Read Games of the Hangman Online
Authors: Victor O'Reilly
Back in his
hotel room, Fitzduane loaded the shotgun.
With the magazine extension fitted, it held seven rounds.
He checked the safety catch and replaced the
weapon in its carrying case.
He had almost
forgotten about the small parcel that Vreni had pressed into his hand.
He borrowed a pair of scissors from reception
and carefully cut open the package.
Inside was a glass jar containing
gingerbread.
He unscrewed the top, and the rich aroma
brought him back to the old farmhouse on the side of the hill and a girl with
flour on her cheek.
He ate one of the
gingerbread men.
It broke crisply as he
bit into it.
There was a hint of butter and
spices.
Wrapped around
the jar was an envelope.
The letter
inside was short, the handwriting round and deliberate.
The letter was written on the squared paper
used throughout the continent for notepads.
Dearest
Irishman
I
am writing you this as you lie asleep in the next room.
I have lit the fire again, so it is warm, and
I feel safe and cozy and loving toward you.
I wish you could stay with me in Heiligenschwendi, but of course it is
not possible.
Please
do not contact me again — at least for a few days.
I need to think and decide what is best to
do.
I know you will want to ask me more
questions when you awake.
I don't think
I will be able to talk to you.
If
you stay in
talk to.
His name is Klaus Minder.
He is from
When I last heard, he was
staying in the Youth House at Taubenstrasse 12.
I
suppose I shouldn't have talked to you at all — but I was so lonely.
I
miss Rudi.
Much
love, Vreni
He placed the
letter beside the gingerbread and the shotgun on the table.
He felt like
a schnapps
.
He sat there without moving, an ache in his
heart for the mixed-up young Vreni.
He
reached out for the phone to call her, but then his hand fell away.
If time to think was what she wanted, then
maybe she should have it.
When the phone
rang, it was Beat von Graffenlaub's secretary.
Could Herr Fitzduane meet Herr von Graffenlaub for lunch in the
Restaurant du Théâtre tomorrow at twelve-thirty precisely?
She repeated the “precisely.”
"I'll be
there," he said.
"Who's
paying?"
Frau Hunziker
sounded as if she were strangling.
Fitzduane hoped she wasn't.
Things were complex enough already.
*
*
*
*
*
Ivo was still
asleep when the two detectives called at the Youth House.
They were courteous.
They didn't barge in and roust Ivo out of his
sleeping bag.
They knocked gently on the
back door — they had come in through the side entrance — and waited in their
car outside for ten minutes until a tousled Ivo appeared.
It was obvious
Ivo had not had breakfast.
The two
detectives bought him coffee and rolls from a stall in the Hauptbahnhof and
chatted quietly between themselves while he ate.
When he was finished, they put him back into
their car and headed along Laupenstrasse with the serried tracks of the
the right.
After less than a kilometer
they turned right onto Bühlstrasse.
Part
of the campus of
before them, and with a sinking feeling Ivo realized where he was going.
At the university hospital they drove into
the emergency entrance, and the large shuttered door closed behind them.
Given time, a
skilled mortician can make the most unsightly cadaver appear presentable.
In this case there hadn't been time.
The pathologists of the Gerichtsmedizinisches
Institut Bern — part of
concentrated on the main task, determining the cause of death.
The corpse had been roughly sewn together
after the detailed examination, and there was almost nothing that could be done
about the mutilation of the eyes and the missing ears.
Fortunately only the head was shown to
Ivo.
The rest of the body was covered
with a white cloth.
"Do you
recognize him?" asked one of the detectives.
There was no
response.
Tears streamed down Ivo's
cheeks.
The question
was repeated again, twice.
The first detective
pulled the sheet over the corpse's head and, with his arm around Ivo's
shoulders, led him out of the room into the corridor outside.
He brought Ivo into an examination room just
off the corridor.
His companion followed
and closed the door.
Ivo sat in a chair
in deep shock.
It was late morning
before he finally confirmed his identification and signed the papers, and then
the two detectives drove him back to the Youth House.
They watched as he walked slowly down the
side of the house, his shoulders slumped.
"If he's
acting, I'm becoming a Berp again," said the first detective.
He had quite enjoyed his years as a Berp, a
member of the uniformed police, the Bereitschaftspolizei; the hours were
predictable.
"He's not
involved," said the Bear, "but he was close to Minder.
He's
very
shaken
now, but he'll recover and start digging.
Who knows?
He may come up with
something."
"Well,
Heini,
thanks for helping out anyhow.
Now you can go back to the quiet life
again.
It was just that I knew that you
knew Ivo and would never turn down a quick trip to the morgue."
"Funny
fucker, aren’t you?"
They had lunch
together in the Mövenpick.
It wasn't
really the Bear's sort of place, but it was quick and convenient, and he had a
little unofficial chat with a friend in Interpol in mind for the afternoon.
Over lunch he
learned that the investigation of Klaus Minder's death was getting precisely
nowhere.
He was neither surprised nor
entirely displeased.
He thought he might
check with the Irishman later.
Now there
was a genuine wild card
who
was just sneaky enough to
get results.
Off to the Oberland to see
the sights indeed!
The Bear
wasn't too old to sweet-talk a Hertz girl, and it didn't take much genius to
figure out the significance of Heiligenschwendi.
*
*
*
*
*
The Restaurant
du Théâtre was one of
more exclusive spots
.
Fitzduane arrived five minutes
early.
Von Graffenlaub was already
seated.
There was
something of the dandy about von Graffenlaub, thought Fitzduane.
It was not so much the more flamboyant
touches, such as the miniature rose in the lawyer's buttonhole or the
combination of pink shirt, pale gray suit, and black knitted tie (color
coordination of mourning?).
No, sitting
opposite Fitzduane, dipping his asparagus into the restaurant's special
hollandaise sauce with practiced
expertise,
he had a
vigor that had been missing during their previous encounter.
He projected confidence and a sense of
purpose.
He radiated — Fitzduane
searched for the right word — authority.
This was more the man Fitzduane had expected — patriot, professional
success, wielder of power, influence, and riches.
"Delicious,"
said von Graffenlaub.
The last stalk of
early asparagus had vanished.
He
dabbled
his fingertips in a finger bowl and dried them on a
pink napkin.
It's
shade did not quite match his shirt, but it was close.
Fitzduane wondered if the lawyer had dressed
for his surroundings.
He had read that
there were more than two hundred restaurants and cafés in
It would be an interesting sartorial problem.
"Is the
first
Spargel
of the season
considered such a delicacy in
asked von Graffenlaub.
Fitzduane cast
his mind back.
He could not recall early
asparagus causing any Irishman of his acquaintance to eulogize:
the first drink of the day, certainly; the
first hunt of the season, possibly; but the first encounter with a vegetable,
any vegetable — sad to say, quite impossible.
"A
Frenchman of my acquaintance," said Fitzduane, "remarked that he had
never realized how much hardship the English inflicted upon us Irish during
seven hundred years of occupation until he sampled our food."
Von
Graffenlaub smiled.
"You are a
little hard on your country.
I have
eaten very adequately in
There was the tiniest
speck of hollandaise on his tie.
Fitzduane felt it compensated for the rose.
After lunch
Fitzduane declined the offer of cognac but accepted a
"Mr.
Fitzduane," said von Graffenlaub, "I confess to have been greatly
upset by your proposal and even more shocked by the photograph of Rudi.
It has taken me a little time to decide
exactly what to do."
"I'm
sorry," said Fitzduane.
"My
purpose was to convince, not to hurt.
I
could think of no other way that would have the same impact."
Von
Graffenlaub's glance was hard.
"You
took a risk," he said, "but now I think your motives are
sincere.
I have found out a great deal about
you over the past couple of days."
"And what
have you decided?"
"Mr.
Fitzduane," said von Graffenlaub, "if I had decided against your
proposal, I assure you we would not be lunching here today.
In fact, as you will already have surmised,
it is my intention to help you in every practicable way to ascertain the full
circumstances of Rudi's death.
I have
only one important condition."
"Which
is?"
"That you
are utterly frank with me," said von Graffenlaub.
"You may well uncover matters I shall
find unpalatable.
Nonetheless, I want to
know.
I must know.
Do you agree?"
Fitzduane
nodded.
He had a feeling of foreboding
as he did so.
"Frankness is a
two-way road," he said.
"I
will have to ask questions you will not wish to answer.
My inquiries may cover matters you do not
consider relevant.
But let me put it
quite simply:
If you are straight with
me, I'll tell you what I find out."
"I
understand what must be done," said von Graffenlaub.
"However unpleasant all this may turn
out to be, it will be better than doing nothing.
It was destroying me.
Somehow I felt responsible, but I didn't know
why, or to what extent, or what I could do about it.
Then you arrived, and now there is the
beginning of an answer."
Von
Graffenlaub seemed to relax slightly after he finished
speaking,
as if only at that moment had he truly made up his mind.
The certain distance, indeed
tension, that
had been present in his manner throughout
their meeting so far seemed to wane.
He
held out his hand to Fitzduane.
"Do
your best," he said.
The Irishman
shook it.
"I think I'll have that
cognac now," he said.
A brief
gesture by von Graffenlaub, a few words spoken, and two cognacs appeared in
front of them.
They drank a silent
toast.
Fitzduane drained his, although
he could not shake the ominous feeling that gripped him.
Von
Graffenlaub paid,
then
turned to Fitzduane.
"How would you like a short walk?
I have made some arrangements that may be
helpful."