Games of The Hangman f-1

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "No," she said, "but he's an attractive man. I'd like to fuck him before he dies."

  The man with the golden hair smiled. "Dear little Erika," he said, "such a creature of love."

  She drew him into her mouth.

  * * * * *

  "I own this apartment," said von Graffenlaub. "It seems to me that your inquiries could well take some time, probably weeks, perhaps longer. You will need a place where you can talk to people in confidence, where you can plan and organize, where there is privacy. I am offering you this place for as long as is necessary. I think you will be more comfortable here than in your hotel, and you will have a better working base. I should add that there is a car in the garage that you may use. It is a small BMW. Do you accept?"

  Fitzduane nodded. It was a qualified nod, but he didn't want to interrupt the lawyer for the moment. He sensed there was more.

  "Good," said von Graffenlaub. "When I become involved with something, I like it to be done well." He smiled. "The Swiss passion for efficiency, it's bred into us." He tapped the briefcase. "In here I have assembled as much information as I could think of that may be useful to you. There are photographs, school and medical reports, the names and addresses of friends, contacts in the various police forces, letter of introduction, and money."

  "Money isn't necessary," said Fitzduane.

  "I know," said von Graffenlaub. "I gather from reports I have received that you earn a most respectable income from your profession and in addition have other resources. My agents were unable to determine either the extent or the nature of this other capital. They were surprised at this, as was I. My contacts are normally successful in these matters." There was an unspoken question in his remarks.

  Fitzduane grinned. "The Swiss are not the only people with a basic distrust of central government and a preference for confidentiality. But let me repeat, I do not need your money — though I do appreciate your offer."

  Von Graffenlaub flushed slightly. They were not talking about money. The real issue was control. He realized that the Irishman had no intention of allowing himself to be manipulated in any way. He would be agreeable, cooperative even, but he would remain his own man. It was not a situation the lawyer was used to. Fitzduane's gaze was steady. There was steel in those green-gray eyes. Damn the man. Reluctantly von Graffenlaub nodded.

  "I accept your offer of the apartment," said Fitzduane. "I find it hard to resist a good wine cellar." His tone was mollifying and friendly. "Tell me," he added, almost as an afterthought, "is the phone tapped and the place bugged?"

  Fitzduane's tone and manner had lulled the lawyer. Von Graffenlaub was disconcerted and visibly embarrassed. Momentarily he was speechless.

  "Yes," he said finally.

  "Specially for me?" said Fitzduane, "or are bugs part of the décor — sort of companions to the house plants?"

  "They were installed to record you. I gave the order before my investigations into your background were completed. I did not know with whom I was dealing."

  "People in the electronics business call it a learning curve," said Fitzduane. "Tell me, who normally uses this place?"

  "I have had this apartment for many years. I use it from time to time when I want to be alone, or to work on something particularly confidential."

  "I see," said Fitzduane, "sort of an adult tree house."

  "The recording devices will be removed immediately," said von Graffenlaub. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of whiskey. He gave one to Fitzduane. Fitzduane tasted it. It was Irish, a twelve-year-old Jameson.

  He thought he might shoot the potted plant in the hall.

  14

  Fitzduane had decided he would take a break from female von Graffenlaubs for a while. Vreni would answer the phone but then not speak except to say things like "Take care, Irishman," which he did not find either helpful or reassuring; Marta, the eldest, was away in Lenk for a fortnight's skiing; and Erika, on the basis of precedent, was going to give him an erection just as she did poor young Andreas. He didn't mind having the erection; it was what it might lead to that posed the problem. And that brought him back to Andreas.

  Andreas wasn't straightforward either. Lieutenant Andreas von Graffenlaub was on active duty in the army camp at Sand, training a new batch of recruits. He could not leave his duties, but if Fitzduane didn't mind coming over, they could talk between maneuvers. A few minutes and a phone call from Beat von Graffenlaub later, and it had all been arranged. If Fitzduane could present himself at the General Guisan Kaserne at the ungodly hour of 0700 precisely, the army would provide transportation to Sand. He could get to the Kaserne on the number 9 tram.

  * * * * *

  It took them well over an hour to locate Andreas. After checking a series of combat groups waging their own little wars, they found him standing on top of an overgrown concrete bunker awaiting an attack by his platoon. He wore the forage dress cap of an officer with his camouflage fatigues, and there was a heavy service automatic in a holster at his waist. Hands on hips, his bearing confident to the point of cockiness, he looked down at Fitzduane.

  "So, Herr Fitzduane," he said, "how do you like Swiss Army life?" He smiled politely and held out his hand to help Fitzduane up. The corporal saluted and receded into the trees.

  "These are all new recruits," said Andreas, indicating the forest surrounding them. Not a figure was to be seen, although there were occasional noises as recruits, laden down with automatic rifles and blank-firing rocket-launchers, crawled into firing position. "Only a few weeks ago they were university students or wine makers or mechanics or waiters. Now they are beginning to be soldiers, but there is still a long way to go. Don't judge the Swiss Army by what you see here today." Andreas smiled again. He had great charm and none of the tension and insecurity of Vreni.

  Privately Fitzduane was impressed by what he was seeing at Sand. He knew from his own experience just how difficult it was to turn civilians into soldiers. In this case there was an air of seasoned professionalism about most of the officer corps he had run into so far, and the training programs seemed to be comprehensive and imaginative. Still, recruits in their earlier stages were seldom a pretty sight. Andreas winced when a dead branch broke nearby with a loud crack followed by a highly audible expletive.

  "I'm sorry about your brother," said Fitzduane. He found a seat on the trunk of a fallen tree. Andreas remained standing, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest, notebook now ready to record the performance of his men.

  "You ask the questions," said Andreas, "and I'll tell you what I can."

  * * * * *

  In contrast with Vreni, who knew more but would not tell, Andreas, having already heard about Fitzduane's involvement from his father, was helpful and forthcoming. Unfortunately he did not appear to know much, or if he did, Fitzduane was not asking the right questions. The Irishman was tempted to be discouraged, but then odd facts and details began to emerge as Andreas relaxed and devoted at least part of his mind to Fitzduane's mission.

  Andreas looked at the symbol of the "A" circled with flowers. "The inner symbol I know of course," he said. "In a plain circle you see it in every city of this country. It's the badge of the protest movement, of the youth movement, of the small minority of idiots who don't know when thy are well off." He looked at the photocopy in Fitzduane's hands. "What are the flowers?" he asked. "This is from a tattoo?"

  Fitzduane nodded. "That photocopy is a blowup."

  "The detail is not bad for such a small mark as you have indicated," said Andreas. "It is drawn well by a skilled hand. The flowers look like geraniums, but it is hard to be sure." He looked up at Fitzduane. "Les Fleurs du Mal," he said, "The Flowers of Evil. You know Baudelaire?"

  "In translation for the most part," said Fitzduane. "Let me see if I remember any." He paused and then recited:

  "Folly and error, sin and avarice

  Work on our bodies, occupy our thoughts,

  And we ourselves sustain our sweet regrets

  As
mendicants nourish their worms and lice."

  Andreas laughed. "Very good," he said, "but it sounds better in French."

  "Why did you mention The Flowers of Evil?" said Fitzduane. "Does the symbol remind you of some organization of that name?"

  "Nothing so precise," said Andreas. "It was merely an association of ideas, and I happen to like Baudelaire. The name seems apt considering what you have told me."

  "Exceedingly apt," said Fitzduane. "Tell me, can you remember where you first ran across Baudelaire? Somehow, knowing the kind of stuff he wrote, I doubt that it was at primary school."

  Andreas laughed but nonetheless looked mildly uncomfortable. Fitzduane could see that he was blushing. "My stepmother," he said, "Erika."

  Andreas had no further chance to speak. The woods around them echoed to massed automatic-rifle fire, various objects cascaded through the air and landed on top of the bunker, and numerous camouflaged figures erupted into the clearing and assailed the position. It occurred to Fitzduane that he had almost certainly been killed, as had Andreas.

  * * * * *

  The section leaders formed a semicircle around Andreas, and in clear, measured tones he told them what they had done right and what they had done wrong. There were questions from two of the corporals. Andreas answered in the same measured manner. Salutes were exchanged, and the platoon formed up in two long files. Laden with their weapons and equipment, the men headed back to the camp and lunch. Andreas and Fitzduane walked behind and talked.

  "Do you have any recollection of an incident in Lenk?" asked Fitzduane. "Something involving Vreni and, I suspect, Rudi?"

  "Vreni told you about this?"

  "Yes. She told me that there had been an incident, but she wouldn't say what. She seemed highly disturbed about whatever it was, and she mentioned a man named Oskar Schupbach, but it was not clear in what connection except that he was a great family friend. I think whatever it was may be important."

  They walked along in silence for a few paces. The track led through pinewoods, the trees being mature and well separated. The air smelled good. The recruits were looking forward to lunch, and there were bursts of laughter. A Jeep roared down the center of the track between the two files.

  "I don't know a lot about what happened in Lenk," said Andreas. "It was a sexual experience of some sort, I believe. I don't know the details. Rudi, Vreni, and Erika went up to the chalet as usual for a few weeks of skiing. I was busy studying, so I didn't go. Father was supposed to join them on the weekends, but he had to go away for several weeks on business."

  "So they were there on their own?"

  "I suppose," said Andreas. "I just don't know. I heard very little of what happened. All I can recall is that both Rudi and Vreni were tense and strained when they came back and somehow changed. They were more secretive and retreated increasingly into their own little world. I asked Erika if anything had happened, and she just laughed. She said it snowed too much, and she was sick of reading novels, playing cards, and being cooped up inside."

  "And that was all?"

  "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 cafés. 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 Bürgergemeinde 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 he
lp, 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—"