In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery by Friedrich Glauser

the end of it.
    "Hey, Schiil," said Gilgen, the red-haired nurse who
had been delegated to show Studer round.
    A man in a blue apron, who had been busy stacking
soup plates on a large tray, looked round. His face was
one big scar. His nose had been flattened and in place
of nostrils the ends of two silver tubes stuck out; his
mouth looked like a poorly healed cut.
    "I've brought someone to see you, Schul," said
Gilgen, rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt even
further. "Greetings from Dr Laduner, and you're to
keep the sergeant company for a while."
    The man with the scarred face dried his hands on
his apron, then held one out to Studer. It, too, was
covered in scars. And he had protuberant eyes.
Bloodshot.
    He spoke rather stilted, formal German that had
little of the Swiss dialect about it. In fact, it sounded
more French, which was hardly surprising since Schiil, as he told Studer, had spent twelve years in the Foreign
Legion and had fought in the Great War with the
Regiment de Marche under Colonel Rollet.

    He told him - little bubbles of spittle formed at the
corners of his mouth - that he had been seriously
wounded in the war ("un grand blesse de guerre!" as he
put it). A hand-grenade - Dr Laduner had presumably told him? - yes, a hand grenade had exploded in
front of him, ripping apart not only his face, but his
hands and his whole body as well. He pulled up his
trouser leg to show him, and Studer just managed to
stop him pulling his shirt up over his head to bare his
torso.
    "Look at the way they treat heroes," Schul complained. "You give your all for a country's freedom, I'm
a chevalier of the Legion d'honneur, I've been awarded
the Medaille Militaire and I'm paid the full pension.
And who do you think pockets it? The Director!" Schul
bent down to whisper in Studer's ear and the sergeant
had to make an effort not to draw away. "Who pockets
my pension? The Director! But that blasted moneygrubber will get his comeuppance! Matto will teach
him a lesson. You cannot torture a man who stands
under the protection of an important spirit and get
away with it."
    He suddenly grasped Studer by the sleeve and
dragged him over to the window that looked out onto
the central block.
    "Up there, do you see?" Schul whispered. "The attic
window? Above Dr Laduner's apartment? Can't you
see him darting out and in, out and in? That's him,
that's Matto. He dictated a poem to me, I'll show it
you, I'll write out a copy for you so you'll have a
souvenir of him, of Matto."
    Studer couldn't help feeling a little disconcerted. Even with his poor sense of direction, he had no
difficulty establishing that the window Schiil had
pointed out was right above the guest room Fran
Laduner had given him.

    Schiil continued to chat away while he looked for
the poem in a cupboard crammed full of papers.
    Matto had cried out last night, he said, cried out
again, a long-drawn-out, plaintive cry. In the corner
between T Ward and P this time. He interrupted his
search for a moment to show Studer the place.
    There was a good overall view from the window that
looked out onto the central block. Firstly, of all the
central block itself, with the doctors' apartments - in
the afternoon Studer would learn that the Director's
apartment lay immediately beneath Laduner's - then
P, the ward for placid patients, and, at right angles to it
but in the same wing as 0, where he was at the
moment, T, the Treatment Ward for those suffering
from a physical illness. And in that corner, where a
door led to the basement, someone had cried out.
When Schiil went back to rummaging around among
his papers, Studer asked the red-haired nurse whether
he could believe him.
    Gilgen shrugged his shoulders, as if he had been put
on the spot. In general, he said, Schiil was quite observant, and it wasn't impossible he might have heard
something, since he slept directly above this kitchen,
in a room whose windows had bars on the