Victor O'Reilly - Games of The Hangman

Fitzduane opened the file of letters. He showed one to von Graffenlaub. "You recognize the writing?"

Von Graffenlaub nodded. "Rudi's," he said sadly. He rubbed the paper between his fingers as if this would somehow bring his dead son closer.

"Rudi was alienated from you," said Fitzduane, "and his mother was dead. He was almost too close to Vreni. He needed someone to confide in who had some perspective. He started writing to Marta. What he wrote is neither entirely clear nor totally incriminating, but if you put it together with what we now know through other means, a reasonable interpretation is that he joined some sort of cult, found himself involved in something he couldn’t handle, tried to leave – and then found there was no way out."

"So he killed himself."

"No," said Fitzduane. "I don't think so, or at least not willingly. I think he was either murdered or forced to commit suicide, which amounts to the same thing. Probably we shall never know."

"May I have his letters?"

"Of course." Fitzduane had already made copies in anticipation of this contingency. They made depressing reading. He remembered an extract from the last letter, written less than a week before Rudi's death:

Matinka,

I wish I could tell you what is really going on, but I can't. I'm sworn to secrecy. I thought it was what should be done, but now I know more, and I'm not sure it's right anymore. I've been doing a lot of thinking. This is a good place to think. It's so empty compared with Switzerland, and there is always the noise of the sea. It's surreal, not like real life. But I have to get away. You'll probably see me sooner than you expect. Perhaps things will look better when I'm back in Bern.

Von Graffenlaub had been scanning the letter. "Why didn't Marta show this to me?" he said.

Fitzduane sighed. "By the time that particular letter arrived, Rudi was dead," he said. "I guess she thought, what's the point."

The Bear and Charlie von Beck were sitting in the next room when Fitzduane came in after his talk with von Graffenlaub. The Bear removed his headphones and switched off the tape recorder. "Has he gone?"

"Yes," said Fitzduane. "He's got a plane to catch, some negotiations in progress in New York. He'll be away for a week."

"Plenty of time to think," said von Beck.

"Yes, poor sod," said Fitzduane. "I don't like what we're doing."

"We apply pressure where we can," said the Bear, "and hope that something gives. It's crude and it isn't fair, but it's what works."

"Sometimes," said Fitzduane.

"Sometimes is enough," said the Bear.

"I don't think von Graffenlaub is involved," said von Beck.

"No," agreed the Bear, "but who is better placed to lean on Erika?"

"Aren't you afraid of what may happen?" said Fitzduane.

"Do you mean, do I think von Graffenlaub may attack her, perhaps kill her? Not really. But even if he does, do we have a choice? The Hangman isn't a single case of murder; he's a plague. He's got to be stopped."

"The greater good."

"Something like that," said the Bear. "but if it helps you any, I don't like it either."

Fitzduane poured himself a drink. He was drained after the long session with von Graffenlaub, and the whiskey felt smooth against his throat. He poured himself another and added more ice. The Bear was lighting his pipe and looking at him over the top.

"‘How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’" quoted Fitzduane.

"Not once," said the Bear, "since you're asking."

"Sherlock Holmes. Don't they teach you Bernese anything apart from languages?"

"Good manners, for one," said the Bear. "Let me remind you of another Holmes dictum: ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one had data.’"

"That was before computers," said Fitzduane, "not to mention expert systems. Anyway, the trouble with this case isn't lack of data. We're drowning in it. What we're short of are conclusions, not to mention proof."

"They also teach us patience in Bern," said the Bear.

"That's not one of Ireland's national characteristics."

"But what's this about the elusive Ivo?" von Beck broke in. "What headway is being made there?"

"Sir Ivo," said Fitzduane. "He thinks he's a knight in shining armor. I didn't recognize him at first. I was coming out of a bank on the Barenplatz when this weird figure in a cloak and crash helmet slid up on roller skates and started to talk to me. Before I could say much more than a social ‘Who the hell are you?’ he'd vanished again. He did much the same thing twice more as I was crossing the square and then pressed a note into my hand. I damn nearly shot him."

Von Beck shuddered. "I wish you wouldn’t say things like that," he said. "Shooting people is un-Swiss. Which reminds me – the authorities in Lenk want to know who's going to pay for the iron door you blasted. Apparently it doesn't belong to the cheese maker; it's Gemeinde property."

Fitzduane laughed. Von Beck tried to look serious and authoritarian, which wasn't so easy in his SKUNKWORKS sweatshirt.

"Wait till you see the bill," he said. "It's no laughing matter. The Gemeinde claims it was an antique door of considerable historical value. They also want to give you an award for saving Sergeant Franze's life – but that's a separate issue."

"You're kidding me."

"Certainly not," said von Beck. "In Switzerland we take the destruction of property most seriously."

"Ivo," said the Bear.

"Ah, yes," said von Beck. "What does the note say?"

"It's a typical Ivo message," said the Bear, "not straightforward. He uses drawings and poetry and so on. But the meaning is clear. He wants to meet Fitzduane tomorrow at High Noon, the cafe at the corner of the Barenplatz, at midday. He must come alone. No police. And it's about Klaus Minder. Ivo has information about his killer."

"Ivo's a screwball," said von Beck, "and he's already killed one man. Is it worth the risk? We don't want our Irishman slashed to death before he's paid for the door in Lenk – even if it would make our Chief of Criminal Police happy."

"It's a risk," said the Bear, "but I don't think a serious one. It's clear that Ivo has taken a liking to Fitzduane, and I don't think he's essentially violent. I'll lay odds what happened to the Monkey was provoked in some way."

"Want to risk it?" said von Beck to Fitzduane. "We'll have you well covered."

"If the city pays for the door in Lenk."

Von Beck looked pained.

Henssen came in, smiling. "Progress," he announced. "We've done another run. If all our heuristics are correct, we've narrowed down the suspect list to only eight thousand."

Von Beck looked depressed. "I hate computers," he said as he left the room.

"What's up with him?" said Henssen. "I was only joking."

"Budget problems," said the Bear.

Fitzduane put down his glass. The shotgun, an XR-18 round chambered, safety on, lay concealed in the tripod case beside the beer. There was no sign of Ivo. He checked his watch: three minutes to noon. He remembered what Charlie von Beck had said: "Ivo might be a screwball, but he's a Swiss screwball." Ivo would be on time.

The Bear, von Beck himself, and six detectives, including one borrowed from the Federal Police, had been allocated to back up Fitzduane, and it had seemed like overkill when they were running through the plan. Now, looking at the teeming crowds and the area to be covered, he wasn't so sure.

He ran through the plan again. The Barenplatz was a large, rectangular open space with outdoor cafes lining the sunny side. The center of the space had been closed off to traffic and was filled with market stalls. Today seemed especially busy. There were flower stands in profusion, hucksters selling leatherwear and homemade sweets and organically grown just-about-everything. About thirty meters away a crowd had gathered to watch some jugglers and a fire-eater perform.