French bread with unsalted butter, and Camembert, all washed down with a modest liter of Viti, a Merlot of a most agreeable quality from Ticino. He debated having fruit and compromised with a pear, or two, or three. He had an espresso to fill in the cracks, and just a small Strega. All in all, quite an acceptable snack.
He watched the YBs on television; they lost. The Bear had strong doubts about the blending of the Bernese character and soccer. Later he watched the news. In Northern Ireland Bobby Sands was on a hunger strike and things did not look good.
The mention of Ireland, albeit Northern Ireland, reminded the Bear that tomorrow he had better do something about the Irishman. He switched off the television and listened to the radio. Gustavus and Adolfus had a weakness for classical; they seemed to swim to tempo. The Bear cleaned his guns. He might be a little grumpy and a little heavy, but his paws worked just fine. Marksmanship trophies lined his sideboard. The Bear liked to shoot.
Tucked up in the large double bed, the electric blanket radiating just the right amount of warmth, his hot chocolate at hand on the bedside table, the Bear leafed through some paperwork he had picked up on the Irishman.
'Good night, little love,' he murmured, as he always had to Tilly, before turning over and falling asleep.
12
Fitzduane was the kind of man who examined credentials – something unusual in the Bear's experience. Most people tended to fold when an ID was waved about. In this case – Fitzduane was a connoisseur of such arcane documentation – the laminated identity card read: SICHERHEITS UND KRIMINALPOLIZEI DER STADT BERN. He handed back the identity card. 'There is something unsettling about the word ‘Kriminalpolizei’ before breakfast,' he said.
'The Bear looked puzzled. I certainly did not mean to disturb you. In Switzerland we get up early. I finished breakfast over two hours ago.'
Fitzduane looked sympathetic. 'We all have our idiosyncrasies,' he said. 'You must be starving again by now. Come and join me.'
The Bear did not need a second invitation. In truth he had been on the way to the Barengraben for a small snack of coffee and pastries – the Barengraben was famous for its pastries – when he realized that the Irishman was on his route.
'How did you find me?' asked Fitzduane.
'Your visitor's registration card,' said the Bear. 'That card you fill out when you check in. They are collected from every hotel and pension every day and are filed at headquarters.'
'And if I'd stayed with a friend?'
'If you were in Bern, I'd have found you,' said the Bear, 'but maybe not so fast.' He was a little distracted. He was busy putting butter and honey on his roll. Fitzduane was impressed. The Bear was demonstrating a certain mastery of construction, not to say balance. He gave the result a critical look, appeared satisfied, and began to munch.
'To what do I owe this honor?' Fitzduane beckoned for a second basket of rolls.
'Your friend Colonel Kilmara knows my chief,' said the Bear. 'He said you were coming to Bern and might need a little help getting to know your way around. Didn't your Colonel Kilmara tell you?'
'I guess he did,' said Fitzduane, 'but it was fairly casual. He gave me the name and number of a Major Max Buisard. He's the Chief Kripo – that's the Chief of the Criminal Police – and my superior. Not a bad sort but a busy man, so he asked me to look after you. He sends his regards and hopes he will have a chance to meet you before you leave.' He smiled. 'Socially, of course.'
Fitzduane smiled back politely. 'Of course,' he said. 'Thank him for me – will you? – but tell him I don't expect to be in Bern for long.'
The Bear nodded. 'A pity,' he said. He wrapped his paws around his steaming coffee cup as if warming them. He raised the cup to his lips and then blew on it without drinking. His eyes over the rim were shrewd and intelligent. His tone was casual.
'Tell me, Mr. Fitzduane,' he said. 'What exactly are you doing in Bern?'
The Irishman smiled broadly. 'Sergeant Raufman, why do I think you already know the answer to that?'
The Bear was silent. He looked guilty. 'Harrumph,' he said, or at least it sounded like that. It was hard to tell; he was munching a croissant. 'You know I once arrested you Rudi von Graffenlaub,' he said.
'Tell me about it,' said Fitzduane.
The Bear licked a little bit of honey off his right thumb. His normally glum expression was replaced by the most charming smile. 'Only if we trade,' he said. He hummed a few notes of an old Bernese march: “Pom Pom, tra-ri-di-ri, Al-li Ma-nne, stan-deni!”
Fitzduane thought for a while, and the Bear did not interrupt him but just sat there humming a little and looking content. Then Fitzduane spoke. 'Why not?' he said, and following intuition rather than direct need, he told Bear everything right from the beginning. He was surprised at himself when he had finished.
The Bear was an experienced listener. He leaned back in his chair, nodded his head from time to time, and occasionally made sounds of interest. Time passed. Around them the restaurant emptied and preparations commenced for lunch. Once, Fitzduane called for fresh coffee.
When he had concluded, Fitzduane waited for the Bear to speak. He did not at first but instead pulled his notebook out of his inside breast pocket and began to sketch. He showed the drawing to the Irishman. It featured the letter 'A' surrounded by a circle of flowers. 'Like that?' he said. The Irishman nodded.
'Well, now,' said the Bear, and he told Fitzduane about the body found in the River Aare. 'What do you think?' he said.
'I don't think you're telling me everything,' said Fitzduane. 'You haven't suggested my passing this on officially. What's on your mind?'
It was now the Bear's turn to reveal much more than he had planned, and he, too, was relying on instinct – and so he confessed. He told of thumping a certain German visitor and Buisard's reaction and being assigned to minor crimes. He spoke of the opportunity this might offer if exploited creatively, then spoke of the advantage of two heads, of combining both an official and an unofficial approach.
There was silence between them, and then, somewhat tentatively at first, as they adjusted to this unplanned alliance, they shook hands.
'So that's settled,' Fitzduane said after a moment. 'Now, where can I hire a car?'
'There is a Hertz office just up the street off the Theaterplatz,' said the Bear. 'Come, I'll walk you up to the clock tower, and then I'll point the way. It's only a few hundred meters from there.'
As they left the restaurant, a roller skater glided past. They walked up Kramgasse, passing two more of the painted fountains on the way. The day was hot, and they walked in the shade. The houses protruded over the raised pavement, forming arcades that sheltered the stroller from the weather and creating a beguiling intimacy. Restaurants and cafes with tables and chairs set up outside dotted the streets.
'Where are you thinking of driving?'
'I thought I'd see some of the surrounding countryside,' said Fitzduane, 'perhaps drive to LakeThun and then up into the mountains.'
'Are you used to driving on snow and ice?' asked the Bear. 'The roads can be dangerous as you get higher. You will need snow tires. I use gravestones myself.'
'What?'
'Gravestones,' said the Bear, 'broken gravestones in the trunk of my car. I have a friend who carves them. They are not so bulky, but heavy. They make a big difference to traction when driving on ice.'
'Very sensible,' said Fitzduane without enthusiasm.
A small crowd was waiting near the Zytgloggeturm, Bern's famous clock tower. The hands of the ornate clock
