skates, then glided forward to retrieve his weapon. He tossed it from hand to hand. Light glittered from the blade. The woman stood some distance behind the assailant, watching, but this was to be his kill; the fatal blow was already struck.
Fitzduane felt numbness and pain. The railings were at his back, the river below. The tripod case containing the shotgun had been torn off his shoulder; it lay to one side, tantalizingly close. He knew he would not have time to reach it before the man with the knife attacked again. His eyes watched the blade. With his right hand he felt his chest for blood. He found there wasn't any. He was surprised he could still stand.
The blade was still for a moment in the assailant's hand – and then it thrust forward in a blur of steel, the coup de grace, a deft display of knife craft. Adrenaline pumped through Fitzduane's body. With a sudden effort he moved to one side, parrying the knife with his left arm. He felt a burning sensation and the warmth of blood. He thrust his right hand, fingers stiffened, into his attacker's throat. There was a choking sound, and the man fell back. He clutched at his throat with his left hand, making gasping sounds. His knife, held in the palm of his right hand, fended off a further attack.
Fitzduane saw the girl beginning to move and knew he would have to finish it quickly. He slumped against the railings as if that last effort had finished him. The man moved forward this time in a slashing attack and made a sudden rush. Fitzduane pivoted and, using he attacker's momentum, flung him over the railings. There was a short, terrified scream and a dull thud.
The girl now had a knife in her hand. Fitzduane moved fast. He threw himself in a combat roll toward the tripod case and came up with the shotgun. He pumped a round into the chamber. Blood was dripping from his arm, and he felt sick. The girl stared at him, her knife held out, weaving slightly. Slowly she backed away; then suddenly she turned and sped away into the darkness. He could hear the hissing of her skates, and she was gone.
He looked over the railings, but he could see nothing. His rib cage felt sore and bruised against the hard metal. He stood upright and examined where the knife had struck him initially. The blade had not penetrated. The blow had been absorbed by his miniature Olympus tape recorder. Small pieces of the machine fell from the rent in his jacket onto the pavement and were joined by drops of blood from his gashed arm.
In his dream the Bear was happy. He and Tilly had gone to the little castle at Spiez to pick up some wine. There were those who said that Spiez wine was far too dry and was made out of dissolved flints, but the Bear did not agree. Anyway, they always enjoyed the whole business of actually getting the wine, the drive out by the Thunersee, lunch at a lakeside restaurant, and then going down into the cellar and joining the line to watch one's own wine bottles being filled. He wondered why the telephone was ringing so loudly in the wine cellar. Nobody else seemed to notice. He looked at Tilly and she smiled at him, and then she was gone. He felt lost.
He lifted the telephone receiver. 'Sergeant Raufman,' said the voice. It sounded excited.
'Yes,' said the Bear, 'and it's two o'clock in the fucking morning in case you're interested.'
'I'm sorry to disturb you, Sergeant Raufman,' said the voice, 'but it is important. I am the night duty manager at the Hotel Bellevue.'
'Good for you,' said the Bear. 'I like to sleep at night; some of us do.'
'Let me explain,' said the voice. 'A man has come into the hotel. He is bleeding for one arm onto our carpets, and he has a gun. What should we do?'
'Haven't a clue. Try putting a bucket under the arm. Call the police. Who the fuck knows?'
'Sergeant Raufman, this man says he knows you-'
'What a second,' said the Bear, 'who is this man?'
'He says his name is Fitz something,' said the voice. 'I didn't want to ask him again. He looks' – there was a pause – 'dangerous.' Three was a wistfulness in the voice.
'What's your name?'
'Rolf,' said the voice, 'Rolfi Muller.'
'Well, listen, Rolfi. I'll be over in ten minutes. Bandage his arm, get him what he wants, don't call anyone else, and don't make a pass at him, capisce? '
'Yes, Sergeant,' said Rolfi. 'Isn't it exciting?'
There was no reply from the Bear. He was already pulling his trousers over his pajama bottoms. Somehow he wasn’t entirely surprised at the news.
An hour later the Bear was letting the doctor out of Fitzduane's apartment when the phone rang. He closed and locked the door and slipped two heavy security bolts in place; then he took the call in the study. Fitzduane lay back against the pillows of the king-size bed and let the lassitude of reaction take over.
The Bear came in. He stood with his hands in his pockets and looked down at Fitzduane. The collar of his pajama top protruded above his jacket. The stubble on his cheeks made him look shaggier than ever.
'The doctor thinks you'll live,' said the Bear. 'The cut on your arm was bloody but not deep. On your chest you'll just have a good-size bruise, and I guess you'll need a new tape recorder.'
'I'm beginning to float,' said Fitzduane. 'Whatever that doctor have me, it works.'
'They found him,' said the Bear. 'Or what we assume is him. He just missed the river. There's the body of a young male who answers your description. He's at the edge of the sports ground under the bridge.'
'Dead?'
'Oh, yes, very much so. I'm afraid this is really going to complicate things.'
'It was self-defense,' protested Fitzduane. 'He seemed keen on one of us leaving the bridge, and it was bloody close as it was.'
The Bear gave a sigh. 'That's not the point,' he said. 'You've killed someone. There are no witnesses. There will have to be an investigation. Paperwork, statements, an inquiry by an examining magistrate, the whole thing.'
Fitzduane's voice was sleepy. 'Better investigated than dead.'
' You don't have to do the paperwork,' was the grumpy rejoinder. 'By the way, there is a Berp outside. Technically you are under arrest.'
Fitzduane did not reply. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was regular and even. The top half of his body was uncovered, and his bandaged arm lay outstretched. There were signs of severe bruising on his torso just below the rib cage. The detective reached out and covered the sleeping figure with the duvet. He switched off the light and quietly closed the bedroom door.
The Berp was making coffee in the kitchen. He gave the Bear a cup, liberally laced with von Graffenlaub's brandy. The Bear knew he would have to get some sleep soon or he'd fall down.
The uniformed policeman rocked his kitchen chair back and forth on its rear legs. He was a veteran of more than twenty years on the force, and for a time before the Bear donned plain clothes, they had shared a patrol car together.
'What's it all about, Heini?'
He could see the pale light of false dawn through the kitchen window. The apartment was warm, but he shivered with the chill of fatigue. 'I think our Irishman might have a tiger by the tail.'
The Berp raised an eyebrow. 'That doesn't tell me a lot.'
'I don't know a lot.'
'Why are detectives always so secretive?'
The Bear smiled. It was true. 'We live off secrets,' he said. 'Otherwise, who'd need a detective?'
The phone rang again. There was a wall extension in the kitchen. The Berp answered it and handed it to the Bear. 'Yours. The duty officer at the station.'
The Bear listened. He asked a few questions, and a smile crossed his face; then he replaced the phone. 'Lucky bugger.'
'Do you want to expand on that?'
'There was a witness,' said the Bear. 'It seems one of the guests staying at the Bellevue – a visiting diplomat – saw the whole thing from his bedroom window. He says he saw the attack on Fitzduane and tried to
