barge in and roust Ivo out of his sleeping bag. They knocked gently on the back door – they had come in through the side entrance – and waited in their car outside for ten minutes until a tousled Ivo appeared.
It was obvious Ivo had not had breakfast. The two detectives bought him coffee and rolls from a stall in the Hauptbahnhof and chatted quietly between themselves while he ate. When he was finished, they put him back into their car and headed along Laupenstrasse with the serried tracks of the Bern marshaling yards on the right. After less than a kilometer they turned right onto Buhlstrasse. Part of the campus of BernUniversity stretched before them, and with a sinking feeling Ivo realized where he was going. At the university hospital they drove into the emergency entrance, and the large shuttered door closed behind them.
Given time, a skilled mortician can make the most unsightly cadaver appear presentable. In this case there hadn't been time. The pathologists of the Gerichtsmedizinisches Institut Bern – part of BernUniversity – had concentrated on the main task, determining the cause of death. The corpse had been roughly sewn together after the detailed examination, and there was almost nothing that could be done about the mutilation of the eyes and the missing ears. Fortunately only the head was shown to Ivo. The rest of the body was covered with a white cloth.
'Do you recognize him?' asked one of the detectives.
There was no response. Tears streamed down Ivo's cheeks.
The question was repeated again, twice.
The first detective pulled the sheet over the corpse's head and, with his arm around Ivo's shoulders, led him out of the room into the corridor outside. He brought Ivo into an examination room just off the corridor. His companion followed and closed the door. Ivo sat in a chair in deep shock. It was late morning before he finally confirmed his identification and signed the papers, and then the two detectives drove him back to the Youth House. They watched as he walked slowly down the side of the house, his shoulders slumped.
'If he's acting, I'm becoming a Berp again,' said the first detective. He had quite enjoyed his years as a Berp, a member of the uniformed police, the Bereitschaftspolizei; the hours were predictable.
'He's not involved,' said the Bear, 'but he was close to Minder. He's very shaken now, but he'll recover and start digging. Who knows? He may come up with something.'
'Well, Heini, thanks for helping out anyhow. Now you can go back to the quiet life again. It was just that I knew that you knew Ivo and would never turn down a quick trip to the morgue.'
'Funny fucker, aren’t you?'
They had lunch together in the Movenpick. It wasn't really the Bear's sort of place, but it was quick and convenient, and he had a little unofficial chat with a friend in Interpol in mind for the afternoon.
Over lunch he learned that the investigation of Klaus Minder's death was getting precisely nowhere. He was neither surprised nor entirely displeased. He thought he might check with the Irishman later. Now there was a genuine wild card who was just sneaky enough to get results. Off to the Oberland to see the sights indeed!
The Bear wasn't too old to sweet-talk a Hertz girl, and it didn't take much genius to figure out the significance of Heiligenschwendi.
The Restaurant du Theatre was one of Bern's more exclusive spots. Fitzduane arrived five minutes early. Von Graffenlaub was already seated.
There was something of the dandy about von Graffenlaub, thought Fitzduane. It was not so much the more flamboyant touches, such as the miniature rose in the lawyer's buttonhole or the combination of pink shirt, pale gray suit, and black knitted tie (color coordination of mourning?). No, sitting opposite Fitzduane, dipping his asparagus into the restaurant's special hollandaise sauce with practiced expertise, he had a vigor that had been missing during their previous encounter. He projected confidence and a sense of purpose. He radiated – Fitzduane searched for the right word – authority. This was more the man Fitzduane had expected – patriot, professional success, wielder of power, influence, and riches.
'Delicious,' said von Graffenlaub. The last stalk of early asparagus had vanished. He dabbled his fingertips in a finger bowl and dried them on a pink napkin. It's shade did not quite match his shirt, but it was close. Fitzduane wondered if the lawyer had dressed for his surroundings. He had read that there were more than two hundred restaurants and cafes in Bern. It would be an interesting sartorial problem.
'Is the first Spargel of the season considered such a delicacy in Ireland?' asked von Graffenlaub.
Fitzduane cast his mind back. He could not recall early asparagus causing any Irishman of his acquaintance to eulogize: the first drink of the day, certainly; the first hunt of the season, possibly; but the first encounter with a vegetable, any vegetable – sad to say, quite impossible.
'A Frenchman of my acquaintance,' said Fitzduane, 'remarked that he had never realized how much hardship the English inflicted upon us Irish during seven hundred years of occupation until he sampled our food.'
Von Graffenlaub smiled. 'You are a little hard on your country. I have eaten very adequately in Ireland on occasion.' There was the tiniest speck of hollandaise on his tie. Fitzduane felt it compensated for the rose.
After lunch Fitzduane declined the offer of cognac but accepted a Havana cigar in perfect condition.
'Mr. Fitzduane,' said von Graffenlaub, 'I confess to have been greatly upset by your proposal and even more shocked by the photograph of Rudi. It has taken me a little time to decide exactly what to do.'
'I'm sorry,' said Fitzduane. 'My purpose was to convince, not to hurt. I could think of no other way that would have the same impact.'
Von Graffenlaub's glance was hard. 'You took a risk,' he said, 'but now I think your motives are sincere. I have found out a great deal about you over the past couple of days.'
'And what have you decided?'
'Mr. Fitzduane,' said von Graffenlaub, 'if I had decided against your proposal, I assure you we would not be lunching here today. In fact, as you will already have surmised, it is my intention to help you in every practicable way to ascertain the full circumstances of Rudi's death. I have only one important condition.'
'Which is?'
'That you are utterly frank with me,' said von Graffenlaub. 'You may well uncover matters I shall find unpalatable. Nonetheless, I want to know. I must know. Do you agree?'
Fitzduane nodded. He had a feeling of foreboding as he did so. 'Frankness is a two-way road,' he said. 'I will have to ask questions you will not wish to answer. My inquiries may cover matters you do not consider relevant. But let me put it quite simply: If you are straight with me, I'll tell you what I find out.'
'I understand what must be done,' said von Graffenlaub. 'However unpleasant all this may turn out to be, it will be better than doing nothing. It was destroying me. Somehow I felt responsible, but I didn't know why, or to what extent, or what I could do about it. Then you arrived, and now there is the beginning of an answer.'
Von Graffenlaub seemed to relax slightly after he finished speaking, as if only at that moment had he truly made up his mind. The certain distance, indeed tension, that had been present in his manner throughout their meeting so far seemed to wane. He held out his hand to Fitzduane. 'Do your best,' he said.
The Irishman shook it. 'I think I'll have that cognac now,' he said.
A brief gesture by von Graffenlaub, a few words spoken, and two cognacs appeared in front of them. They drank a silent toast. Fitzduane drained his, although he could not shake the ominous feeling that gripped him.
Von Graffenlaub paid, then turned to Fitzduane. 'How would you like a short walk? I have made some arrangements that may be helpful.'
The day, once again, was warm. Fitzduane decided he would have to do some shopping fairly soon. He had packed for snow, ice, wind, and rain. He hadn't expected shirtsleeve weather so early in the year.
They left the Theaterplatz, passed the casino on their left, and walked across the elegant arches of the KirchenfeldBridge. They passed the Kunsthalle and the Alpine and PostMuseum. They walked briskly; the lawyer was in good condition.
Just near the junction of Helvetiastrasse and Kirchenfeldstrasse, von Graffenlaub turned into a narrow cul- de-sac. Trees shaded the entrance. It would have been easy to miss from the main road. Nameplates and speakerphones on each entrance they passed denoted apartments. At the fourth entrance von Graffenlaub stopped
