Games of the Hangman (27 page)

He read that
Duke Berchtold V of Zähringen, the founder of
Bern
, had organized a hunt and decreed that
the city be named after the first animal killed.
 
Fortunately the hunters struck it lucky with
a bear; the City of
Rabbit
just would not have had the same cachet.

Until in-house
plumbing and
Blick
became the
fashion, the fountains of
Bern
had been where you went to fill up with water and all the latest gossip.
 
Perhaps, thought Fitzduane, if I sit by the
fountain, all will be revealed.

He tried it
for a while, but his bottom got cold.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

From habit the
Bear checked the incident sheets when he returned from lunch.
 
He did not expect to see much.
 
He had once discussed the Bernese crime rate
with a visiting American policeman.
 
Confusion reigned initially when it appeared that the crime rates in
their respective cities were roughly comparable.
 
Then in dawned on them:
 
they were comparing apples and oranges.
 
The American was quoting daily statistics;
the Bear meant annual figures.

One of the
most consistently regular of the Bernese crime statistics was the murder
rate.
 
Give or take a few decimal points,
the figures came out at two killings per year — year after year after year.

They say
,
thought the Bear, that
Bern
has enough of everything, but not too
much.
 
Two murders a year is just about
right for a well-ordered city like
Bern
.
 
Many more would create havoc with the tourist
trade and would certainly upset the Bürgergemeinde.
 
Any fewer might raise question marks about
the manning levels of the Kriminalpolizei.
 
A little fear was good for police job security.

His mind
occupied with such weighty matters, the Bear almost missed the new incident
sheet that had been pinned up over an elegantly lettered flyer announcing that
the desk sergeant was selling his immaculately maintained five-year-old Volvo,
with only ninety thousand kilometers on the clock, at a bargain price (four
lies).

The bald
announcement stated that the mutilated body of a twenty-year-old man had been
removed from the River Aare that morning.
 
Death appeared to be due to multiple knife wounds.
 
An autopsy would take place immediately.
 
Formal identification was yet to be made, but
documents on the body suggested that the dead man was named Klaus Minder.

It says
nothing about bicycles, thought the Bear.
 
Maybe the murderer escaped on a stolen bicycle or stalked his victim
through the six kilometers of Bernese arcades while perched inconspicuously on top
of a penny-farthing.
 
Then it would be
his case, or at least the bicycle part would be.

He searched
the incident sheet for signs of stolen penny-farthings, but in vain.
 
No luck with tandems or tricycles
either.
 
He cheated a little and tried
for mopeds.
 
Nothing.

"Ho-hum,"
said the Bear to
himself
.

11

A small brass
plate identified the von Graffenlaub office on Marktgasse.
 
It bore just his name and the single word
"Notar."
 
The neat
nineteenth-century façade of the building belied its earlier origins.
 
The circular stone steps that led to the
lawyer's offices on the second floor were heavily worn with use and dipped
alarmingly in the center.
 
The lighting
on the stairs was dim.
 
There was no
elevator.
 
The Bernese, Guido had said,
are discreet with their wealth.
 
The
lawyer's offices internally might prove luxurious, but the access to them
passed discretion and headed toward miserliness.
 
Fitzduane thought that since he might well
break his neck on the stairs on the way down, he had better make the most of
the next few minutes.
 
He should have
brought a flashlight.

Von
Graffenlaub's secretary had the long-established look of a faithful retainer.
 
Clearly second wife Erika had endeavored to
ensure that her man would not stray in the same way twice; to describe Frau
Hunziker as hatchet-faced would be tactful.
 
Her glasses hung from a little chain around her neck like the gorget of
a Gestapo man.

Fitzduane
announced himself.
 
Frau Hunziker
retrieved her glasses and looked him up and down, then pointedly looked at the
wall clock.
 
The Irishman was five
minutes late — downright punctual in
Ireland
, and unusual at that.
 
In
Bern
such
tardiness was apparently grounds for a sojourn in the
Prison
Tower
.
 
Frau Hunziker's manner indicated that she
regretted the Tower was no longer in use.

Fitzduane
spread out his arms in a gesture of apology.
 
"I'm Irish," he said.
 
"It's a cultural problem."

Frau Hunziker nodded
her head several times.
 
"
Ja
,
ja
,"
she said resignedly about what was clearly a lost cause, and rose to show him
into von Graffenlaub's office.
 
Fitzduane
followed.
 
He was pleased to see that the
lawyer had not entirely lost his touch.
 
She had excellent legs.

The lawyer
came from behind his desk, shook Fitzduane's hand formally, and indicated some
easy chairs gathered around a low table.
 
Coffee was brought in.
 
Fitzduane
was asked about his flight.
 
Pleasantries
were exchanged with a formality alien to the Irishman.

Von
Graffenlaub poured more coffee.
 
Holding
the insulated coffeepot, his hand shook slightly.
 
It was the lawyer's only sign of emotion;
otherwise he was imperturbable.
 
Fitzduane suppressed a feeling of anger toward the immaculately dressed
figure in front of him.
 
Damn it, his son
was dead.
 
The lawyer was too controlled.

Fitzduane
finished his coffee, replaced the cup and saucer on the low table, and sat back
in his chair.
 
Von Graffenlaub did the
same, though slowly, as if reluctant for the conversation to enter its next
phase; then he looked at the Irishman.

"You want
to talk about Rudi, I think," he said.

Fitzduane
nodded.
 
"I'm afraid I must."

Von
Graffenlaub bowed his head for a few moments.
 
He did not respond immediately.
 
When he did, there was a certain hesitation in his tone, as if he were
reluctant to listen to what the Irishman had to say, yet drawn to it
nonetheless.

"I would
like to thank you for what you did for Rudi," he said.
 
"The school wrote to me and described
your sensitive handling of your part in this tragic affair."

"There
was little enough I could do," said Fitzduane.
 
As he spoke, his first sight of the hanging
boy replayed through his mind.

"It must
have been a great shock," said von Graffenlaub.

"It
was," said Fitzduane.
 
"I was
surprised at my own reaction.
 
I'm used
to the sight of death but not, I guess, on my home ground.
 
It had quite an impact."

"I can
imagine," said von Graffenlaub.
 
"We are all terribly distressed.
 
What could have possessed Rudi to do such a thing?"

Fitzduane made
no response.
 
The question was
rhetorical.
 
He knew that the
conversation was approaching the moment of truth.
 
They were running out of polite platitudes.

"Nonetheless,"
said von Graffenlaub, "I am a little puzzled as to why you have come to
see me.
 
What is done is done.
 
Nothing can bring Rudi back now.
 
We must try to forget and get on with the
business of living."

Von
Graffenlaub spoke formally, yet there was a perceptible lack of conviction in
his tone, as if he were troubled by some inner doubt.
 
It was the first hint of a chink in a
formidable personality.
 
Fitzduane would
have to force the issue.
 
Reason alone
was not going to work with von Graffenlaub.
 
Indeed, reason dictated letting the whole matter drop.
 
This wasn't about reason; it was about
feelings, about a sense of something wrong, about sheer determination — and
about the smell of the hunt.
 
It was the
first time that the Irishman had admitted this last point to himself, and he
didn't know why this certainly had entered his mind, but there it was.

"I regret
that I cannot agree," said Fitzduane.
 
"Nobody should die in that hideous way without someone attempting
to find out why.
 
Why did your son kill
himself?
 
Do you know?
 
Do you care?"

The lawyer
turned ashen, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow.
 
He abandoned his controlled posture and
leaned forward in his chair, his right hand chopping through the air in
emphasis.
 
"How dare you!" he
said, outrage in his voice.
 
"How
dare you —
a complete stranger — question
my feelings
at such a time!
 
Damn you!
 
You know nothing, nothing..."
 
He was shaking with rage.

The atmosphere
had suddenly chilled.
 
The pleasantries
were forgotten.
 
Von Graffenlaub quickly
regained control of himself, but the two men looked at each other grimly.
 
Fitzduane knew that if his investigation
wasn't to grind to a premature halt, he must convince the Swiss to
cooperate.
 
It would be unpleasant in the
short term, but there was little choice.
 
This was a hunt that had already acquired its own momentum.
 
It would lead where it would.

There was
silence in the room.
 
There was going to
be no viable alternative to something Fitzduane would have preferred not to
have had to do.
 
He opened the large
envelope he had been carrying and placed the contents facedown on the table.

"I'm
sorry," said Fitzduane.
 
"I
don't want to hurt you, but I don't see any other way.
 
A twenty-year-old kid killed himself.
 
I found him hanging there, his bowels voided
and stinking, his tongue swollen and protruding, his face blue and covered with
blood and spittle and mucus.
 
I held him
when they cut him down still warm, and I heard the sound he made as the last
air left his lungs.
 
To me that sound
screamed one question:
 
Why?"

Fitzduane held
the photograph of the dead boy just in front of von Graffenlaub's eyes.
 
The remaining vestiges of color drained from
the lawyer's face.
 
He stared at the
photograph, mesmerized.
 
Fitzduane put it
back on the table.
 
Von Graffenlaub's
gaze followed it down and rested on it for a minute before he looked up at the
Irishman.
 
Tears streamed from his
eyes.
 
He tried to speak but could
not.
 
He pulled a folded handkerchief from
his breast pocket, dislodging the flower from his buttonhole as he did so.
 
Without saying a word, he rose somewhat
unsteadily to his feet, brushed aside Fitzduane's efforts to help him, and left
the room.

Fitzduane
picked up the crumpled rose and held it to his nostrils.
 
The fragrance was gentle, soothing.
 
He did not feel proud of himself.
 
He looked around the silent office.
 
Through the leather padded door he could just
hear the sound of an electric typewriter.

On a low
cabinet behind von Graffenlaub's desk stood several framed photographs,
obviously of his family.
 
One showed a
sensual brunette in her mid-twenties with full, inviting lips and unusual
sloping eyes — at a guess, Erika, some years earlier.
 
The next photograph showed von Graffenlaub in
full military uniform.
 
His hair was less
gray, and the long face, with its high forehead and deep-set eyes, projected
power, confidence, and vigor — a far cry from the stumbling figure who had just
left the room.

The last
photograph had been taken on the veranda of an old wooden chalet.
 
Snow-covered mountains could be seen in the
background.
 
To judge by the quality, the
color print was an enlargement of a thirty-five-millimeter shot.
 
The picture was slightly grainy, but nothing
marred the energy and happiness that came through.
 
The four von Graffenlaub children stood in a
row, dressed in ski clothes and laughing, with arms around one another's
shoulders:
 
Marta, the eldest, her hair
pulled back under a bright yellow ski cap and with a striking resemblance to
her father; Andreas, taller, darker, and more serious, despite the smile; and
then the twins, wearing the same pale blue ski suits and looking strikingly
alike despite Vreni's long blonde hair and Rudi's short curls.
 
The photograph bore the inscription “
Lenk
 
1979
.”
 
In some ineffable way it strengthened the
Irishman's resolve.