Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Games of the Hangman (30 page)
The Bear was
an experienced listener.
He leaned back
in his chair, nodded his head from time to time, and occasionally made sounds
of interest.
Time passed.
Around them the restaurant emptied and
preparations commenced for lunch.
Once,
Fitzduane called for fresh coffee.
When he had
concluded, Fitzduane waited for the Bear to speak.
He did not at first but instead pulled his
notebook out of his inside breast pocket and began to sketch.
He showed the drawing to the Irishman.
It featured the letter "A"
surrounded by a circle of flowers.
"Like that?" he said.
The Irishman nodded.
"Well,
now," said the Bear, and he told Fitzduane about the body found in the
River Aare.
"What do you
think?" he said.
"I don't
think you're telling me everything," said Fitzduane.
"You haven't suggested my passing this
on officially.
What's on your
mind?"
It was now the
Bear's turn to reveal much more than he had planned, and he, too, was relying
on instinct — and so he confessed.
He
told of thumping a certain German visitor and Buisard's reaction and being
assigned to minor crimes.
He spoke of
the opportunity this might offer if exploited creatively,
then
spoke of the advantage of two heads, of combining both an official and an
unofficial approach.
There was
silence between them, and then, somewhat tentatively at first, as they adjusted
to this unplanned alliance, they shook hands.
"So
that's settled," Fitzduane said after a moment.
"Now, where can I hire a car?"
"There is
a Hertz office just up the street off the Theaterplatz," said the
Bear.
"Come, I'll walk you up to
the clock tower, and then I'll point the way.
It's only a few hundred meters from there."
As they left
the restaurant, a roller skater glided past.
They walked up Kramgasse, passing two more of the painted fountains on
the way.
The day was hot, and they
walked in the shade.
The houses
protruded over the raised pavement, forming arcades that sheltered the stroller
from the weather and creating a beguiling intimacy.
Restaurants and cafés with tables and chairs
set up outside dotted the streets.
"Where
are you thinking of driving?"
"I
thought I'd see some of the surrounding countryside," said Fitzduane,
"perhaps drive to
mountains."
"Are you used
to driving on snow and ice?" asked the Bear.
"The roads can be dangerous as you get
higher.
You will need snow tires.
I use gravestones myself."
"What?"
"Gravestones,"
said the Bear, "broken gravestones in the trunk of my car.
I have a friend who carves them.
They are not so bulky, but heavy.
They make a big difference to traction when
driving on ice."
"Very
sensible," said Fitzduane without enthusiasm.
A small crowd
was waiting near the Zytgloggeturm,
famous clock tower.
The hands of the
ornate clock were approaching midday.
As
they watched, the tableau came to life.
A cock crowed and flapped its wings, the fool rang his bells, the cock
crowed again, and then a procession of bears appeared in different guises, one
carrying a fife and drum, the next a sword, followed by a knight in armor, then
three more little bears, and finally a bear wearing a crown.
Chronos turned the hourglass.
The bell of the tower was struck by a man in
gold with a hammer.
The lion nodded his
head to the count of the hour, and the cock crowed for a third time.
Fitzduane just
stared.
"Absolutely
incredible," he said.
The Bear waved
farewell and headed toward Marktgasse; after a few paces he turned.
"Gravestones,"
he shouted.
"Don't forget what I
said."
*
*
*
*
*
Hertz did not
include gravestones — even when offered American Express — so Fitzduane
compromised with a front-wheel-drive Volkswagen Golf.
Before he left
checked with his hotel for telephone messages.
Still no word from von Graffenlaub, but Fitzduane had resolved to give
him a few days before proceeding to make inquiries on his own.
Operating without the lawyer's support could
well prove counterproductive.
Close
relatives and friends would quickly check with one another, and if they heard
that Rudi's father was utterly opposed to any investigation, Fitzduane doubted
he would receive much cooperation.
It
was frustrating, but the best tactic was to wait and meanwhile just see the
sights.
There was one exception to this
plan:
Rudi's twin sister, Vreni.
For reasons as
yet unknown Vreni was not on speaking terms with her father.
She had left her comfortable life in
most of her friends, and now was attempting to live an ecologically pure life
on an old hill farm near a small village called Heiligenschwendi, in the
Bernese Oberland.
Living the natural
life did not include celibacy.
Fitzduane's notes recorded that her companion on the side of the
mountain was a twenty-four-year-old ski instructor, Peter Haag.
According to Erika — and what better
step-mother to be up-to-date on sexual intimacy and its nuances — Peter was
prone to stray, especially during the ski season.
"It goes with being a ski instructor.
All that fresh air and
exercise and energy.
It generates
sexual tension, and there are so
many
attractive
opportunities for
release.
You understand, Hugo?" she
had said.
She had rested her hand on his
arm as she spoke.
Fitzduane had
called Vreni from the hotel that morning.
Yes, she would see him.
She would
expect him after lunch.
Ask anyone in
the village how to get to the farm.
Click.
Her telephone manner was
abrupt to the point of rudeness, but Fitzduane did not think that was the
problem.
She had sounded preoccupied and
as if she had been crying.
*
*
*
*
*
Heiligenschwendi
did not seem to exist as far as Fitzduane's Michelin guide was concerned.
He tried Baedkere with no more luck and was
beginning to think that someone was pulling his leg when the Hertz girl came to
his rescue.
She had lived in Thun, only
a few kilometers from the missing village.
She produced a large-scale map of
circled “Heiligenschwendi” in red felt pen.
The Hertz girl
had not exaggerated about the beauty of the village.
After he left Thun and started to climb the
twisting road, again and again, the different views were breathtaking.
The sun blazed in a clear blue sky.
As he drove higher, he could see the lake
sparkling below.
He parked the
car in Heiligenschwendi
.
Vreni's house was some ten
minutes away at the end of a narrow track, and he was advised that it would be
easier to walk than to drive.
It would
be difficult to turn the car around, especially when the snow still lay on the
ground.
There was a
newly built woodshed outside the farm.
Slatted
side walls allowed the wind to circulate and dry the wood.
Inside, the logs were cut to a fixed length
and evenly split in a way seldom seen in
They were stacked impeccably, properly
spaced, edges aligned to the nearest centimeter.
The farmhouse
was built into the slope of the hill and looked as if it were several centuries
old.
Its timbers were mottled and
discolored from generations of harsh winters and hot summers.
Melting snow dripped from overhanging eaves.
When Vreni
opened the door, Fitzduane could smell gingerbread.
He was strangely moved when he first saw her
and was momentarily unable to speak.
She
was so like Rudi, yet somehow different.
The reason came to him as he looked at her.
Fitzduane had never seen Rudi except disfigured
in death.
Vreni was warm, young,
beautiful, and very much alive.
There
was a smear of flour on her cheek.
Fitzduane had
bought flowers in
He offered them to her.
She smiled and raised her hands, palms toward
him.
They were covered in flour.
"You're
thoughtful," she said, "but keep them for a moment — will you
?
—
until
I wash my hands.
I've been baking gingerbread men for my
cousins for Easter."
Outdoor shoes
and clogs stood in a neat row beside the door.
At her request Fitzduane added his own and donned the Hüttenfinken she
offered him.
The thick leather-soled
socks were heavily embroidered in bright colors.
He padded into the warm glow of the house,
then into the small kitchen, whose walls were lined with cabinets and
shelves.
He could see no processed
foods.
Instead, there were bundles of
dried herbs, jars of different colored grains, and pulses, and hand-labeled
bottles of liquids.
A wood stove
radiated heat from one corner.
A
scrubbed wooden table bore several trays of cooling gingerbread shapes.
Other baking materials were obviously still
in use.
She led him
through the kitchen into the next room.
As he went through the door, he noticed that the wood stove connected
into a two-level stone bench built into the corner of the room.
Above the stone bench was a man-size circular
hole in the low ceiling.
Vreni saw his
interest.
"It's a
sort of central heating system," she said.
"The stove in the kitchen can warm this room here through the stone
benches.
Also, if we want, we can open
the circular trapdoor above the benches and the bedroom above will be
warmed.
It's called a choust.
When it's cold, I go to bed from here through
the trapdoor.
It saves using the stairs
outside.
Fitzduane was
intrigued,
Vreni left him for a few minutes to finish
her baking and to wash her hands.
He
felt the top stone bench.
It was
pleasantly warm.
He noticed a system of
baffles that could be used to adjust the flow of heat.
The room was
of a comfortable size.
It was furnished
adequately, if sparsely, for what was obviously the main room of the
house.
There was a wooden table and four
simple upright chairs.
There was a low
bed in one corner made up with cushions to serve as a sofa.
Several bean bags and other huge cushions
were scattered around.
There was one
pine bookcase.
There was none of the
normal electronic devices of modern living — no television, no stereo.
The one incongruous note was struck by the
presence of a telephone on the floor just beside the sofa.
He walked over
to look at the books.
Most of the titles
were in German and meant little to him, but to judge by the photographs and
symbols on some of
them,
they revealed more than a
passing interest in left-wing politics.
Several books were either by or about a Rudolf Steiner.
The name struck a chord in Fitzduane, and
then he remembered a German mercenary he had run into a few times called Rolf
Steiner.
Somehow he didn't think the
books referred to the same man.
"Anthroposophy,"
Vreni said.
She held a steaming coffee
mug in each hand.
She gave him one and
then curled up on a bean bag.
She wore a
loose cotton blouse of Indian design and faded jeans.
Her feet were bare.
They were perfectly proportioned and without
blemish.