Free Fever by Friedrich Glauser Page A

Sophie Hornuss’s lonely flat, he said, “As far as I’m concerned, you can run away if you feel like it, though I don’t advise it, we’d soon get you again. I have to go and see an acquaintance of mine. Since my friend Madelin recommended you to me, I don’t like just to take you to the police station and lock you up there. Let me go and visit my friend, that might perhaps clear up a few things. After that I’ll come back for you and then we can see what the next step is.”
    Sounds good, thought Studer, see what the next step is . . . But what will that next step be?
    Old Herr Rosenzweig, who collected photos of fingerprints as avidly as an art lover might collect African carvings, lived on Bellevuestrasse. Studer took the bus.
    The door was opened by a tall, bony man with gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. Clean-shaven, his hair cropped close, he had small, podgy hands.
    â€œAh, it’s Studer.” Herr Rosenzweig’s welcome was hearty, and in the same breath he asked whether the police were stuck again. It was happening more and more now, he said, someone was coming to see him almost every day. Wouldn’t it be simpler if the authorities were to set up their own fingerprint collection, eh?
    â€œThe crisis,” said Studer apologetically, “the world economic crisis.”
    That set the old gentleman off on a rant. “Always the same old excuse! The crisis, the world economic crisis! The crisis is a very convenient excuse. But what have you got for me today, Sergeant?”
    Studer took the cup out, very carefully, so as not to touch the sides. Herr Rosenzweig picked up one of the shakers of fingerprint powder that he always kept on his desk, as other people would a lighter or an ashtray. Herr Rosenzweig never smoked.
    The cup was light coloured, so graphite powder was carefully sprinkled over it, then blown away: two clear prints.
    â€œThumb and index finger,” said Herr Rosenzweig, taking up his magnifying glass. He examined the prints for a long time, shook his head, looked at Studer, then finally asked him, intrigued, “Where did you get this, Sergeant?”
    Studer told him the whole story. The old gentleman stood up murmuring something about a scar . . . a scar, and took down a file from a shelf (Studer saw the date, 1903), leafed through the contents and thrust a sheet under the sergeant’s nose.
    â€œIt’s guesswork, of course,” he said, “but it could beright. To do it properly we’d have to photograph the prints on the cup. We can do that later, but à première vue, as our French neighbours would say, they seem to be from the same person. Have a look yourself, Sergeant.”
    Studer compared them. A demanding task. Finding fibres on a keyhole was simplicity itself by comparison. But there was definitely a certain similarity between the thumbprint on the cup and the thumbprint on the photograph. At the bottom of the photograph it said: Unknown .
    â€œWhat case was that?” Studer asked.
    â€œNineteen hundred and three, the beginnings of fingerprinting. This is unique, Sergeant, the first photograph of a fingerprint taken in Switzerland. You won’t find it anywhere else – I mean the reproduction of the fingerprint. Locard once spent a whole hour begging for it, he’d come straight from Lyon, it was Reiss in Lausanne who’d wished him on me. But I stood my ground and said no. I don’t know why. When I’m dead my collection will go to the Canton of Bern – it’s in my will – and the cousin of some member of the Federal Council will be appointed custodian. But he won’t bother with the collection much, he’ll go off and play cards instead and when a visitor happens to come along it’ll be closed. Ah well . . . But I’m supposed to be telling you about this. Right, then . . .”

The first thumbprint
    â€œFribourg . . . You know Fribourg,