The colonel took the steep path up to the Rosengarten instead of the longer but gentler route. At the top there was a glass-fronted cafe, still closed at this hour, with an outside eating area bordered by a low wall. He rested there for a few minutes, catching his breath after the steep climb and taking in the sight of old Bern laid out below. He could see the course of the River Aare, the red-tiled roofs of the old buildings, the spire of the Munster against the distant skyline of snowcapped mountains, and all around him trees and flowers were coming into full bloom as if in special haste to make up for their long sleep under the snows of winter. A robin landed on the wall beside him, peered up inquisitively, hopped around a couple of times, then flew away about its business.
The colonel decided that he had better follow the robin's example. Major Tranino's problem was a tricky one. The sooner he laid it out on the giant chessboard, the sooner inspiration might strike.
As he neared the chessboard, he was surprised to see the pieces all laid out ready to play. They were normally stacked away at night, and it now looked as if someone might have beaten him to it despite the early hour. Ah, well, he had enjoyed the walk, and there might be the chance of a game. Perhaps two heads could solve the colonel's little difficulty. But would that be ethical? Probably not. It was supposed to be strictly mano a mano when the colonel and the major were playing, notwithstanding the geographical separation.
Something about the chessboard looked odd, and he could see no other players. He came closer. The blue and white chess pieces were nearer to him, the tallest of them the size of a small child, reaching halfway up his thigh. He put on his glasses; there was nothing wrong with the blue and white pieces. He turned his gaze to the red and black pieces and walked forward onto the board itself to study the pieces one by one.
The pawns gleamed in their new paint, and the contrasting slashes of color reminded him of nothing so much as a file of Swiss Guards on parade in the Vatican. He knew that there was something wrong and that he should have seen what it was by now, and he admitted to himself that even with his glasses his eyes were not what they had been. He really should get a stronger pair; vanity be damned.
He stepped forward again to study the back row. The rook seemed fine; the knight and the bishop were normal; nest came the queen – and it was the queen that killed him.
There was no queen. In her place, propped upright, was the upper half of the body of a young woman. She seemed to be smiling at him, then he realized that her lips had been cut away to expose her teeth.
The pain was immediate and massive. He swayed briefly and then fell back on the hard slabs of the chessboard. His last thought before the heart attack killed him was that Major Tranino (retired) looked as if he would win three times in a row, if only by default in the case of the third game – and that was a pity because Colonel Hoden (retired) thought he just might have found the answer.
Fitzduane supposed that his ideas of what an Autonomous Youth House should look like were conditioned by his recollection of the one in Zurich. He remembered a battered and litter-strewn industrial building covered with graffiti and still freshly scarred from recent riots, and everywhere around it broken glass and empty tear gas canisters and twitchy policemen. He was almost disappointed by what he found in Bern.
Taubenstrasse 12 was a large, solid three-story construction with a distinctly nineteenth-century feel about it. Its style positively radiated probity, bourgeois values, and the merits of the Bernese establishment. In contrast with the sober image projected by the building, half a dozen spray can-inscribed sheets fluttered their calls for freedom, anarchy, and pot for all from the front of the house. In counterpoint, less than a hundred meters away was the gray, multistory, modernistic box that housed the Federal Police administration.
As Fitzduane approached, a young couple rushed from the building. The man's face was red and swollen, as if he had been on the losing side of a fight, and blood was gushing from his nose. The girl with him was crying. They pushed past Fitzduane and ran out into the small park that bordered the other side of Taubenstrasse.
The front door was open. Fitzduane called out, then knocked. No one answered. Balancing caution and curiosity, he went in. The hall was dark and cool in contrast with the glare of the sunlight. He paused while his eyes adjusted.
A hand grabbed his arm. ' Polizei? ' a voice asked nervously.
Fitzduane removed the hand. It was dirty, as was the person it belonged to. The person also smelled.
'No, ' said Fitzduane.
'You are English?' The voice belonged to a small, scruffy youth of about twenty. He seemed agitated.
'Irish,' said Fitzduane. 'I'm looking for someone called Klaus Minder. A friend told me he sometimes lives here.'
The youth gave a start. He moved away from Fitzduane and examined him carefully. His eyes were red- rimmed, and he was shaking. He removed a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket and tried to light it but was unable to hold the match steady. Fitzduane moved forward gently and held his wrist while flame and marijuana made contact. The wrist was frail and thin. The youth inhaled deeply several times, and some of the tension went from his face. He looked at Fitzduane.
'You must help us,' he said. 'First you must help us.'
Fitzduane smiled. 'If it's legal and quick, or at least quick. What's the problem?'
The youth leaned forward. He smelled terrible and looked worse, but there was something, some quality, curiously appealing about him. 'There is a man upstairs, a Dutchman – his name is Jan van der Grijn – and he is creating trouble. If you go up, because you are an outsider, he will stop.'
'Why's he doing this?'
The youth shrugged. He looked at the ground. 'He stayed here a little while ago,' he said, 'and after he left he was missing some stuff. He has come back to find it. He says one of us robbed him, and he's threatening everyone who was there that night.'
'Why don't you go to the police?'
The youth shook his head. 'We don't want the police in here,' he said. 'We have enough trouble with them.'
The marijuana smoke diffused through the corridor. 'I can't imagine why,' said Fitzduane dryly. He was thinking it might be an excellent idea to leave.
The youth tugged him by the arm. 'Come on,' he insisted. 'Afterward I will tell you about Klaus.'
Reluctantly Fitzduane followed the youth up the stairs. 'What's your name?' he called up after him.
'Ivo,' answered the youth. He opened a door off the second-floor landing and stood aside. Muffled shouts came from inside, but Fitzduane went in anyway. An extremely bad decision. The door slammed shut behind him.
He could smell Ivo by his side. 'The Dutchman has two friends with him,' Ivo said. 'They are the ones in the leather jackets.'
'Good information,' said Fitzduane, 'but lousy timing.' Before he knew what was happening, he felt an armlock around his neck and something sharp being pressed against his kidneys. Someone with foul breath spoke into his right ear. He didn't understand a word.
A big man in a leather jacket stopped punching a blond youth, who was held by an equally large companion, and came forward. He hit Fitzduane once very hard in the stomach. Fitzduane sagged to his knees. He felt sick, and he was getting quite angry.
Detective Kurt Siemann of the Bern Kriminalpolizei, not one of the Chief Kripo's favorites, hence his rank – or rather lack of it at the mature age of forty-seven – was of two minds about whether to follow Fitzduane into the Youth House.
His brief was terse: 'Keep an eye on him, note his movements, keep him out of trouble, but don't hassle him,' which seemed to Siemann to incorporate certain self-canceling elements. Following Fitzduane into the Youth House could well be construed as ‘hassling.’ On the other hand, since the Bern police were not yet equipped to see through stone walls, the instruction ‘keep an eye on him’ was currently being obeyed only in the figurative sense at best. Another complication was that it was current police policy to steer clear of the Youth House as much as possible. It was a policy with which Detective Siemann did not agree; he was all in favor of donning riot gear and cracking a few heads.
