The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

the second floor and along a rather bleak corridor heavily punctuated with doors on either side.

“Yes, he has had a small accident,” said Maria Frey, as she opened one of the doors.

“So why is he in a psychiatric clinic?” asked Ellen.

Maria Frey turned, beckoned Ellen through the doorway and gestured towards a chair just inside the room. “If you take a seat, Professor Abegg will be with you very soon. He will explain everything.”

With that, she disappeared through another door, leaving Ellen to ponder what seemed to have the trappings of a sinister mystery behind the events of the last day. Were they even talking about her Frank, she asked herself. Her mind remained so deeply entrained by her thoughts that she failed to hear the door open behind her.

“So you survived the journey in Maria’s little sports car. I suppose we must get used to more such whims now that they’ve won the right to vote.”

Ellen turned to find a tall, slim, slightly beaky-looking man in a white coat smiling down at her.

“Abegg,” he said, as he offered Ellen his hand and invited her into his office.

He walked around behind his desk and beckoned her to take a seat, modestly apologising for what he insisted was a poor English picked up during several years of research in the United States. But Ellen found his command of the language nothing short of perfect, albeit betrayed by a thick Swiss accent that made each word sound as if it were being dragged over a cheese grater every time he spoke. Despite the slightly cynical joviality of his opening words, the impression created by this fifty-something man was one of sympathy and understanding. Due undoubtedly to the furrows of fatherly concern etched into his forehead by years of patient listening, Ellen told herself. She could well imagine him as a father of daughters.

“I’m so glad you could answer our call so quickly,” he said. “We are faced with a particularly difficult and puzzling case. And I think it is very important that you are here to help us find the root of your husband’s problem.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” said Ellen, “but I’m really confused. What’s actually happened to Frank? I was told he’d had an accident. And now I find he’s in a psychiatric clinic. What’s going on? Where is he? Can I see him?”

“Mr Goss is in good hands,” he assured her. Then looked at Ellen with a piercing expression in his eyes that unsettled her when he asked: “Why is your husband in Switzerland?”

“He’s a journalist. He came to write about the referendum on women’s right to vote. But what’s that got do with his accident?”

A wry smile crept across the professor’s lips, disconcerting Ellen even further.

“You know, Switzerland’s first qualified female lawyer campaigned her entire life to achieve equal rights for women and was eventually committed to this very same institution for her lunacy. It seems a strange irony that your husband who came to report on the referendum should be admitted to this clinic on the very day the country finally accepted that women must be given the vote.”

“I wish I could share your sense of humour.” Ellen made no attempt to disguise the irritation in her voice. The professor peered across the desk at Ellen with a look of questioning concern, his hands folded across his chest fiddling with a pen.

“Mrs Goss, your husband was found early yesterday morning in great distress. He walked into the road and was hit by a car.”

“Oh my God!” Ellen exclaimed. “I was told it was just a minor accident.”

“As I said, he’s in good hands. You really don’t need to worry. Just a few scratches and bruises. But he was in great distress when he was taken to the accident unit. And it was decided to admit him to our clinic.”

“Why? What’s the matter with him?” Ellen asked. She was growing ever more disturbed by what seemed to her like euphemisms for something sinister. “What do you mean by distress?”

“Your husband speaks very good German,” the professor said, ignoring Ellen’s questions. “Can I ask where he learned to speak the language so well?”

“He studied it at university in England,” Ellen replied. She was growing increasingly impatient. “But he did say before he came here that he was wondering how he would cope with the weird kind of German you speak here.”

Professor Abegg smiled.

“Well I can tell you he is coping very well,” he said with a tone of reassurance that Ellen felt carried more than a hint of sarcasm. “In fact, he speaks an Alemannic dialect like a native from just across the border in Germany. Yet he has a British passport. So I find that puzzling.”

“Why?” Ellen was beginning to feel increasingly defensive, and her question came across almost as a challenge.

“In my experience, Mrs Goss, foreigners do not truly master the dialects of this region unless they’ve grown up here.”

“Well, Frank grew up in London,” said Ellen. “So maybe your patient is simply not my husband.”

With a vaguely sardonic smile that nourished Ellen’s growing impatience, Professor Abegg opened the right-hand top drawer of his desk, took out what she instantly recognised as Frank’s worn passport and put it on the desk in front of her.

“Perhaps it was stolen.” She was struggling to control her patience. “Do you think I could see him now?”

“In good time, Mrs Goss.” The professor put down the pen and flicked open a thin file on the desk in front of him. He sifted through the papers in the file for what seemed to Ellen like an eternity.

“Have you been having problems in your marriage?” he asked, without looking up from the file.

Ellen sensed her irritation was on the verge of tipping into rage.

“Look, I know these are the kinds of questions you doctors like to ask. But our marriage is just fine. We have a great sex life. And zero problems.”

“And your mother-in-law?” he asked, fiddling with the pen again as he looked up