Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

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 cafes 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 LakeThun and then up into the 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, Bern's 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 Bern, Fitzduane 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 Bern, was estranged from 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 Switzerland and triumphantly 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 Ireland. 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 Bern. 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 Huttenfinken 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.