Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Games of the Hangman (55 page)
"Well,
imagine the appeal of such an organization to young people like Rudi.
An independent structure,
secret and violent and dedicated.
To a rebellious adolescent, you can see the attractiveness of it.
To a man like the Hangman, such an
organization would be ideal."
"Preposterous,"
said von Graffenlaub.
"These are
wild surmises."
Fitzduane
nodded.
"You're quite right.
Much of this is guesswork.
I have no proof that Rudi was a member of any
cult, much less one involving the Hangman.
But the fact of his tattoo, which has been associated with the Hangman,
remains.
Otherwise the object of all
this — game playing or something more serious — is far from clear.
Now let me show you something."
Fitzduane
clicked the video made by the Rangers into place and pressed the play
button.
On its completion he placed a
slim plastic folder containing letters in front of the momentarily speechless
von Graffenlaub.
"That
video was made after Rudi's death," said Fitzduane.
"That pleasant-looking little group was
observed coming from Draker.
The masks,
need I say, make identification impossible."
"So why
do you think Rudi was involved?"
Von Graffenlaub's voice was weary.
"His tattoo — except for the circle of flowers, it is a common
enough design.
It signifies protest,
nothing more.
He could have picked it up
anywhere."
Fitzduane
opened the file of letters.
He showed
one to von Graffenlaub.
"You
recognize the writing?"
Von Graffenlaub
nodded.
"Rudi's," he said
sadly.
He rubbed the paper between his
fingers as if this would somehow bring his dead son closer.
"Rudi was
alienated from you," said Fitzduane, "and his mother was dead.
He was almost too close to Vreni.
He needed someone to confide in who had some
perspective.
He started writing to
Marta.
What he wrote is neither entirely
clear nor totally incriminating, but if you put it together with what we now
know through other means, a reasonable interpretation is that he joined some
sort of cult, found himself involved in something he couldn’t handle, tried to
leave — and then found there was no way out."
"So he
killed himself."
"No,"
said Fitzduane.
"I don't think so,
or at least not willingly.
I think he
was either murdered or forced to commit suicide, which amounts to the same
thing.
Probably we shall never
know."
"May I
have his letters?"
"Of course."
Fitzduane had already made copies in anticipation of this
contingency.
They made depressing
reading.
He remembered an extract from
the last letter, written less than a week before Rudi's death:
Matinka,
I wish I could tell you what is really going
on, but I can't.
I'm sworn to
secrecy.
I thought it was what should be
done, but now I know more, and I'm not sure it's right anymore.
I've been doing a lot of thinking.
This is a good place to think.
It's so empty compared with
and there is always the noise of the sea.
It's surreal, not like real life.
But I have to get away.
You'll probably see me sooner than you
expect.
Perhaps things will look better
when I'm back in
Von
Graffenlaub had been scanning the letter.
"Why didn't Marta show this to me?" he said.
Fitzduane
sighed.
"By the time that
particular letter arrived, Rudi was dead," he said.
"I guess she thought,
what's
the point
."
*
*
*
*
*
The Bear and
Charlie von Beck were sitting in the next room when Fitzduane came in after his
talk with von Graffenlaub.
The Bear
removed his headphones and switched off the tape recorder.
"Has he gone?"
"Yes,"
said Fitzduane.
"He's got a plane
to catch, some negotiations in progress in
He'll be away for a week."
"Plenty
of time to think," said von Beck.
"Yes,
poor sod," said Fitzduane.
"I
don't like what we're doing."
"We apply
pressure where we can," said the Bear, "and hope that something
gives.
It's crude and it isn't fair, but
it's what works."
"Sometimes,"
said Fitzduane.
"Sometimes
is enough," said the Bear.
"I don't
think von Graffenlaub is involved," said von Beck.
"No,"
agreed the Bear, "but who is better placed to lean on Erika?"
"Aren't
you afraid of what may happen?" said Fitzduane.
"Do you
mean, do I think von Graffenlaub may attack her, perhaps kill her?
Not really.
But even if he does, do we have a choice?
The Hangman isn't a single case of murder;
he's a plague.
He's got to be
stopped."
"The greater good."
"Something
like that," said the Bear.
"
but
if it helps you any, I don't like it either."
Fitzduane
poured himself a drink.
He was drained
after the long session with von Graffenlaub, and the whiskey felt smooth
against his throat.
He poured himself
another and added more ice.
The Bear was
lighting his pipe and looking at him over the top.
"‘How
often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever
remains, however improbable, must be the truth’" quoted Fitzduane.
"Not
once," said the Bear, "since you're asking."
"Sherlock
Holmes.
Don't they teach you Bernese
anything apart from languages?"
"Good
manners, for one," said the Bear.
"Let me remind you of another Holmes dictum:
‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before
one had data.’"
"That was
before computers," said Fitzduane, "not to mention expert
systems.
Anyway, the trouble with this
case isn't lack of data.
We're drowning
in it.
What we're short of are
conclusions, not to mention proof."
"They
also teach us patience in
said the Bear.
"That's
not one of
national characteristics."
"But
what's this about the elusive Ivo?" von Beck broke in.
"What headway is being made there?"
"Sir
Ivo," said Fitzduane.
"He
thinks he's a knight in shining armor.
I
didn't recognize him at first.
I was
coming out of a bank on the Bärenplatz when this weird figure in a cloak and
crash helmet slid up on roller skates and started to talk to me.
Before I could say much more than a social
‘Who the hell are you?’ he'd vanished again.
He did much the same thing twice more as I was crossing the square and
then pressed a note into my hand.
I damn
nearly shot him."
Von Beck
shuddered.
"I wish you wouldn’t say
things like that," he said.
"Shooting people is un-Swiss.
Which reminds me — the authorities in Lenk want to
know who's going to pay for the iron door you blasted.
Apparently it doesn't belong to the cheese
maker; it's Gemeinde property."
Fitzduane
laughed.
Von Beck tried to look serious
and authoritarian, which wasn't so easy in his
SKUNKWORKS
sweatshirt.
"Wait
till you see the bill," he said.
"It's no laughing matter.
The Gemeinde claims it was an antique door of considerable historical
value.
They also want to give you an
award for saving Sergeant Franze's life — but that's a separate issue."
"You're
kidding me."
"Certainly
not," said von Beck.
"In
"Ivo,"
said the Bear.
"Ah,
yes," said von Beck.
"What
does the note say?"
"It's a
typical Ivo message," said the Bear, "not straightforward.
He uses drawings and poetry and so on.
But the meaning is clear.
He wants to meet Fitzduane tomorrow at High
Noon, the café at the corner of the Bärenplatz, at midday.
He must come alone.
No police.
And it's about Klaus Minder.
Ivo
has information about his killer."
"Ivo's a
screwball," said von Beck, "and he's already killed one man.
Is it worth the risk?
We don't want our Irishman slashed to death
before he's paid for the door in Lenk — even if it would make our Chief of
Criminal Police happy."
"It's a
risk," said the Bear, "but I don't think a serious one.
It's clear that Ivo has taken a liking to
Fitzduane, and I don't think he's essentially violent.
I'll lay odds what happened to the Monkey was
provoked in some way."
"Want to
risk it?" said von Beck to Fitzduane.
"We'll have you well covered."
"If the city pays for the door in Lenk."
Von Beck
looked pained.
Henssen came
in, smiling.
"Progress," he
announced.
"We've done another
run.
If all our heuristics are correct,
we've narrowed down the suspect list to only eight thousand."
Von Beck
looked depressed.
"I hate
computers," he said as he left the room.
"What's
up with him?" said Henssen.
"I
was only joking."
"Budget
problems," said the Bear.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane put
down his glass.
The shotgun, an XR-18
round chambered, safety on, lay concealed in the tripod case beside the
beer.
There was no sign of Ivo.
He checked his watch:
three minutes to noon.
He remembered what Charlie von Beck had
said:
"Ivo might be a screwball,
but he's a Swiss screwball."
Ivo
would be on time.
The Bear, von
Beck himself, and six detectives, including one borrowed from the Federal
Police, had been allocated to back up Fitzduane, and it had seemed like
overkill when they were running through the plan.
Now, looking at the teeming crowds and the
area to be covered, he wasn't so sure.
He ran through
the plan again.
The Bärenplatz was a
large, rectangular open space with outdoor cafés lining the sunny side.
The center of the space had been closed off
to traffic and was filled with market stalls.
Today seemed especially busy.
There were flower stands in profusion, hucksters selling leatherwear and
homemade sweets and organically grown just-about-everything.
About thirty meters away a crowd had gathered
to watch some jugglers and a fire-eater
perform
.
The Bärenplatz
wasn't a nice neat shoebox with one entrance.
Far from it:
it was impossible to
seal off without much greater manpower than was available.
One end led into Spitalgasse, one of the main
shopping streets, providing endless opportunities for escape; the other end of
the square bordered the Bündesplatz, the even larger open area in front of the
Federal Parliament building.
To cap it
all off, Ivo would probably be on roller skates, which meant he could move
considerably faster than the police.
Fitzduane had raised the matter with von Beck, who had laughed and said
that an earlier suggestion that some detectives might wear skates had nearly
given the Chief Kripo a heart attack.
The compromise
was two detectives on motorcycles.
Fitzduane looked at the jugglers and the fire-eater and the dense crowds
and had bad vibes about the whole thing.
On the other hand, he admitted to himself, he was biased.
He would have liked to have seen the Bear on
skates.