GAMES OF THE HANGMAN

by VICTOR O'REILLY

  "What about?" asked the smallish man. There was the sound of dripping from the open body into the stainless steel bucket below.

  "A Bernese hanging."

  "Ah," said the smallish man. "Who's paying for dinner?"

  "Now, is that a fair question from a friend to a friend about a friend?"

  "Yes," said the smallish man.

  "The firm."

  "Well now, that's very civilized of you, Shane," said the smallish man. "It will be the Arbutus, so."

  He decided he would have a nice cup of tea before returning to the corpse.

  Kilmara phoned Switzerland.

  * * *

  Fitzduane soaked in the bath, watching his yellow plastic duck bob around in the suds. There was the weakness of showers. There was nowhere to float your duck.

  The music of Sean O'Riada wafted through the half-open door.

  Fitzduane didn't hear the phone. He was thinking about O'Riada—an outstanding composer who was dead of drink by early middle age—and Rudi von Graffenlaub and the fact that killing yourself, if you included drugs and alcohol, wasn't really such an uncommon human activity. It was just that hanging was rather more dramatic. The duck caught his eye. It was riding low in the water. He had a horrible feeling that it had sprung a leak.

  He heard Etan laughing. She entered the bathroom and pulled a towel off the heated rail. "It's Shane. He asks would you mind leaving your duck for a moment. He wants to talk to you."

  Fitzduane picked up the phone in a damp hand. There were bubbles in his hair. He leaned over and turned the music down lower. "Still alive?" he said into the mouthpiece.

  "You're a real bundle of laughs," said Kilmara. It was late on a wet March evening, and it would take him well over an hour to get to his home in Westmeath. He was feeling grumpy, and he thought it quite probably he was coming down with a cold.

  "Developments?" asked Fitzduane. "Or are you just trying to get me out of the bath?"

  "Developments," said Kilmara. "The man in Cork says yes, but you'll have to drive down there. The man in Bern says well-behaved tourists are always welcome, though he gargled a bit when he heard the name von Graffenlaub. And I say, if I'm not in bed with acute pneumonia, will you take a stroll over to Shrewsbury Road in the morning? I want to talk about the dead and the living. Clear?"

  "In part," said Fitzduane.

  Three hours later, Kilmara felt much improved.

  Logs crackled in the big fireplace. An omelette fines herbes, a tomato salad, a little cheese, red wine—all sat especially well when prepared by a Frenchwoman. He heard the whir of the coffee grinder from the kitchen.

  He lay back in the old leather wing chair, the twins snuggled in close. They were cozy in pajamas and matching Snoopy robes, and they smelled of soap and shampoo and freshly scrubbed six-year-old. Afterward, when the cries and the squeals and the "But, Daddy, we can't go to bed until our hair is really, really dry" had died down, he talked with Adeline. As always when he looked at her or thought about her, he felt a fortunate man.

  "But why, cheri, does he want to do this thing?" said Adeline. She held her balloon glass of Armagnac up to the firelight and enjoyed the flickering rich color. "Why does Hugo go on this quest when nothing is suspicious, when there seems to be no reason?"

  "There's nothing suspicious as far as the authorities are concerned," said Kilmara, "but Hugo marches to the beat of a different drum. The point is that it doesn't feel right to him, and that, to him, is what counts."

  Adeline looked skeptical. "A feeling—is that all?"

  "Oh, I think it's more than that," said Kilmara. "Hugo is something of a paradox. He's a gentle man with a hard edge—and the hard edge is where much of his talent lies. It's no accident that he's spent most of his adult life in war zones. In the Congo he was a natural master of combat while in action, though he had qualms of conscience when it was all over. Combat photography was his compromise. Well, now he's heading toward middle age, and that's a time when you tend to take stock of where you've been and where you're going. I suspect he feels a sense of guilt about having made a living for so many years out of photographing other people's suffering, and I think this one death on his doorstep is like a catalyst for his accumulated feelings. He seems to think he can prevent some future tragedy by finding out the reasons for this one."

  "Do you think anything will come of all this?" said Adeline. "It seems to me he's more likely to have a series of doors slammed in his face. Nobody likes to talk about a suicide—least of all the family."

  Kilmara nodded. "Well," he said, "ordinarily you'd be right, of course, but Fitzduane is a little different. He'd laugh if you mentioned them, but he's got some special qualities. People talk to him, and he feels things others do not. It's more than being simpatico. If I believed in such things, I'd call him fey."

  "What is this word fey?" asked Adeline. Her English was excellent, and she sounded mildly indignant that Kilmara had come up with a word that she did not recognize. Her nose tilted at a pugnacious angle, and there was a glint of amusement in her eye. Kilmara thought she looked luscious. He laughed.

  "Oh, it's a real word," he said, "and a good word to know if you are mixing with Celts." He pulled a Chambers dictionary from the bookshelves behind the chair. He leafed through the pages and found the entry.

  " 'Fey,' " he read. " 'Doomed; fated to die; under the shadow of a sudden or violent death; forseeing the future, especially a calamity; eccentric; slightly mad; supernatural.' "

  Adeline shivered and looked into the firelight. "Does all of that apply, do you think?"

  Kilmara smiled. He took her hands between his. "It isn't that terrible," he said. "The son of a bitch is also lucky."

  Adeline smiled, and then she was silent for a while before she spoke. Now her voice was grave. "Shane, my love," she said, "you told me once about Hugo's wife: how she died; how she was killed; how he did nothing to save her."

  "He couldn't," said Kilmara. "He had orders, and his men were grossly outnumbered, and frankly, there wasn't even the time. It was quite terrible for him—hell, I knew the girl and she was quite gorgeous—but there was nothing he could do."

  Adeline looked at him. "I think Anne-Marie is the reason," she said. "She is the reason he can't let this thing go."

  Kilmara kissed his wife's hand. He loved her greatly, and it was a growing love as the days passed and the children grew. He thought Adeline was almost certainly right about Fitzduane, and he worried for his friend.

  Chapter 5

  Fitzduane drove and decided he'd better think about something more cheerful than conditions on the Dublin to Cork road, because the alternative was a heart attack. He decided to review the aftermath of the hanging.

  The obvious place to start his quest was Draker College—only it wasn't that simple. The impact of the tragedy of Rudolf von Graffenlaub's death on the small, isolated community of the college had been considerable. Immediately, it had been made quite, quite clear to Fitzduane that the sooner the whole episode was forgotten, the better. Nobody in the college wished to be reminded of Rudi's death. The attitude was that these things happen. It was pointed out, as if in defense, that suicide was the most common cause of death among young people. Fitzduane, who had never thought twice about the matter in the past, found this hard to believe, but investigation showed it to be true.

  "Actually, statistically speaking, it's amazing that something like this didn't happen before," said Pierre Danelle, the principal of the college and a man Fitzduane found it hard to warm to.

  "All the students at Draker are normally so happy," said the deputy principal. He was a Danelle clone.

  The inquest took less than an hour. Sergeant Tommy Keane drove Fitzduane to the two-centuries-old granite courthouse where it was held. In the trunk of the sergeant's car was fishing tackle, a child's doll—and a length of thin blue rope culminating in a noose stained with brownish marks. Fitzduane found this juxtaposition of domesticity and death bizarre.

  During the
inquest Fitzduane was struck by the one emotion that seemed to grip everyone present: the desire to get the whole wretched business over and done with.

  Fitzduane gave his evidence. The pathologist gave his evidence. Tommy Keane gave and produced his evidence. The principal of the college and some students were called. One of the students, a pretty, chubby-faced blonde with a halo of golden curls, whose name was Toni Hoffman, had been particularly close to Rudi. She cried. No one, in Fitzduane's opinion, advanced any credible reason why Rudi had killed himself, and cross-examination was minimal. Fitzduane had the feeling they were in a race to beat the clock.

  The coroner found that the hanged man had been properly identified and was indeed Rudolf von Graffenlaub. He had died as a result of hanging himself from a tree. It was known he was of a serious disposition, prone to be moody, and had been upset by "world problems." His parents, who were not present, were offered the condolences of the court. The word suicide—for legal reasons, Fitzduane gathered—was never mentioned.

  As they drove back in the car, Sergeant Keane spoke. "You expected more, didn't you, Hugo?"

  "I think I did," said Fitzduane. "It was all so rushed."

  "That's the way these things normally are," said Keane. "It makes the whole affair easier for all concerned. A few little white lies like saying the lad died instantly do nobody any harm."

  "Didn't he?"

  "Lord, no," said the sergeant. "It wasn't read out in open court, of course, but the truth is the lad strangled to death. Dr. Buckley estimated it took at least four or five minutes, but it could have been longer—quite a bit longer."

  They drove on in silence. Fitzduane wondered if the blue rope was still in the trunk.

  The duty lieutenant came into Kilmara's office. He was looking, Kilmara thought, distinctly green about the gills.

  "You asked to be informed of any developments on Fitzduane's Island, Colonel?"

  Kilmara nodded.

  "We've had a call from the local police superintendent," said the lieutenant. "There's been another hanging at Draker." He looked down at his clipboard. "The victim was an eighteen-year-old Swiss female, one Toni Hoffman—apparently a close friend of Rudolf von Graffenlaub. No question of foul play. She left a note." He paused and swallowed.

  Kilmara raised an eyebrow. "And?"

  "It's sick, Colonel," said the lieutenant. "Apparently she did it in front of the whole school. They have an assembly hall. Just when all the faculty and students had gathered, there was a shout from the balcony at the back of the hall. When they turned, the girl was standing on the gallery rail with a rope around her neck. When she saw everyone was looking, she jumped. I gather it was very messy. Her head just about came off."

  "Did she say anything before she jumped?" said Kilmara.

  "She shouted, 'Remember Rudi,' " said the lieutenant.

  Kilmara raised the other eyebrow. "I expect we shall," he said dryly. He dismissed the lieutenant. "Obviously a young lady with a theatrical bent," he said to Günther.

  Günther shrugged. "Poor girl," he said. "What else can one say? It sounds like a classic copycat suicide. One suicide in a group has a tendency to spark off others. Many coroners think that's one good reason why suicides shouldn't be reported."

  Kilmara gave a shudder. "Ugh," he said. "This is gloomy stuff. Until our green lieutenant came in with the tidings, I was geared to go home early and bathe the twins."

  "And now?" said Günther.

  Kilmara waited a beat and grinned. "I'm going to go home early and bathe the twins," he said. He put on his coat, checked his personal weapons, and slid down the specially installed fireman's pole to the underground garage. He'd tell Fitzduane about this second hanging tomorrow. Hugo would have to get by on one hanging this night.

  He was unmercifully splashed by the twins.

  The city of Cork, Ireland's second largest, had been sacked, burned, pillaged, looted, and destroyed so often since its foundation in the sixth century by St. Finbar that it now seemed laid out with the primary objective of stopping any invader in his tracks.

  Its traffic problem was impressive in its turgid complexity, and on a dark, wet March evening it had reached a pinnacle of congestion that was a tribute to the ingenuity of its corporation's planning committee.

  Fitzduane had a manic private theory that the reason the city's population had expanded was that none of the inhabitants could get out, and so they stayed and became traders or lawyers or pregnant or both and conversed in a strange singsong that sounded to the uninitiated like a form of Chinese but was, in fact, the Cork accent.

  Fitzduane actually quite liked Cork, but he could never understand how a city that stood astride only one river could have so many bridges—all, apparently, going the wrong way. In addition, there seemed to be more bridges than during his last visit, and some seemed to be in different locations. Maybe they were designed to move secretly in the dead of night. Maybe the reason the British had burned the city—yet again—in 1921 was just to find a parking space.

  He was agreeably surprised when the South Infirmary Hospital loomed through the sleet.

  Fitzduane transferred the slides of the hanging to the circular magazine of a Kodak Carousel projector and switched it on.

  The screen was suddenly brilliant white in the small office. He pressed the advance button. There was a click and a whir and a click. The white of the screen was replaced by a blur of color. He adjusted the zoom lens and the focus, and the face of the hanged boy, much enlarged, came sharply into view.

  Buckley held an illuminated pointer in his hand, and from time to time, as the slides clicked and whirred and clicked, he would point out a feature with the small arrow of light.

  "Of course," said the pathologist, "I didn't see the locus—the place it actually happened—so these slides of yours help. They should really have been handed in to me before the inquest, but no matter.

  "Now, under our system, the decision as to whether the pathologist sees the deceased at the locus depends on the police. If they have any reason to be suspicious, the body is not disturbed in any way until the fullest investigations are carried out. In this particular case the sergeant used his judgment. A youth was involved, and his death occurred on the grounds of his own college. A very fraught situation, and the sight of a victim of hanging can be quite traumatic, as you know. There were no signs of foul play, and the sergeant knew that hanging almost invariably means suicide. There was also the matter of determining that the lad was actually dead. All these factors encouraged the sergeant to take the view that he should cut down the deceased immediately, and I have to say that it is my belief that he acted correctly."

  Fitzduane looked at the grimacing figure on the screen. He had an impulse to wipe away the blood and mucus that so disfigured the face. He tried to make his voice sound detached as he spoke. "He must have been dead, surely. I checked his pulse when I found him, and there was nothing—and just look at him."

  The pathologist cleared his throat. "I must point out, Mr. Fitzduane," he said, "that given the position of the hanging body, I doubt that you could have carried out an adequate examination. The absence of a pulse alone, especially considering a normal layman's limited experience, is by no means a sufficient determination of death."

  "Are you saying that he could have been alive when I found him—even without a pulse and looking like that?"

  "Yes," said Buckley in a matter-of-fact voice, "it's possible. Our investigations, based upon when he was last seen in the college, when the rain stopped and so on, plus, of course, your own testimony, indicate that the hanging must have taken place between half an hour and an hour of your finding him. He could have been alive—just—in the same way that a victim of drowning can survive a period of total immersion and can be brought around by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

  As Buckley spoke, Fitzduane tried to imagine giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to that bluish face. He could almost feel those distorted lips stained with spittle, mucus, and bloo
d. Had his revulsion killed the boy? Had it really been so impossible to cut the body down?

  "For what it's worth," said Buckley, "and this is not a scientific opinion, merely common sense, he was almost certainly dead when you found him. And anyway, I fail to see how you could have cut him down single-handed, since the evidence stated, as I recall, that you had no knife or similar item. In addition, there would have been the probability of further damage to the boy when the body dropped. Finally, if any trace of life did remain, the brain would have been damaged beyond repair. You would have saved a vegetable. So do not harbor any feelings of guilt. They are neither justified nor constructive."

  Fitzduane smiled faintly at Buckley.

  "No, I'm not a mind reader," said the pathologist. "It's just that I've been down this road many times before. If suicides realized the trauma they inflict on those who find their damaged remains, some might think twice." He turned back to the business at hand.

  "Our friend here," he said, "is a classic example of a victim of asphyxial death resulting from suspension by a ligature. You will note the cyanosed complexion and the petechiae—those tiny red dots. The petechiae are more pronounced where the capillaries are least firmly supported. Externally they show here as a fine shower in the scalp, brow, and face above the level of compression. You will observe the tongue, lifted up at the base and made turgid and protruding. You will observe the prominent eyeballs. You will observe that the level of the tightening of the ligature—the blue nylon rope in this case—does not circle the neck horizontally as would tend to be the case in manual strangulation. Instead, it is set at the thyroid level in front and rises to a suspension point just behind the ear. The impression on the body tissues, incidentally, conforms exactly to what you see here. Such would not be the case if he had been manually strangled beforehand or indeed hanged elsewhere. There are invariably discrepancies.

  "Now, hanging normally causes death in one of three possible ways: vagal inhibition, cerebral anoxia, or asphyxia."