The Zurich Conspiracy (20 page)

She stopped typing. Schulmann was dead. A whirlwind was raging in her head, but she had to get this draft plan to her clients by tomorrow morning.

The telephone rang. Paul
,
for sure, she thought.

The voice on the phone spoke in a whisper. “Frau Rehmer. It’s me, Bianca Schwegler. I don’t know if I ought to pass this on but…Werner Schulmann is dead.”

“Frau Schwegler, I can barely hear you.”

“I can’t talk any louder. It’s chaos in here. Herr Schulmann is dead.” Bianca sounded rushed, didn’t even wait for Josefa’s response. “He was supposed to go to Milan on Friday for the media presentation of our new collection, but he never got there. We called his home, but there was no answer. Then we called his mother, but she didn’t know where he was. She didn’t have a key to his apartment either. We eventually discovered that he hadn’t even gotten on the plane. Then the police had to break down his door…They found him dead—just a minute.”

Josefa heard a babble of voices in the background, then Bianca Schwegler again.

“I’m very sorry but it’s absolutely frantic here. What I really wanted to say was the police are investigating the cause of death because Schulmann left a note saying if he died somebody most certainly had killed him. Do you understand?”

“The police are investigating? Who found the note?”

“I’ve heard it was at his lawyer’s, and so was his will. But I don’t know exactly. In any case they’re examining the body.”

“How are people taking it—Bourdin, Walther?”

“Francis Bourdin is totally hysterical. I haven’t seen Herr Walther yet. Bourdin came back from Milan yesterday. It’s just total chaos. Marlene’s looking for Claire everywhere. She’s disappeared. And she’s supposed to take over some of Schulmann’s responsibilities. Frau Rehmer, I’ve got to go, Herr Walther just walked by. Take care.” And then, “Maybe you’ll come back now.”

Josefa held the receiver in her hand for quite some time. It would take a mighty effort for her to concentrate on her work today—that much was obvious.

The evening news used the term “suspected murder.” But that was obviously not what the police had said, and they weren’t giving out any further information. Swiss TV showed Walther making his way to his car, pursued by TV cameras.
Why didn’t anybody tell him it was better to use the underground parking lot instead?

Josefa tried to reach Verena, but her father said she wasn’t back from the clinic yet. Then she called Claire’s home number three times, but all she got was the answering machine. Josefa didn’t want to leave a message. She suddenly felt very wary.

Sali pointed a wooden spoon, as if it were a scepter, up at the ceiling in a grandiose gesture. “Look up there, star we were wanting for,” he blurted out excitedly.

“Waiting for,” Josefa gently corrected him. Sali was playing King Balthazar from the East. He would have a crown and a scepter and bring the Baby Jesus precious gifts.

“What will you give to the Christ Child?” Josefa asked.

Sali wrinkled up his nose. “Ski.” That was what he wanted for Christmas because all his classmates had skis.

“But there’s not any snow where the Baby Jesus lives,” she said, feeling rather silly. How were you supposed to explain the Christian Christmas to a Muslim kid? And to make it worse, she was clueless in religious matters. She’d read somewhere that Islam recognized Jesus as a prophet. Sali probably read the Koran. She’d seen kids studying the Koran in madrassas on TV.

Sali was adamant: “Jesus want ski.” That closed the book on it.

King Balthazar fell on his knees before the manger—a basket filled with newspapers reporting Schulmann’s mysterious death. Sali’s earnestness touched Josefa.
How trusting children are, and how often their trust is shattered.
What she wanted most of all was to take Sali in her arms and comfort him. That’s when the telephone rang.

Paul
.
No, Verena
. She’d heard nothing from either of them. Paul was in Vienna on business according to his secretary. And it was most certainly not Helene; she knew her friend was off on a lecture tour in the French part of Switzerland. Josefa was relieved to have a little time before seeing Helene again anyway.

“Franz Kündig, Zurich Criminal Investigation Department,” she heard a man’s voice announce. Josefa’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yes?” she uttered, more tentatively than she intended.

“Frau Rehmer, we’d like some information from you concerning the Werner Schulmann case. You probably know he was found dead. We’re working to clear up the cause of death. Could you come by tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Josefa agreed, befuddled.

“How would nine
AM
be, at the Police Department, City Hall?”

“Later would be better, maybe around two. I have some appointments in the morning.”

Franz Kündig agreed and gave her his office address and phone number. Josefa hung up and noticed Sali still kneeling in front of the basket of newspapers.

“You are a good king,” she praised, stroking his hair.

Sali stood up.

“But there is also bad king, wants to kill Christ Child.”

“He wants to kill him? Yes, Herod is a bad king. But he’ll never find the Baby Jesus.”

“No, never find. Josefa runs quick away. Josefa scared.”

“
Josef
runs away, Josef, the father. Josefa, that’s me. Josef is a man. But you’re right, Josef runs away quick so Herod can’t find the child.”

Sali nodded vigorously. “Josefa take child and wife and donkey and goes away. Josefa scared.”

She picked up the script for the Christmas pageant. “Yes, Josefa scared,” she said quietly.

That evening she went to the movies to get her mind off things, but she only half watched the film. Preoccupied by her impending talk with the police, she rehearsed the conversation over and over in her head. The light was blinking on the answering machine when she arrived home.

“Herbert told me you’d called.” The first message was from Verena. “I was at the clinic, and we had a team meeting that evening. I spoke with Anita Schulmann again today. She’s his mother, you know, and I’m a friend of hers. It’s just awful. The police are assuming it’s murder.” Her stepmother paused. “Anita says Werner was poisoned, they don’t know who or why. You can imagine the state she’s in. He was their only son. You certainly wouldn’t have wished that on him, would you? I don’t know anything more than that. Call later.”

The second message was from Pius.

“I hope you’re doing well, Josefa,” he began warmly. “You’ve surely heard the latest. Who’d have thought it…Josefa, I’d like to see you again. I miss you. We all miss you. Do call soon.”

She listened to his message three times. Then she crawled into bed with a funny, fluttery feeling in her belly.

At two o’clock sharp the next day, Josefa was standing in front of the city hall unit of the Criminal Investigation Department—a proud, classical building, newly renovated at great expense. Cluttered with out-of-date office furniture, a faded Pharmacist Association calendar hanging on the wall, and a couple of dusty house plants making a futile attempt to burst apart their much-too-small pots, Office 15A appeared utterly untouched by the costly improvements evident elsewhere in the building.
Did Sebastian Sauter work in a cell like this too?
Josefa wondered.

Franz Kündig introduced himself and then pressed “Record” on the tape recorder. The detective had a mustache, and his hair was brushed up boldly, above his forehead. He was easily over forty, Josefa guessed. A second officer sat opposite her over in the corner, and she couldn’t help notice that he regarded her curiously.
What’s he thinking?
Maybe that
poison is considered to be a woman’s murder weapon.
Josefa’s palms were sweating, like at the dentist’s before the drilling started.

“How long did you know Werner Schulmann?” Kündig began the interrogation.

Josefa stared at the tape recorder. She could see wheels turning through the little window.

“I met him some years ago, through our business. He was at Loyn for about two and a half months before I left the company. That is, I only worked with him directly for two months since I was on a three-week vacation when he started in July.”

“Did you resign?”

“Yes.”

“Did that have anything to do with Herr Schulmann?”

Josefa was prepared for this question. “Only indirectly. It was not clear which were my responsibilities and which were not. Herr Schulmann never gave me a clear job description, though I wanted one. I couldn’t put up with that. I like terms to be clearly spelled out.”

“Did you ever talk with Herr Schulmann about business matters?”

Josefa looked at the officer in irritation. “Of course we talked business. I don’t understand your question.”

Franz Kündig did not follow up on her objection, but instead asked, “How were your conversations? Friendly?”

“We kept to essentials. There was never any communication over a cup of coffee in the company canteen, if that’s what you mean.”

“What was his relationship with Francis Bourdin like?”

“I believe it was Herr Bourdin who brought Werner Schulmann into the company. At least that’s how I heard it. But I never asked specifically.”

Franz Kündig rolled his chair away from his desk, turned, and crossed his legs. “Frau Rehmer, did you ever get the impression that he was peculiar in any way?”

“Who, Bourdin or Schulmann?”

“Schulmann.”

“It depends what you mean by peculiar,” she said hesitantly. “You know, in our business everybody’s a little wound up in some ways. We’re surrounded by glamorous, prominent people—occasionally it’s like being in a film. That makes it somehow difficult to say what’s normal, given these conditions.”

She didn’t know what the policeman would make of her words. Then it occurred to her that they were sure to have interrogated other Loyn people and possibly knew about her tense relationship with Schulmann. “Herr Schulmann certainly did not come to Loyn because he was interested in leather handbags and suitcases, that much is obvious,” she quickly added. “Which makes him different—different from most colleagues.”

The officer in the corner finally spoke up. “We’ve found tapes at Werner Schulmann’s place. They are recordings of conversations between guests at a Loyn event. Among the recordings were conversations between Karl Westek and Curt Van Duisen.” He let his words sink in, his eyes never leaving Josefa’s face.

Recorded conversations?
The implication of his words was becoming clear to Josefa. A scene flashed through her mind:
Westek and Van Duisen at a table together under the party tent.

“Can you tell us something about that?” the second detective asked, his voice sounding far away to her.

She shook her head. “This is news to me. I mean…How can that be? That would be an outrageous thing to do—for the company, for the guests. I can’t imagine why somebody would record private conversations.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “All I know is that the gentlemen you mentioned sat together during lunch at the same table. There’s a photograph of them…”

“We assume that someone bugged the table, but we don’t know where the microphones were placed yet. Have you any idea who might have done it?”

Josefa felt hot.
Bugged!
“You said Schulmann had tapes. Do you think he’s the one?”

Kündig stepped in. “We don’t make any snap judgments; every possibility has to be considered.”

“I know the people who worked on this event,” she said slowly so as not to make a mistake. “I can’t imagine that any one of them would do a thing like that. It’s absurd! What for? At the most it would be somebody who—” She stopped short.

“Yes?” the second officer asked.

“Somebody who’d want to drag the company’s name through the mud,” she finished the sentence in some agitation.

This man in the corner looked more like a teacher than a detective. He cleaned his metal-rimmed glasses with an old-fashioned linen handkerchief. “The tent was put up the evening before.” He had obviously talked to Loyn employees already. Who were they?

“Yes.”

“When were the tables put up?”

“The evening before too. We always hire the same firm, a moving company that coordinates with the caterers. We’ve worked with the company for years. Sepp Kohler, for example—the one who supervises the furniture movers—he’s been with that company for twenty years or more.” Josefa noticed she was talking as if she were still at Loyn.

“Who had access to the tent?”

“Basically everybody with a Loyn employee ID—same goes for the personnel of the two delivery companies. They were finished at seven and didn’t come back until the next morning with flower arrangements and candles and dishes. But the tent was guarded by security round the clock.”

“So something like thirty people had access to the tent that evening?”

Josefa thought for a while. “Theoretically even more. Maybe forty, because we had security personnel there as well, as I’ve said, about a dozen. But my team was continually busy in the evening. We had to take care of two hundred and fifty guests, after all.”