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560 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1931
How could I, Georg Letham, a physician, a man of scientific training, of certain philosophical aspirations, let myself be so far carried away as to commit this crime of the gravest sort, the murder of my wife?
I was happy. But not at ease. In the bedroom I turned on the light once more and got a clean hand towel from my wife's small bathroom, which was charmingly done in almond green and pale pink. I spread it over the still uncovered part of my dead wife's face. Then I turned back the coverlet and spread the towel over her throat and chest as well. The window was still open, the hot, moist breeze caught in the dry, bright linen, lifting it where it swelled over the curves of the chest. Rhythmic rising and falling. But I knew what was what. I turned out the light. In a built-in wardrobe, the wood suddenly contracted with a sharp crack.
In the strangest way, for which there are no words, I felt attracted toward this student Walter. As the patient beyond saving is to the doctor, perhaps. But what does one have to do with the other? Nothing. Beyond saving...doctor. God could not make sense of it.
I will now be extremely brief, despite the fact that what follows, what I wish to get out of the way in this chapter, the eleventh, is the bread and butter of that literary genre considered the most enthralling in our era, namely, the detective novel. What I am actually concerned with is facts, facts such as the facts of the "torpedo," which date back at least fifteen years now and which my father plays a starring role, and then facts that did not come to light until after my sentencing, and those later facts surrounding, the figure of that friend (as I have actually only been able to call him since he ceased to be one) of my youth, Walter.
A stench for which there is no name, so nauseating and intolerable that the demonic imagination of a Dante could not have conceived it, assaulted us from the small, electrically lighted, relatively cool underground room. March clutched me with a low cry. Even the leathery, phlegmatic Carolus trembled all over. Only Walter and I did not lose our composure.