Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Games of the Hangman (28 page)
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Von
Graffenlaub splashed cold water on his face and toweled briskly.
Some slight color returned to his
cheeks.
He felt sick and disoriented;
none of his previous training seemed to have equipped him for the situation he
found himself in.
The Irishman, with his
sympathetic manner and core of steel, had turned into the voice of his
conscience.
The Irishman's conviction
and resolve were daunting.
It was
singularly upsetting.
The lawyer
refolded the towel and hung it neatly on the heated towel rail.
The image in the mirror was familiar again,
well groomed, purposeful.
He tried to
imagine the effect of Fitzduane's pursuing an investigation in
Consider the distress among the family; he could just hear Erika's
scathing comments.
He had his position
in the community to think of, and there were well-established standards of
behavior.
Suicide in the family was
tragic and best handled as discreetly as possible.
It hinted at some instability in the victim's
immediate circle.
It could be bad for
business.
It was best forgotten, or at
least hushed up.
Fortunately
Rudi's death had taken place in another country.
The impact, so far, had been minimal.
Time would further dull the memory.
There was no question about it:
this man Fitzduane would have to be diverted
from his obsession.
A discreet phone
call and he would no longer be welcome in
In Ireland von Graffenlaub was not without
influence at the most senior level.
This
Irishman could be dealt with.
It would
be the best solution.
Von
Graffenlaub breathed in and out deeply several times.
He felt better, not quite in full health, as
was understandable under the circumstances, but definitely better.
He left his private bathroom, then closed and
locked the door.
It was a pity he had to
go through the general office to get to it, but that was the trouble with these
old buildings.
Frau Hunziker
looked up as he was about to enter his office.
"Herr Doktor," she said, "the Irishman, Herr Fitzduane,
has left.
He has given me his address
and telephone number and asked that you call him when you are ready."
Von
Graffenlaub took the note she held out:
the Hospiz zur Heimat, a small hotel, though centrally located.
Somehow he had expected somewhere more
impressive, perhaps the Bellvue or the Schweizerhof.
He sat down at
his desk.
Facing him were the
photographs of the children at Lenk and of Rudi hanging.
The living and the dead Rudi stared up at
him.
Beat von Graffenlaub dropped his
head into his hands and wept.
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Guido, who
seemed to know everybody, had made the necessary arrangements.
"There will be some people there you
should meet," he had said.
Vernissage:
literally varnishing day, when the artist put
the final coat of varnish on his paintings — they looked better that way and
commanded a higher price — and invited patrons and friends to a preview.
The gallery
was on Münstergasse, within three minutes of the Irishman's hotel.
He was beginning to enjoy the compact size of
old
He had needed neither car nor taxi since his
arrival.
If he got fed up walking, he
could try roller skates.
At the gallery
Fitzduane helped himself to a glass of wine and a catalog and started to look
around.
After examining three pictures
in a row for several minutes each, he found himself quite at a loss, or else
more than whiskey had been put into the Irish coffee he had enjoyed earlier in
the day.
He looked at the other ten
paintings and was none the wiser.
All of
the thirteen paintings seemed to be virtually identical rectangles of pure
black.
There were
nearly thirty other people in the small gallery, circulating, looking at the
exhibits, and talking animatedly.
None
looked obviously baffled.
Maybe rectangles of solid black constituted normal art in
The catalog in
German was of little help.
It told him
he was in the Loeb Gallery, as Guido had directed, and that the artist was Kuno
Gonschior, forty-six years of age, who had enough business acumen to charge
about seven thousand francs a rectangle.
Fitzduane was
about to turn away but to his surprise found the bizarre collection piquing his
interest.
Subtle differences of texture
and shade began to evolve as he looked.
Things were not what they seemed.
Black was never quite black.
What
appeared at first as a mat flat surface was a minute, intricate, three-dimensional
pattern.
He began to smile to himself.
He sensed
warmth, and an almost familiar sexual, musky smell teased his nostrils.
The woman looked into his eyes with amusement
and, for a moment, a startling physical intimacy.
She was small and slender.
He had no difficulty recognizing who she
was.
She wore a black off-the-shoulder
cocktail dress, and her skin was deeply tanned.
Her breasts were firm and prominent; the nipples pressed against the
thin silk.
She wore a narrow headband of
gold cloth.
Fitzduane
wanted to reach out and touch her, to slide black silk off a golden body, to
take her there and then.
Her physical
impact was overwhelming.
It was a power
over men, a power that was relished, enjoyed, and used.
He recognized this, but it made little
difference; his desire was strong and immediate.
Now he understood why von Graffenlaub had
married her.
She gently
seized a tall, energetic-looking man by the arm and playfully spun him around
to face Fitzduane.
It was obvious she
was not in need of assertiveness training.
"Simon,"
she said, "let me introduce you to a famous combat photographer who is
visiting our town for a few days.
Simon
Balac, meet Hugo Fitzduane.
Simon is my
greatest friend — when he is being nice — and a very successful painter."
"And you,
my sweet Erika," said Balac, "are a treasure — at times — and always
the most gorgeous woman in
"Erika
von Graffenlaub," said Fitzduane.
She nodded.
"Your
photographs do not do you full justice," said Fitzduane.
"How did you know my name?"
Erika
smiled.
"
"Thank you for being so good about
Rudi.
It can't have been easy."
Fitzduane felt
somewhat nonplussed.
It appeared that
she was talking about the finding of the body and not about the events of earlier
in the day.
And there was no sign of her
husband.
Erika took his
hand in hers and held it for a moment; then she pressed it to her face.
"Thank you again," she said.
Fitzduane
could still feel the heat of her body as she moved away from him and the
fullness of her lips when they briefly brushed the palm of his hand.
Simon Balac lifted his glass and winked.
"
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"I wish
it were suicide," said the Chief Kripo into the phone.
He looked at his watch.
Ten past seven.
A thirteen-hour-day
already,
and he was still in police headquarters.
He was late for Colette, who did not like to be kept waiting, for
anything, especially bed.
The tips of
the Chief's ears turned pink at the thought.
She really was gifted sexually, an unrecognized talent.
In earlier centuries they would have built a
fountain to celebrate her skills.
Really, murders were damned inconvenient.
"You're
not the only man with a sex life," said the examining magistrate, who was
too smart by half.
"Now cut out the
wet dreaming and concentrate.
There's no
way that this one took his own life.
Consider the following:
stabbed
seven times with a short, broad-bladed instrument, eyes put out, ears cut off,
genitals removed — and, incidentally, not found yet.
I suppose they are still bobbing around in
the
Then bear in mind evidence of both oral and anal intercourse prior to
his death."
Buisard nodded
gloomily.
"Doesn't sound too much
like a suicide.
More like some kind of
ritual."
"A bit
more than wife kills husband with frying pan anyway," said the
magistrate.
"I don't like it at
all.
It smells too much of the kind of
thing that could happen again."
"Don't
even think things like that," said the Chief Kripo.
"I guess I'd better put out an all-points
bulletin for the guy's balls.
How will
we identify them?"
"They
should be the only pair in
"Not too hard for one of your brighter
policemen to spot."
"That's
disgusting," said the Chief Kripo, "and unkind."
Subconsciously he did a quick check with his
right hand.
All was in order but,
considering his earlier thoughts of Colette, surprisingly subdued.
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Just as
Fitzduane was beginning to feel pleasantly mellow after his third glass of wine
and almost enjoying looking at thirteen black rectangles, the allocated time
was clearly up.
The crowd didn't dwindle
over a period, leaving behind the harder-drinking stragglers, as would have
been the case in
Instead, as if on a secret signal, there was
an orderly but concerted rush for the door.
Within three minutes, apart from gallery staff and Fitzduane, the place
was empty.
The wine was highly drinkable.
He emptied his glass with some slight regret
and headed for the door.
Erika was
outside talking with friends.
She left
them and came toward him.
She had donned
a high-collared cloak of some golden material.
She was mesmerizing and sexy.
She
took him by the arm.
"We must
talk," she said.
"You will
come with me, yes?"
Fitzduane did
not feel inclined to refuse.
He could
feel the warmth of Erika's body next to him as they walked.
The smell of her was in his nostrils.
He felt himself growing hard.
"I have a
small apartment near here," she said.
"On
Junkergasse?" said Fitzduane, remembering the address in his von
Graffenlaub file.
He wasn't sure the
timing was right for another meeting with the lawyer — especially with the
man's wife practically wrapped around him.
Erika laughed
and squeezed his arm.
"You are
thinking of Beat's apartment," she said.
"I'm
sorry, I don't quite understand," said Fitzduane.
"I was under the impression that you
lived with your husband."
She laughed
again.
"Yes and no," she
said.
"We have an arrangement.
I need space and privacy.
My apartment is close — it is indeed also on
Junkergasse — but it is separate."
"I
see," said Fitzduane, who didn't.
"I will
cook us a little supper, yes?
We will be
private, and we will talk," said Erika.
The building
was old.
The apartment, reached through
some formidable security at its entrance, had been lavishly remodeled.
It reeked of serious money.