Von Graffenlaub rested his outstretched arms on the low wall that bordered the river side of the terrace and breathed in and out deeply. The cool morning air felt pure and clean in his lungs. In the distance he could see the snowcapped mountains of the Bernese Oberland.
He looked up the river toward the Kirchenfeldbrucke, the elegant nineteenth-century iron bridge that linked the old medieval city with the more newly developed residential district of Kirchenfeld. His gaze followed the flow of the river to the old waterworks below. A flurry of activity caught his attention.
Two police cars, an ambulance, and several unmarked vehicles were parked by the water's edge. As he watched, uniformed police dragged what looked like a body from the river. He could see the pale white dot of the body's face before it was covered by a blanket. The face filled his vision. It was that of his dead son. He turned away. Nausea swept through him, and his skin felt clammy. He threw up over the parapet, and a spasm of shivering shook his body.
A noose hung from a hook in the corner of the Chief Kripo's office. Buisard had brought it back from a police chief's conference in the United States. It was a souvenir, he had said, an exact replica of a hangman's noose, as used before technology – in the shape of the electric chair and gas chamber and lethal injection – took over in most of the civilized world.
Maybe next time he'll bring back an electric chair, thought the Bear. Buisard insisted that the hangman's knot had thirteen coils in it, but each time the Bear counted, he could only make it only twelve. He started counting again out of the corner of his eye. According to Pierrepoint, the famous English hangman, it was an inefficient way to hang someone anyhow. More often than not, the large American knot and the standard American five-foot drop resulted in a slow death through strangulation.
Pierrepoint used a variable drop and a simple slip knot located under the angle of the left jaw by a rubber claw washer. After the fall, the knot would finish under the chin and throw the head back, fracturing the spinal column, almost always between the second and third cervical vertebrae. Instant death, or so said the hangman.
'Heini,' said Buisard, 'will you, for God's sake, pay attention? It's got thirteen coils, no matter what you say.'
'You're the chief,' said the Bear.
'And I'd like to stay that way,' said Buisard.
The Bear raised his shaggy eyebrows.
'I'm not suspending you,' said Buisard, 'although you well deserve it. But I'm taking you off the drug squad for a month. You can keep your desk in the Bollwerk, but I'm assigning you to minor crimes – out of harm's way.'
'Investigating stolen bicycles and missing pets,' said the Bear. He glowered.
'Something like that,' said Buisard. 'Think of it as a cooling-off period.'
'The son of a bitch deserved to be thumped,' said the Bear. 'He was drunk and throwing his weight around.'
'You may well be right,' said Buisard, 'but he was part of the German foreign minister's party and on an official diplomatic visit to this city. He did have a diplomatic passport.'
The Bear shrugged and rose to his feet.
'One moment,' said Buisard. 'There is an Irishman coming to Bern for a few days. I have a letter of introduction about him from a friend of mine in Dublin. I've been asked to look after him if he wants to be shown around, a sort of professional courtesy.'
'So now I'm a tourist guide.'
The Chief Kripo smiled just a little meanly. 'Not at all. Heini, you are one of Bern's attractions.'
'Up yours,' said the Bear amiably, and ambled out of the room.
The Chief went over and started counting the thirteen coils in the hangman's noose. He made it twelve. He swore and started again.
The day was crisp and cold, the snow melted from the streets and the lowlands around. In the distance ice and snow held the higher ground. Jagged mountain peaks looked unreal against a clear blue sky.
Fitzduane was enchanted by Bern. He felt exhilarated; he just knew that somewhere in this beautiful, unspoiled, too-good-to-be-true medieval city lay the answer to his quest, the reason for a hanging.
He walked, more or less at random, for several hours. Sooner or later he always seemed to reach the River Aare. The river surrounded the old city on three sides, forming a natural moat and leaving only one side to be defended by a wall. As the city had expanded, the wall was sited farther and farther up the peninsula. The old walls were gone, but two of the distinctive towers that marked the landward entrance to the city remained.
It had been the quaint custom of the Bernese – prior to the tourist trade's taking off – to use the entrance tower as a prison.
Shortly after he arrived, Fitzduane had booked himself into a small hotel on Gerechtigkeitsgasse. Just outside the hotel entrance, an intricately carved statue, perched on top of a fluted pillar, crowned a flowing fountain. The carving was painted in red and blue and gold and there bright colors. The dominant female figure- showing a surprising amount of leg – held a sword in one hand, scales in the other, and was blindfolded: the Gerechtigkeitsbrunnen, the Fountain of Justice.
At the foot of this dangerous-looking Amazon, and well placed to look up her skirts, were the busts of four unhappy-looking individuals whom Fitzduane subsequently found out were the Emperor, Sultan, Pope, and Magistrate – the main dispensers of random justice when the fountain was erected in 1543.
At frequent intervals around the city there were fountains, all painted in exotic colors, each unique in itself. In Kramgasse the fountain was identified by a life-size bear, wearing a gold helmet with a barred visor, standing in the pose of a Landsknecht; at his feet was a little bear eating grapes. Everywhere there were bears: carved bears, painted bears, drawn bears, printed bears, stamped bears, wrought-iron bears, big bears, small bears, even real bears. Fitzduane had never seen so many bears.
He read that Duke Berchtold V of Zahringen, the founder of Bern, had organized a hunt and decreed that the city be named after the first animal killed. Fortunately the hunters struck it lucky with a bear; the City of Rabbit just would not have had the same cachet.
Until in-house plumbing and Blick became the fashion, the fountains of Bern had been where you went to fill up with water and all the latest gossip. Perhaps, thought Fitzduane, if I sit by the fountain, all will be revealed.
He tried it for a while, but his bottom got cold.
From habit the Bear checked the incident sheets when he returned from lunch. He did not expect to see much. He had once discussed the Bernese crime rate with a visiting American policeman. Confusion reigned initially when it appeared that the crime rates in their respective cities were roughly comparable. Then in dawned on them: they were comparing apples and oranges. The American was quoting daily statistics; the Bear meant annual figures.
One of the most consistently regular of the Bernese crime statistics was the murder rate. Give or take a few decimal points, the figures came out at two killings per year – year after year after year.
They say, thought the Bear, that Bern has enough of everything, but not too much. Two murders a year is just about right for a well-ordered city like Bern. Many more would create havoc with the tourist trade and would certainly upset the Burgergemeinde. Any fewer might raise question marks about the manning levels of the Kriminalpolizei. A little fear was good for police job security.
His mind occupied with such weighty matters, the Bear almost missed the new incident sheet that had been pinned up over an elegantly lettered flyer announcing that the desk sergeant was selling his immaculately maintained five-year-old Volvo, with only ninety thousand kilometers on the clock, at a bargain price (four
