incidentally, not found yet. I suppose they are still bobbing around in the Aare. Then bear in mind evidence of both oral and anal intercourse prior to his death.'
Buisard nodded gloomily. 'Doesn't sound too much like a suicide. More like some kind of ritual.'
'A bit more than wife kills husband with frying pan anyway,' said the magistrate. 'I don't like it at all. It smells too much of the kind of thing that could happen again.'
'Don't even think things like that,' said the Chief Kripo. 'I guess I'd better put out an all-points bulletin for the guy's balls. How will we identify them?'
'They should be the only pair in Bern working independently,' said the magistrate cheerfully. 'Not too hard for one of your brighter policemen to spot.'
'That's disgusting,' said the Chief Kripo, 'and unkind.' Subconsciously he did a quick check with his right hand. All was in order but, considering his earlier thoughts of Colette, surprisingly subdued.
Just as Fitzduane was beginning to feel pleasantly mellow after his third glass of wine and almost enjoying looking at thirteen black rectangles, the allocated time was clearly up. The crowd didn't dwindle over a period, leaving behind the harder-drinking stragglers, as would have been the case in Ireland. Instead, as if on a secret signal, there was an orderly but concerted rush for the door. Within three minutes, apart from gallery staff and Fitzduane, the place was empty. The wine was highly drinkable. He emptied his glass with some slight regret and headed for the door.
Erika was outside talking with friends. She left them and came toward him. She had donned a high-collared cloak of some golden material. She was mesmerizing and sexy. She took him by the arm.
'We must talk,' she said. 'You will come with me, yes?' Fitzduane did not feel inclined to refuse. He could feel the warmth of Erika's body next to him as they walked. The smell of her was in his nostrils. He felt himself growing hard.
'I have a small apartment near here,' she said.
'On Junkergasse?' said Fitzduane, remembering the address in his von Graffenlaub file. He wasn't sure the timing was right for another meeting with the lawyer – especially with the man's wife practically wrapped around him.
Erika laughed and squeezed his arm. 'You are thinking of Beat's apartment,' she said.
'I'm sorry, I don't quite understand,' said Fitzduane. 'I was under the impression that you lived with your husband.'
She laughed again. 'Yes and no,' she said. 'We have an arrangement. I need space and privacy. My apartment is close – it is indeed also on Junkergasse – but it is separate.'
'I see,' said Fitzduane, who didn't.
'I will cook us a little supper, yes? We will be private, and we will talk,' said Erika.
The building was old. The apartment, reached through some formidable security at its entrance, had been lavishly remodeled. It reeked of serious money.
Fitzduane had found it hard to imagine Erika sweating over a hot stove. He was not disappointed. She removed a Wedgwood casserole dish from the refrigerator and inserted it in a microwave. A scarlet-tipped finger pressed buttons. Fitzduane was asked to open the already chilled champagne and light the candles.
They sat facing each other over a small round dining table. It had already been laid for two on their arrival. It occurred to Fitzduane that he was spoiling someone else's fun and games – or had he been expected? Perhaps Erika had been a Girl Scout and just liked to be prepared.
'I can call you Hugo, yes?' said Erika, looking straight into his eyes. The casserole had something to do with rabbit. Fitzduane had had a series of pet rabbits as a child and found the juxtaposition of associations confusing. Erika ate with gusto.
Fitzduane nodded. Erika licked her lips in a manner that even a blind man would have noted as sexual. 'I like this name,' she said. 'You want to talk about Rudi?'
'It's why I'm here,' he said.
Erika gave a long, slow, knowing smile and reached over the table to brush the back of his hand with her fingers. The sexual electricity was palpable. 'There is little to say,' she said. 'Rudi was a very troubled young man. Nobody is surprised at his suicide.'
'What troubled him?' said Fitzduane.
Erika shrugged dismissively. ' Boeuf! ' she said, her arms raised in a gesture. 'Everything. He hated his father, he quarreled with his family, he disapproved of our government, he was mixed up about sex.' She smiled. 'But is all that so unusual in a teenager?'
Fitzduane endeavored to pursue the matter of Erika's recently hanged stepson but to virtually no avail. The conversation turned to other members of the family. Here Erika was marginally more forthcoming. After coffee and liqueurs she excused herself. Fitzduane sat back on a sofa and sipped a Cointreau. Regarding Rudi, anyway, he wasn't getting very far with the von Graffenlaubs.
Erika had turned out most of the lights. The two candles on the dinner table cast a golden flickering light. Erika came back into the room. He could hear faint footfalls on the carpeted floor, and he could smell her musky perfume. She was standing behind him.
He turned his head to see her and started to speak. 'It's getting late,' he said. 'I think I'd better…' The words died on his lips.
She reached down and pressed him to her and then kissed him. He could feel her nipples against his mouth and cheeks, and then her tongue was snaking to find his and she was in his lap, naked.
She licked his face and neck, and one hand moved to the bulge in his pants and unzipped him. He felt an overwhelming sexual desire. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her tongue across his chest and down his body until he engulfed him.
Fitzduane spasmed at her touch and then stared at her bobbing head with disbelief. Her hair – though she was no blood relation – was the color of Rudi's. Desire died inside him. He tried to pull away. Her hand grasped him, and she wouldn't stop. He pulled her up forcibly. 'My God, woman, what are you doing?' he said. He thought his choice of words might have been better.
'You are a very physical man, Hugo,' she said. Her lips were wet, her lipstick smeared. 'I want to fuck you.'
Fitzduane rose to his feet unsteadily. He shook his head. There was nothing to say. He looked at her. She had risen to her feet. She looked magnificent. He odor was viscerally sexual. She laughed. 'Welcome to Bern,' she said.
He hurriedly zipped himself up, said good-bye, and made his way to the street. The cool night air was refreshing. He thought it quite likely that steam was coming out of his ears. He walked back toward his hotel, on the way splashing some water from the Fountain of Justice on his face. The painted carving of the blindfolded damsel looming above him, showing a surprising amount of leg, reminded him somewhat of Erika.
Detective Sergeant First Class Heinz Raufman, better known as the Bear, took the number three tram home to his new and very comfortable apartment in Saali, a suburb of Bern, just fifteen minutes from the city center.
If he was honest with himself, and he often was, he thought that all things considered, he had gotten off quite lightly. He had really deserved suspension. Instead, he had been given what amounted to a slap on the wrist and a sinecure. Played right, minor crimes could be turned into something very interesting indeed, a chance to do a little quiet exploring of the highways and byways of Bern's underworld, without the time constraints of a heavy caseload.
'Tilly, my love,' he said as he fed Gustavus and Adolfus, his pet goldfish, 'thumping the odd German can have its good side.' He often talked to Tilly when he was alone in his apartment. They had bought it less than a year before her death. She had been at her happiest when cleaning and decorating it and making it ever more comfortable. 'It must be snug, Heini,' she used to say, 'not just comfortable, but snug.'
The Bear ate a light meal – for him – of veal in cream sauce with mushrooms, rosti, a side salad, just a little
