Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

"No," said Andreas. "Rudi came into my room a few days later. He said he wanted to ask me something. He beat around the bush for quite a while, and then he started asking me about homosexuality. He asked me had I ever had a homosexual experience and did having one mean he wouldn't still want to sleep with girls. I wasn't much help to him, I fear. He wouldn't say why he was asking, and he seemed confused; he was a little high anyway."

"On what?" asked Fitzduane.

"Oh, grass or something like that," said Andreas. "It was hard to know with Rudi. He liked to mix it around."

"And what had Vreni to do with all this? I got the strongest impression that she, too, was involved in whatever it was."

"You may be right," said Andreas. "She would certainly know. Those two were as thick as thieves, but she didn't say anything. I'll tell you, though, there are a couple of people in Lenk you could talk to. You know about Oskar anyway."

"Yes."

"Okay," said Andreas. "Well, there's him, and there is also a close friend of the twins who lives there. He's about their age. He's an apprentice cheesemaker, a guy called Felix Krane, a nice fellow, I've always thought."

"Is he gay?"

"Yes, he is," said Andreas, "but I don't know; somehow it doesn't seem to fit. If it was Felix, I don't see why all the fuss."

"A first sexual anything can be pretty disorienting, and it can certainly change relationships."

"Yes, it can," said Andreas. He was blushing again, or it may have been the flush of exertion from the long walk. They entered the camp. They had noodles, meat sauce, and beets for lunch in the officers' mess. They didn't have to eat out of mess tins, but the taste was the same; somehow with army food it always was.

The Bear put down his wineglass with a sigh of satisfaction. Three deciliters of wine had vanished effortlessly. Fitzduane was impressed by the idea of actually knowing how much a wineglass held. The Swiss glasses came in different sizes and were marked accordingly. In Ireland, in the spirit of the national obsession for gambling, a wineglass could be almost any size. A few glasses of wine could make you pleasantly mellow, decidedly the worse for wear, or have you punching the barman in thirst and frustration.

"I'm not being followed anymore," said Fitzduane, "or at least I don't think so."

"Perhaps you were mistaken. Perhaps you were never being followed and it was a case of imagination."

"Perhaps." Fitzduane reached into a breast pocket of his blouson jacket and removed a photograph. He handed it to the Bear.

The Bear pursed his lips; his mustache twitched. It looked at if he were thinking. "What do you make of it?" asked Fitzduane.

The Bear was still studying the photograph. "A nice sharp photo of a motorcycle taking a corner somewhere up in the mountains." He looked at Fitzduane. "And you want me to check the registration."

Fitzduane nodded. "It might be interesting."

A buxom waitress in a low-cut traditional blouse with white sleeves brought them fresh wine. There was a rising buzz of conversation around them as the cellar filled up. They were seated with their backs to the wall at a corner table, an arrangement that made for privacy yet allowed the entrance and most of the other tables to be surveyed. The choice had apparently been made without conscious thought. Fitzduane had been quietly amused. You get into habits, he supposed, if you spent a great deal of time watching people.

"A few centuries ago there used to be a couple of hundred places like this in Bern selling wine," said the Bear. "Many of the aristocracy had vineyards on their country estates, and the wine business was the one trade that was considered socially acceptable for the higher echelons, apart, of course, from the business of army and government. Then fashions changed, the nobility lost power, and people drank instead at inns and in cafes. There are still plenty of cellars left, but those that are used commercially are boutiques and restaurants and places like that. I think it's a pity. A wine cellar like this has great atmosphere: arched ceilings, scrubbed wooden tables, age-darkened paneling, wine barrels, a drinking song or two, and a good-looking widow in charge of it all."

"Why a widow?"

"Don't really know," said the Bear. "It's just a tradition now that the Klotzikeller is run by a widow." He looked across at Fitzduane. "My chief called me in."

" Ja und? " said Fitzduane. "It's about all the German I know."

"Just as well with an accent like that. Beat von Graffenlaub was in touch with him. They are old friends, or at least they know each other of old. They met in the army, and now they play golf and sit on some Burgergemeinde committee together."

Where would the establishment be without golf?" said Fitzduane. "Sir Francis Drake played bowls, the Egyptians built pyramids, and in Afghanistan, I hear, they play a sort of polo with a goat's head. I suppose those activities serve the same purpose."

"You're going to like this," said the Bear. "I've been ordered to give you official help, access to information and records, that sort of thing."

"Very nice," said Fitzduane. "Because of von Graffenlaub, you think?"

"Not just von Graffenlaub. There has also been a fair bit of toing and froing between the Chief and your friend Kilmara. They have decided to put their heads together over the small matter of the tattoo that keeps cropping up – what did you call it?"

"The Flowers of Evil."

"So, the Flowers of Evil symbol being found on various dead bodies in both countries," continued the Bear, "not to mention some other developments."

"Out with it," said Fitzduane.

"We put out a flier through Interpol – normal procedure – as did the authorities in Ireland. All European countries and the U.S. were notified. No reaction at first. It's always more difficult when something is visual. Most police records are geared toward names, addresses, fingerprints, things like that. A nameless symbol is hard to index and classify in a way that all parties will understand."

"But?"

"We had some luck. In some far-distant archive a penny dropped."

"This has all the markings of a shaggy dog story," said Fitzduane.

"A body bearing the tattoo was found in a burned-out car near San Francisco about eighteen months ago," said the Bear after a momentary pause. "The intention, it would appear, he been to completely destroy both car and body in the fire."

"So what went wrong?"

"Overkill," said the Bear. "In addition to the gasoline in the tank, there was C-4 plastic explosive in the car. Part of an arm was thrown clear by the blast. It was badly damaged, but they could just make out part of the circle of flowers and one line of the letter "A." Our flier didn't ring a bell at first until they searched under the name of the flower. "It's a small drawing, so it's hard to be sure about the species. They tried various names and came up with nothing. Then they hit the jackpot with-"

"Geranium," said Fitzduane.

The Bear stared at him. "How did you know that?"

"I'm the seventh son of a seventh son," said Fitzduane. "In Ireland we believe that gives you special powers. And I met somebody who knows flowers."

"Who?"

"Andreas."

They looked at each other. "Means nothing," said the Bear.

"Who knows?" said Fitzduane. "Why don't you finish your story? You were at the severed arm."

"Humph," said the Bear. He glared balefully at a couple making signs of wanting to share their table. The couple scurried away.

"They don't know who the arm belonged to. No identification was possible. The hand was already severely burned when the explosion took place, and the body itself was almost completely destroyed, so no fingerprints, no dental records, no distinguishing marks or features apart from the tattoo, which was partially protected under the watch, and, of course, no face."