Inspired by Katia, who believed that certain foods were good for certain parts of the anatomy, over the next three days the Bear ate a great deal of fish – a luxury in landlocked Switzerland – and, so to speak, kept himself to himself.
He wasn't so much antisocial as elusive. He went places and did things without saying exactly where or what. He made and received phone calls without comment. A series of packages arrived by courier and were unwrapped and examined only when he was alone. He was moderately talkative but only on any subject except the Hangman, and he was maddeningly cheerful.
On the morning of the fourth day Fitzduane, who had been researching variations of Swiss batzi with a little too much dedication the night before, rose at the unearthly hour the Swiss set aside for breakfast only to yawn to a halt in near-terminal shock at the sight of the Bear standing on his head, arms crossed, in the living room. His eyes were closed.
'Morning,' said the Bear without stirring.
'Ugh,' said Fitzduane. He turned on his heel and stood under a cold shower for five minutes. Toward the end he thought it might be a good idea to remove his robe and pajamas. When he returned to the living room, the apparition had vanished.
Over breakfast the Bear expounded on the merits of fish as a brain food. 'Did you know,' he said, 'that the brain is essentially a fatty organ and one of its key ingredients, a free fatty acid, comes from fish?'
'Ugh,' said Fitzduane, and spread butter and marmalade on his toast.
The Bear chewed enthusiastically on a raw carrot and wrinkled his nose at what Fitzduane was eating. 'That's no way to start the day,' he said. 'I must get Katia to draw you up a diet sheet.'
Fitzduane poured some batzi into his orange juice. He drank half the glass. 'Ugh,' he said.
Later that morning, after a detour to the Der Bund office to pick up a bulky file stuffed with press clippings, notes, and photographs, Fitzduane found himself trailing behind the apparently supercharged Bear as the detective hummed his way through the portals, halls, rooms, corridors, and miscellaneous annexes of the City of Bern art museum. The corridor they were in was in semidarkness. Fitzduane wondered about the wisdom of this policy. Perhaps visitors were supposed to rent flashlights. His mind went back to Kuno Gonschior's exhibition of a series of black rectangles in the Loeb Gallery. It had been the first time he had met Erika. It seemed lightyears ago.
[(wtf?)]
The Bear stopped his march and scratched his head. 'I think I'm lost.'
The pause gave Fitzduane the chance to catch up. He leaned against the wall while the Bear consulted his notebook with the aid of a match. He was thinking that if the Bear continued in this hyperactive, hypercheerful mood, it might be a good idea to slip a downer into his morning orange juice before both of them had heart attacks.
There was a long, furious burst of what sounded like automatic weapons fire, and Fitzduane dived to the ground. The section of the wall against which he'd been leaning a split second before fell into the corridor, and a piercing white light shone through the gap in the wall. Fitzduane half expected the archangel Gabriel to make an appearance. Instead, a dust-covered figure clad in a zippered blue overall and carrying a heavy industrial hammer drill in both hands like a weapon climbed through the aperture, trailing cable behind him. He didn't appear to have wings. Head to one side, the figure surveyed the hole in the wall critically and then nodded his head in satisfaction, entirely oblivious of the 9 mm SIG automatic Fitzduane was aiming at his torso.
'Ha!' said the Bear triumphantly. 'I wasn't lost after all.' He looked down at Fitzduane. 'Don't shoot him. This is Charlie von Beck's cousin Paulus, Paulus von Beck. He's a man of parts: the museum's expert in brush technique, a successful sculptor, and I don't know what else. He's also the reason we're here.'
Fitzduane made his weapon safe and reholstered it. He still hadn't gotten his shotgun back, and it irked him. He rose to his feet, brushed dust from his clothes, and shook hands with von Beck. 'Demolition or sculpture?' he asked. 'Or were you just carried away screwing in a picture hook?'
Paulus left them in his office drinking coffee while he went to clean up before going to the restoration studios to examine the contents of the file the Bear had brought with him. When he returned, Paulus had discarded his sculptor image. The overalls had been replaced by a charcoal gray suit of Italian cut with creases so sharp it seemed clear that the art expert kept a steam press in his closet. His silk was hand-painted.
Paulus was older than his cousin. He had a high-browed, delicately featured face set off by a soft mane of wavy hair, and his eyes were a curious shade of violet. He looked troubled. Fitzduane had the feeling that the Bear might have stumbled across more than he'd bargained for. Paulus's demeanor was not that of a dispassionate expert; somehow he was a player.
'Sergeant Raufman, before I answer the questions you have put to me, I would be grateful if you would answer a few points I would like to raise. They are relevant, I assure you.'
'The Bear's tone reflected the art expert's sober demeanor. 'As you wish. We police are more accustomed to asking questions rather than answering, but I shall do what I can.' There was the slightest emphasis on the word police. It was as good a way as any of warning Paulus to think carefully before he spoke, thought Fitzduane.
'Thank you,' said von Beck. The warning had been understood. He took his time before he spoke. He straightened a small bronze bust on his desk while he collected his thoughts. He tidied the papers in front of him into an exact symmetrical pile. He cleared his throat. Fitzduane felt like taking a walk around the block while von Beck dithered.
'My first question: Do your inquiries have to do with the recent wave of killings in this city?'
The Bear nodded. 'They do.'
Von Beck exhaled slowly. 'My second question: You have asked me to comment on a certain artist's work. Do you suspect the artist of being involved – centrally involved – with these killings?'
It was the Bear's turn to hesitate. 'Yes,' he said finally.
'You don't think that he could be involved only peripherally, an innocent victim, if you will?'
'Anything's possible,' said the Bear.
'But you don't think so?'
The Bear gave a deep sigh. 'No. I think our friend is involved from his toes to the tip of his paintbrush. I think he's a ruthless homicidal nut with a perverted sense of humor, who should be eliminated as fast as possible before he contaminates any more lives. I think you should stop playing verbal tiddlywinks and tell us everything you know or suspect. I'm running out of patience. This is a murder investigation, not some parlor game.'
The color drained from von Beck's face, and he looked as if he were going to be sick. 'My third question,' he said, 'and then I will tell you what you want to know: If I tell you everything, can I trust your utter discretion? No leaks to the press, no appearing in open court, no involvement at all, in fact, other than my giving you a statement?'
'This business about priorities,' said the Bear. 'We have a mass killer on the loose. If I have to parade you around the streets of Bern with a rope around your neck to checkmate our friend, then that's what I'll do. On the other hand, you're a cousin of a trusted colleague. If I can help you, I will. We're after the shark, not a minnow.'
Fitzduane broke in. 'To be frank, Herr von Beck, I think you have already decided to tell us all you know, and we respect that. It takes courage. But there is something else to think about apart from public duty. Basic survival. Our murderous friend has a habit of cleaning up after himself. He doesn't like to leave a trail of witnesses. They seem to enjoy brief life spans after they have served their purpose. It just might be a good idea to help stop our friend before he kills you.'
Von Beck now looked truly terrified. 'I know,' he said. 'I know. You don't have to say any more.' The Bear and Fitzduane waited while Paulus von Beck composed himself.
