Fitzduane announced himself. Frau Hunziker retrieved her glasses and looked him up and down, then pointedly looked at the wall clock. The Irishman was five minutes late — downright punctual in Ireland, and unusual at that. In Bern such tardiness was apparently grounds for a sojourn in the PrisonTower. Frau Hunziker's manner indicated that she regretted the Tower was no longer in use.
Fitzduane spread out his arms in a gesture of apology. "I'm Irish," he said. "It's a cultural problem."
Frau Hunziker nodded her head several times. "Ja, ja," she said resignedly about what was clearly a lost cause, and rose to show him into von Graffenlaub's office. Fitzduane followed. He was pleased to see that the lawyer had not entirely lost his touch. She had excellent legs.
The lawyer came from behind his desk, shook Fitzduane's hand formally, and indicated some easy chairs gathered around a low table. Coffee was brought in. Fitzduane was asked about his flight. Pleasantries were exchanged with a formality alien to the Irishman.
Von Graffenlaub poured more coffee. Holding the insulated coffeepot, his hand shook slightly. It was the lawyer's only sign of emotion; otherwise he was imperturbable. Fitzduane suppressed a feeling of anger toward the immaculately dressed figure in front of him. Damn it, his son was dead. The lawyer was too controlled.
Fitzduane finished his coffee, replaced the cup and saucer on the low table, and sat back in his chair. Von Graffenlaub did the same, though slowly, as if reluctant for the conversation to enter its next phase; then he looked at the Irishman.
"You want to talk about Rudi, I think," he said.
Fitzduane nodded. "I'm afraid I must."
Von Graffenlaub bowed his head for a few moments. He did not respond immediately. When he did, there was a certain hesitation in his tone, as if he were reluctant to listen to what the Irishman had to say, yet drawn to it nonetheless.
"I would like to thank you for what you did for Rudi," he said. "The school wrote to me and described your sensitive handling of your part in this tragic affair."
"There was little enough I could do," said Fitzduane. As he spoke, his first sight of the hanging boy replayed through his mind.
"It must have been a great shock," said von Graffenlaub.
"It was," said Fitzduane. "I was surprised at my own reaction. I'm used to the sight of death but not, I guess, on my home ground. It had quite an impact."
"I can imagine," said von Graffenlaub. "We are all terribly distressed. What could have possessed Rudi to do such a thing?"
Fitzduane made no response. The question was rhetorical. He knew that the conversation was approaching the moment of truth. They were running out of polite platitudes.
"Nonetheless," said von Graffenlaub, "I am a little puzzled as to why you have come to see me. What is done is done. Nothing can bring Rudi back now. We must try to forget and get on with the business of living."
Von Graffenlaub spoke formally, yet there was a perceptible lack of conviction in his tone, as if he were troubled by some inner doubt. It was the first hint of a chink in a formidable personality. Fitzduane would have to force the issue. Reason alone was not going to work with von Graffenlaub. Indeed, reason dictated letting the whole matter drop. This wasn't about reason; it was about feelings, about a sense of something wrong, about sheer determination — and about the smell of the hunt. It was the first time that the Irishman had admitted this last point to himself, and he didn't know why this certainly had entered his mind, but there it was.
"I regret that I cannot agree," said Fitzduane. "Nobody should die in that hideous way without someone attempting to find out why. Why did your son kill himself? Do you know? Do you care?"
The lawyer turned ashen, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He abandoned his controlled posture and leaned forward in his chair, his right hand chopping through the air in emphasis. "How dare you!" he said, outrage in his voice. "How dare you — a complete stranger — question my feelings at such a time! Damn you! You know nothing, nothing..." He was shaking with rage.
The atmosphere had suddenly chilled. The pleasantries were forgotten. Von Graffenlaub quickly regained control of himself, but the two men looked at each other grimly. Fitzduane knew that if his investigation wasn't to grind to a premature halt, he must convince the Swiss to cooperate. It would be unpleasant in the short term, but there was little choice. This was a hunt that had already acquired its own momentum. It would lead where it would.
There was silence in the room. There was going to be no viable alternative to something Fitzduane would have preferred not to have had to do. He opened the large envelope he had been carrying and placed the contents facedown on the table.
"I'm sorry," said Fitzduane. "I don't want to hurt you, but I don't see any other way. A twenty-year-old kid killed himself. I found him hanging there, his bowels voided and stinking, his tongue swollen and protruding, his face blue and covered with blood and spittle and mucus. I held him when they cut him down still warm, and I heard the sound he made as the last air left his lungs. To me that sound screamed one question: Why?"
Fitzduane held the photograph of the dead boy just in front of von Graffenlaub's eyes. The remaining vestiges of color drained from the lawyer's face. He stared at the photograph, mesmerized. Fitzduane put it back on the table. Von Graffenlaub's gaze followed it down and rested on it for a minute before he looked up at the Irishman. Tears streamed from his eyes. He tried to speak but could not. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket, dislodging the flower from his buttonhole as he did so. Without saying a word, he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet, brushed aside Fitzduane's efforts to help him, and left the room.
Fitzduane picked up the crumpled rose and held it to his nostrils. The fragrance was gentle, soothing. He did not feel proud of himself. He looked around the silent office. Through the leather padded door he could just hear the sound of an electric typewriter.
On a low cabinet behind von Graffenlaub's desk stood several framed photographs, obviously of his family. One showed a sensual brunette in her mid-twenties with full, inviting lips and unusual sloping eyes — at a guess, Erika, some years earlier. The next photograph showed von Graffenlaub in full military uniform. His hair was less gray, and the long face, with its high forehead and deep-set eyes, projected power, confidence, and vigor — a far cry from the stumbling figure who had just left the room.
The last photograph had been taken on the veranda of an old wooden chalet. Snow-covered mountains could be seen in the background. To judge by the quality, the color print was an enlargement of a thirty-five-millimeter shot. The picture was slightly grainy, but nothing marred the energy and happiness that came through. The four von Graffenlaub children stood in a row, dressed in ski clothes and laughing, with arms around one another's shoulders: Marta, the eldest, her hair pulled back under a bright yellow ski cap and with a striking resemblance to her father; Andreas, taller, darker, and more serious, despite the smile; and then the twins, wearing the same pale blue ski suits and looking strikingly alike despite Vreni's long blonde hair and Rudi's short curls. The photograph bore the inscription “Lenk 1979.” In some ineffable way it strengthened the Irishman's resolve.