Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"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 cafes in Bern. It would be an interesting sartorial problem.

"Is the first Spargel of the season considered such a delicacy in Ireland?" 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 Ireland on occasion." 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 Havana cigar in perfect condition.

"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."

The day, once again, was warm. Fitzduane decided he would have to do some shopping fairly soon. He had packed for snow, ice, wind, and rain. He hadn't expected shirtsleeve weather so early in the year.

They left the Theaterplatz, passed the casino on their left, and walked across the elegant arches of the KirchenfeldBridge. They passed the Kunsthalle and the Alpine and PostMuseum. They walked briskly; the lawyer was in good condition.

Just near the junction of Helvetiastrasse and Kirchenfeldstrasse, von Graffenlaub turned into a narrow cul-de-sac. Trees shaded the entrance. It would have been easy to miss from the main road. Nameplates and speakerphones on each entrance they passed denoted apartments. At the fourth entrance von Graffenlaub stopped and punched a number into the keyboard of an electronic lock.

The heavy glass door, discreetly barred with ornate wrought steel, clicked open. Von Graffenlaub ignored the elevator and led Fitzduane up two short flights of stairs. The stairs and second-floor entranceway were carpeted. Von Graffenlaub unlocked a second door, this time with a key. They entered a narrow but well-appointed hallway. Von Graffenlaub shut the door behind them. It closed with a sound that suggested more than wood in its construction.

Fitzduane found himself grabbed. With some slight difficulty he disentangled himself from a huge potted plant whose greenery was modeled on the tentacles of an octopus with thorns added. He was becoming quite annoyed with this Swiss obsession for growing rain forest undergrowth inside the home.

Von Graffenlaub showed him around the apartment with the detached professionalism of a real estate agent. Nonetheless, small actions and an ease of movement suggested he was very much at home.

The place was comfortable to the point of being luxurious, but the furnishings and decor were, for the most part, almost deliberately unostentatious. The one exception was the master bedroom, which featured a thick white carpet, a king-size bed with black silk sheets, and a mirror set into the ceiling over the bed.

"Homey," said Fitzduane.

What must originally have been the dining room had been turned into a lavishly equipped study. Laden bookshelves filled one wall. Another wall was equipped for visual aids. There was a pull-down screen, a recessed television monitor, and a hessian-covered bulletin board on which maps and other papers could be retained by magnets. Maps of Bern and Switzerland were already in place. The furniture was modern and quietly expensive in its solidity and degree of finish. A conference table made a T shape with the desk. The stainless steel and black padded leather chairs were of the ergonomic design; they swiveled and tilted and were adjustable for height and lumbar support.

Full-height folding cabinet doors were pulled back to reveal a wall of state-of-the-art business communications equipment: there were several more television monitors, one of them for Reuthers Financial Services; there was a telex, a high-speed facsimile transfer, a powerful radio transceiver, dictating equipment, and a photocopier. A computer terminal sat docile on a mobile cart.

"Phones?" asked Fitzduane; there had to be something missing. Hew as reminded of a cartoon in The New Yorker: “Even in a think tank, Glebov, nobody likes a smart alec.”

Von Graffenlaub pressed a button on the underside of the desk. A recessed panel slid back, and with a whir of electric motors, a telephone console, complete with a plethora of ancillary equipment, slid into view. He pointed at one of the electronic boxes. "It's fitted with a tape recorder," he said.

"Naturally," said Fitzduane politely.

They moved on to the kitchen. Cabinets, double-door refrigerator, and deep freeze groaned with food. In one walk-in pantry, bottles of red wine presented their bottoms in rack upon rack. This being Switzerland, the bottles had been dusted. "The white wine is in the cellar," said von Graffenlaub, "which is also a nuclear shelter."

Fitzduane almost started to laugh. He had been checking the labels on the red wine. Most of it was chateau-bottled and vintage. "A nuclear shelter – there's no answer to that."