Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

She reached down and pressed him to her and then kissed him. He could feel her nipples against his mouth and cheeks, and then her tongue was snaking to find his and she was in his lap, naked.

She licked his face and neck, and one hand moved to the bulge in his pants and unzipped him. He felt an overwhelming sexual desire. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her tongue across his chest and down his body until he engulfed him.

Fitzduane spasmed at her touch and then stared at her bobbing head with disbelief. Her hair – though she was no blood relation – was the color of Rudi's. Desire died inside him. He tried to pull away. Her hand grasped him, and she wouldn't stop. He pulled her up forcibly. "My God, woman, what are you doing?" he said. He thought his choice of words might have been better.

"You are a very physical man, Hugo," she said. Her lips were wet, her lipstick smeared. "I want to fuck you."

Fitzduane rose to his feet unsteadily. He shook his head. There was nothing to say. He looked at her. She had risen to her feet. She looked magnificent. He odor was viscerally sexual. She laughed. "Welcome to Bern," she said.

He hurriedly zipped himself up, said good-bye, and made his way to the street. The cool night air was refreshing. He thought it quite likely that steam was coming out of his ears. He walked back toward his hotel, on the way splashing some water from the Fountain of Justice on his face. The painted carving of the blindfolded damsel looming above him, showing a surprising amount of leg, reminded him somewhat of Erika.

Detective Sergeant First Class Heinz Raufman, better known as the Bear, took the number three tram home to his new and very comfortable apartment in Saali, a suburb of Bern, just fifteen minutes from the city center.

If he was honest with himself, and he often was, he thought that all things considered, he had gotten off quite lightly. He had really deserved suspension. Instead, he had been given what amounted to a slap on the wrist and a sinecure. Played right, minor crimes could be turned into something very interesting indeed, a chance to do a little quiet exploring of the highways and byways of Bern's underworld, without the time constraints of a heavy caseload.

"Tilly, my love," he said as he fed Gustavus and Adolfus, his pet goldfish, "thumping the odd German can have its good side." He often talked to Tilly when he was alone in his apartment. They had bought it less than a year before her death. She had been at her happiest when cleaning and decorating it and making it ever more comfortable. "It must be snug, Heini," she used to say, "not just comfortable, but snug."

The Bear ate a light meal – for him – of veal in cream sauce with mushrooms, rosti, a side salad, just a little French bread with unsalted butter, and Camembert, all washed down with a modest liter of Viti, a Merlot of a most agreeable quality from Ticino. He debated having fruit and compromised with a pear, or two, or three. He had an espresso to fill in the cracks, and just a small Strega. All in all, quite an acceptable snack.

He watched the YBs on television; they lost. The Bear had strong doubts about the blending of the Bernese character and soccer. Later he watched the news. In Northern Ireland Bobby Sands was on a hunger strike and things did not look good.

The mention of Ireland, albeit Northern Ireland, reminded the Bear that tomorrow he had better do something about the Irishman. He switched off the television and listened to the radio. Gustavus and Adolfus had a weakness for classical; they seemed to swim to tempo. The Bear cleaned his guns. He might be a little grumpy and a little heavy, but his paws worked just fine. Marksmanship trophies lined his sideboard. The Bear liked to shoot.

Tucked up in the large double bed, the electric blanket radiating just the right amount of warmth, his hot chocolate at hand on the bedside table, the Bear leafed through some paperwork he had picked up on the Irishman.

"Good night, little love," he murmured, as he always had to Tilly, before turning over and falling asleep.

Fitzduane was the kind of man who examined credentials – something unusual in the Bear's experience. Most people tended to fold when an ID was waved about. In this case – Fitzduane was a connoisseur of such arcane documentation – the laminated identity card read: SICHERHEITS UND KRIMINALPOLIZEI DER STADT BERN. He handed back the identity card. "There is something unsettling about the word ‘Kriminalpolizei’ before breakfast," he said.

"The Bear looked puzzled. I certainly did not mean to disturb you. In Switzerland we get up early. I finished breakfast over two hours ago."

Fitzduane looked sympathetic. "We all have our idiosyncrasies," he said. "You must be starving again by now. Come and join me."

The Bear did not need a second invitation. In truth he had been on the way to the Barengraben for a small snack of coffee and pastries – the Barengraben was famous for its pastries – when he realized that the Irishman was on his route.

"How did you find me?" asked Fitzduane.

"Your visitor's registration card," said the Bear. "That card you fill out when you check in. They are collected from every hotel and pension every day and are filed at headquarters."

"And if I'd stayed with a friend?"

"If you were in Bern, I'd have found you," said the Bear, "but maybe not so fast." He was a little distracted. He was busy putting butter and honey on his roll. Fitzduane was impressed. The Bear was demonstrating a certain mastery of construction, not to say balance. He gave the result a critical look, appeared satisfied, and began to munch.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Fitzduane beckoned for a second basket of rolls.

"Your friend Colonel Kilmara knows my chief," said the Bear. "He said you were coming to Bern and might need a little help getting to know your way around. Didn't your Colonel Kilmara tell you?"

"I guess he did," said Fitzduane, "but it was fairly casual. He gave me the name and number of a Major Max Buisard. He's the Chief Kripo – that's the Chief of the Criminal Police – and my superior. Not a bad sort but a busy man, so he asked me to look after you. He sends his regards and hopes he will have a chance to meet you before you leave." He smiled. "Socially, of course."

Fitzduane smiled back politely. "Of course," he said. "Thank him for me – will you? – but tell him I don't expect to be in Bern for long."

The Bear nodded. "A pity," he said. He wrapped his paws around his steaming coffee cup as if warming them. He raised the cup to his lips and then blew on it without drinking. His eyes over the rim were shrewd and intelligent. His tone was casual.

"Tell me, Mr. Fitzduane," he said. "What exactly are you doing in Bern?"

The Irishman smiled broadly. "Sergeant Raufman, why do I think you already know the answer to that?"

The Bear was silent. He looked guilty. "Harrumph," he said, or at least it sounded like that. It was hard to tell; he was munching a croissant. "You know I once arrested you Rudi von Graffenlaub," he said.

"Tell me about it," said Fitzduane.

The Bear licked a little bit of honey off his right thumb. His normally glum expression was replaced by the most charming smile. "Only if we trade," he said. He hummed a few notes of an old Bernese march: “Pom Pom, tra-ri-di-ri, Al-li Ma-nne, stan-deni!”

Fitzduane thought for a while, and the Bear did not interrupt him but just sat there humming a little and looking content. Then Fitzduane spoke. "Why not?" he said, and following intuition rather than direct need, he told Bear everything right from the beginning. He was surprised at himself when he had finished.

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.