And Sergeant Studer of the Bern Cantonal Police sighed despondently several times as he walked. He didn’t have an easy life, he thought.

That morning the deputy governor had phoned police headquarters from Roggwil. The body of a certain Farny, he said, had been found in the cemetery of the village of Pfründisberg. For the last nine months this Farny had been living in the Sun Inn, and it was Brönnimann, the landlord, who had found the body and informed the village policeman. Merz, the policeman, had reported that the cause of death was a shot to the heart.

“So far I have not been able to put an investigation in train, but it looks suspicious to me. The doctor maintains it’s a case of suicide. I do not agree! To be on the safe side, I feel it is important to have an experienced detective present. The cemetery’s opposite the inn . . .”

“I know that,” Studer had broken in as an unpleasant shiver ran down his spine. A July night had come to mind on which a stranger had foretold this murder . . .

“Oh, you know that, do you? Who is that on the line?”

“Sergeant Studer. The chief superintendent’s busy.”

“Ah, Studer! Good. Excellent. Come at once! I’ll be waiting for you at the cemetery.”

Studer gave another sigh, shrugged his powerful shoulders, scratched his thin, pointed nose and cursed silently. It would be just the same as always, of course. He wasn’t a celebrated criminologist, although in earlier years he had studied a lot. An intrigue had cost him his position as chief inspector with the Bern City Police; he’d had to start from the bottom again with the cantonal force and had quickly risen to the rank of sergeant. Yet, although he’d been demoted, although he had enemies, he was always the one who was sent when there was a difficult case. This time too. After the telephone conversation Studer had reported to the superintendent and mentioned what had happened that July night. “Off you go, then, Studer. But don’t come back until you’re sure, until the case’s solved. Right?”

“If I must . . . Cheerio.” Studer had got on his bike and set off. The July night had been exactly four months ago, the night when he had met the stranger with the Swiss name of Farny. A stranger who was now dead . . .