Games of the Hangman (65 page)
Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
"Can we
get back to the original topic?" said the Chief testily.
"Certainly,"
said Henssen.
"Where was I?"
"Forward
chaining," said Kersdorf.
"Ah,"
said Henssen.
"Well, forward
chaining is essentially a way of generating conclusions by applying rules,
either formal or heuristic, to a given set of facts.
If the bank customer pulls a gun and demands
money and there is no suggestion that this is a security test, then a
reasonable deduction is that he is a bank robber."
"And who
said computers couldn’t think?
"
Charlie von Beck
rolled his eyes.
He was back in his bow
tie and velvet suit.
Henssen
ignored the interruption.
"The
point is
,
forward chaining is only one way to go about
things.
You can also use backward
chaining.
In that situation you could
assume someone was a bank robber and then work back to see what facts supported
that conclusion.
It's an ideal way of
checking out a suspect and ties in with the less rational elements of our human
makeup, like intuition."
The Bear
caught Fitzduane's eye and smiled.
"What it
comes down to," the Chief said, "is that we have a much more flexible
tool here than we seem to realize, and we're not using it to anywhere near its
full potential.
For instance, it can
function in the abstract.
Instead of
asking, ‘Who do we have on file
who
has a knowledge of
plastique?’ you can ask it, ‘What kind of person would have a knowledge of
plastique, and where might he or she be found?’
The machine will then generate a profile based upon its file of data and
its knowledge base."
He rose to his
feet.
"Well, there you have
it.
Take of the blinkers.
Try a little creative anarchy.
Hit the problem from first principles.
Find the fucking Hangman."
After an angry look at everyone, he left the
room.
*
*
*
*
*
Inspired by
Katia, who believed that certain foods were good for certain parts of the
anatomy, over the next three days the Bear ate a great deal of fish — a luxury
in landlocked Switzerland — and, so to speak, kept himself to himself.
He wasn't so
much antisocial as elusive.
He went
places and did things without saying exactly where or what.
He made and received phone calls without
comment.
A series of packages arrived by
courier and were unwrapped and examined only when he was alone.
He was moderately talkative but only on any
subject except the Hangman, and he was maddeningly cheerful.
On the morning
of the fourth day Fitzduane, who had been researching variations of Swiss batzi
with a little too much dedication the night before, rose at the unearthly hour
the Swiss set aside for breakfast only to yawn to a halt in near-terminal shock
at the sight of the Bear standing on his head, arms crossed, in the living
room.
His eyes were closed.
"Morning,"
said the Bear without stirring.
"Ugh,"
said Fitzduane.
He turned on his heel
and stood under a cold shower for five minutes.
Toward the end he thought it might be a good idea to remove his robe and
pajamas.
When he returned to the living
room, the apparition had vanished.
Over breakfast
the Bear expounded on the merits of fish as a brain food.
"Did you know," he said, "that
the brain is essentially a fatty organ and one of its key ingredients, a free
fatty acid, comes from fish?"
"Ugh,"
said Fitzduane, and spread butter and marmalade on his toast.
The Bear
chewed enthusiastically on a raw carrot and wrinkled his nose at what Fitzduane
was eating.
"That's no way to start
the day," he said.
"I must get
Katia to draw you up a diet sheet."
Fitzduane
poured some batzi into his orange juice.
He drank half the glass.
"Ugh," he said.
*
*
*
*
*
Later that
morning, after a detour to the
Der Bund
office to pick up a bulky file stuffed with press clippings, notes, and
photographs, Fitzduane found himself trailing behind the apparently
supercharged Bear as the detective hummed his way through the portals, halls,
rooms, corridors, and miscellaneous annexes of the City of Bern art
museum.
The corridor they were in was in
semidarkness.
Fitzduane wondered about
the wisdom of this policy.
Perhaps
visitors were supposed to rent flashlights.
His mind went back to Kuno Gonschior's exhibition of a series of black
rectangles in the Loeb Gallery.
It had
been the first time he had met Erika.
It
seemed lightyears ago
.
[(
wtf
?
)]
The Bear
stopped his march and scratched his head.
"I think I'm lost."
The pause gave
Fitzduane the chance to catch up.
He
leaned against the wall while the Bear consulted his notebook with the aid of a
match.
He was thinking that if the Bear
continued in this hyperactive, hypercheerful mood, it might be a good idea to
slip a downer into his morning orange juice before both of them had heart
attacks.
There was a
long, furious burst of what sounded like automatic weapons fire, and Fitzduane
dived to the ground.
The section of the
wall against which he'd been leaning a split second before fell into the
corridor, and a piercing white light shone through the gap in the wall.
Fitzduane half expected the archangel Gabriel
to make an appearance.
Instead, a
dust-covered figure clad in a zippered blue overall and carrying a heavy
industrial hammer drill in both hands like a weapon climbed through the
aperture, trailing cable behind him.
He
didn't appear to have wings.
Head to one
side, the figure surveyed the hole in the wall critically and then nodded his
head in satisfaction, entirely oblivious of the 9 mm SIG automatic Fitzduane
was aiming at his torso.
"Ha!"
said the Bear triumphantly.
"I
wasn't lost after all."
He looked
down at Fitzduane.
"Don't shoot
him.
This is Charlie von Beck's cousin
Paulus, Paulus von Beck.
He's a man of
parts:
the museum's expert in brush
technique, a successful sculptor, and I don't know what else.
He's also the reason we're here."
Fitzduane made
his weapon safe and reholstered it.
He
still hadn't gotten his shotgun back, and it irked him.
He rose to his feet, brushed dust from his
clothes, and shook hands with von Beck.
"Demolition or sculpture?" he asked.
"Or were you just carried away screwing
in a picture hook?"
*
*
*
*
*
Paulus left
them in his office drinking coffee while he went to clean up before going to
the restoration studios to examine the contents of the file the Bear had
brought with him.
When he returned,
Paulus had discarded his sculptor image.
The overalls had been replaced by a charcoal gray suit of Italian cut
with creases so sharp it seemed clear that the art expert kept a steam press in
his closet.
His silk was hand-painted.
Paulus was
older than his cousin.
He had a
high-browed, delicately featured face set off by a soft mane of wavy hair, and
his eyes were a curious shade of violet.
He looked troubled.
Fitzduane had the feeling that the Bear might
have stumbled across more than he'd bargained for.
Paulus's demeanor was not that of a
dispassionate expert; somehow he was a player.
"Sergeant
Raufman, before I answer the questions you have put to me, I would be grateful
if you would answer a few points I would like to raise.
They are relevant, I assure you."
"The
Bear's tone reflected the art expert's sober demeanor.
"As you wish.
We police are more accustomed to asking
questions rather than answering, but I shall do what I can."
There was the slightest emphasis on the word
police
.
It was as good a way as any of warning Paulus to think carefully before
he spoke, thought Fitzduane.
"Thank
you," said von Beck.
The warning
had been understood.
He took his time
before he spoke.
He straightened a small
bronze bust on his desk while he collected his thoughts.
He tidied the papers in front of him into an
exact symmetrical pile.
He cleared his
throat.
Fitzduane felt like taking a
walk around the block while von Beck dithered.
"My first
question:
Do your inquiries have to do
with the recent wave of killings in this city?"
The Bear
nodded.
"They do."
Von Beck
exhaled slowly.
"My second
question:
You have asked me to comment
on a certain artist's work.
Do you
suspect the artist of being involved — centrally involved — with these
killings?"
It was the
Bear's turn to hesitate.
"Yes," he said finally.
"You
don't think that he could be involved only peripherally, an innocent victim, if
you will?"
"Anything's
possible," said the Bear.
"But you
don't think so?"
The Bear gave
a deep sigh.
"No.
I think our friend is involved from his toes
to the tip of his paintbrush.
I think
he's a ruthless homicidal nut with a perverted sense of humor,
who
should be eliminated as fast as possible before he
contaminates any more lives.
I think you
should stop playing verbal tiddlywinks and tell us everything you know or
suspect.
I'm running out of
patience.
This is a murder
investigation, not some parlor game."
The color
drained from von Beck's face, and he looked as if he were going to be
sick.
"My third question," he
said, "and then I will tell you what you want to know:
If I tell you everything, can I trust your
utter discretion?
No leaks to the press,
no appearing in open court, no involvement at all, in fact, other than my
giving
you
a
statement?"
"This
business about priorities," said the Bear.
"We have a mass killer on the loose.
If I have to parade you around the streets of
rope around your neck to checkmate our friend, then that's what I'll do.
On the other hand, you're a cousin of a
trusted colleague.
If I can help you, I
will.
We're after the shark, not a
minnow."
Fitzduane
broke in.
"To be frank, Herr von
Beck, I think you have already decided to tell us all you know, and we respect
that.
It takes courage.
But there is something else to think about
apart from public duty.
Basic survival.
Our
murderous friend has a habit of cleaning up after himself.
He doesn't like to leave a trail of
witnesses.
They seem to enjoy brief life
spans after they have served their purpose.
It just might be a good idea to help stop our friend before he kills
you."
Von Beck now
looked truly terrified.
"I
know," he said.
"I know.
You don't have to say any more."
The Bear and Fitzduane waited while Paulus
von Beck composed himself.
"Before I
give you my professional opinion," said Paulus, "I had better explain
the full extent of my relationship with Simon Balac.
I am a homosexual.
inevitably tend to know one another.
The
artistic community is comparatively small.
I got to know Balac — everyone calls him Balac — well.
Nearly five years ago we became lovers."
"Your
being homosexual or even having an affair with Simon Balac is neither here nor
there to the police," said the Bear.
"Your sex life is your business."