by the river, but it’s too damp at this time of year. Affects my bronchial tubes, you know.”
“Stop this nonsense!” Heinrich Fellgrub’s face was flushed. “You’re here because of Gisela.”
“In London, because of Gisela? Oh, but Gisela’s in a psychiatric hospital in Germany, being very well looked after. No, wondering where the next meal’s coming from, or how to find a bed for the night, like us unemployed—I almost feel envious of Gisela.”
Heinrich Fellgrub found he was sweating. A cold sweat: the sweat of fear. “Do you want to come and have a sandwich somewhere?” he suggested, uncertainly.
“Certainly! I could do with a bite to eat. We unemployed—”
“Dr Budde, please don’t be so childish.” Fellgrub was breathing hard. “You can’t pull the wool over my eyes; you must have some reason for being in London, so let me tell you, whatever you’re planning, it’s pointless. I don’t know just what you are planning—”
“Glad to hear it,” said Budde drily: a remark which affected Fellgrub like an electric shock.
“But whatever notions you have in your head, you can’t do anything about the facts, tragic as they unfortunately are.”
“Well, it’s nice to know Gisela’s family have such tender hearts.” It was beginning to rain, and Budde turned up the collar of his coat; Fellgrub put up his umbrella, but did not offer to share it with the other man.
“I can assure you, I’m desperately sorry about poor Gisela.” Heinrich Fellgrub marched into the nearby pub ahead of Budde, found a table, and sat down, frowning. “I see you don’t object to sharing a sandwich with me?” he said, trying to regain his aggressive tone.
“By no means. Stupid pride was never one of my faults. If I’m hungry and someone else will pay, I’ll eat a sandwich even if it’s provided by a bastard and complete idiot like you.”
“Dr Budde!” Fellgrub placed his clenched fists on the table—but Budde saw that those fists were trembling.
“Statement of fact, that’s all.” Budde ordered sandwiches and beer.
“I ought to knock you down, you—you . . .” Heinrich Fellgrub found himself unable to think of a suitable insult.
“What, here?” asked Klaus Budde, gently mocking. “In a nice pub like this, in a conventional country like England? They’d chuck you out, Herr Fellgrub. We’re safe here. I can say what I like, and you’ll have to listen—or else leave.”
“As I certainly shall!”
“That’s the spirit, Cousin Heinrich! But first, I’d like you to know one thing.” Klaus Budde leaned across the table. “Gisela is a perfectly sane woman condemned to live in a lunatic asylum. Do you honestly think you can cover that kind of thing up indefinitely? If so, I can tell you, without needing any medical opinions from bribed doctors, that you really are a complete idiot. You had reason to want me out of the way, Herr Fellgrub, but the Public Prosecutor is convinced that I was not driving my car that night. And now I know who was. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
So saying, Budde got up and left the pub.
