The Zurich Conspiracy (24 page)

Josefa couldn’t recall when the picture was taken. She often wore the beige two-piece suit pictured in the photo. But she knew at once who had caught her at this moment, when she looked so sensuous and radiant.

She unfolded the sheet of paper.

I never write letters. But this is important to me. Why don’t you come visit and I’ll cook the only thing I can: fondue bourguignonne. That is my contribution to the peaceful coexistence of the sexes. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be ready at twelve o’clock on Thursday.

The invitation was the very thing she needed.

The sprawling apartment complex rose like a giant white steamship from the high-priced land in Zurich’s downtown. The sides of the buildings converged at the front and back almost as large as the bow of the
Titanic
. There weren’t any swimming pools or tennis courts in the belly of this gigantic ship, though the architecture evoked the sun, the
dolce far niente
, and laughter—forget about the gray sky.

So this was the city’s famous public housing project. Josefa was stunned when she entered the airy inner courtyard and looked up at the large, roofed-in patios facing out from all the units. She’d heard that the floors in the apartments were made of low-maintenance marble. People fought like dogs to live here, with its view of the river and the mountains—and all for a rent low wage-earners could afford.

Josefa couldn’t exactly count a Loyn photographer among those wage-earners, and it was a riddle to her how Pius Tschuor had managed to latch onto an apartment here. He wasn’t on permanent staff at Loyn, but he was certainly well paid. She really knew very little about this attractive man except that he was an old buddy of Joe Müller from the Internet café.
Is it a good
idea to walk into a corner of his life that’s been hidden until now?

Pius was standing in the doorway, a winning smile on his face, and Josefa’s heart beat faster. She’d deliberately dressed modestly—a defensive layer of sorts. She wore a thick, white wool sweater under her green down jacket, along with washed-out jeans and lined boots. Pius, however, had donned a tight-fitting T-shirt outlining a powerful yet slim torso, and stylish pants fitted tightly over his derrière. Josefa looked away quickly; she wanted to concentrate on the mission at hand. At least Pius showed enough restraint to invite her to lunch instead of supper.

“I was a bit nervous you might not come,” he confessed frankly, helping her off with her jacket.

His admission was sweet, but she couldn’t help but quip, “I hope you thawed the meat nevertheless.”

“The meat’s fresh from the butcher,” Pius protested. He escorted her through the apartment, which did in fact have white marble floors, as well as a huge living room, a bedroom with walk-in closet, an office that Pius obviously used as his archive, a black-tiled bathroom, and a small kitchen. Almost all the furniture was black—the whole décor struck Josefa like an oversized black-and-white photograph. Not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere.

Josefa thought of her colorful cushions, flowered curtains, and multicolored bathroom tiles. Pius would undergo a genuine culture shock in her apartment.

“Martini?” he asked. Josefa could smell his aftershave; how familiar she’d become with his intoxicating scent. She declined. “I’ve still got to work this afternoon.” She had to keep a clear head first and foremost.

They toasted each other with mineral water instead.

“Josefa, shall we finally start using the familiar form of address between us?”

Nothing spoke against it. She realized she was no longer Loyn’s event manager. Evidently Claire was doing Josefa’s job now; she seemed to have replaced her former boss without a hitch. How fast it had gone. Josefa felt an ache in her stomach.

Pius put the pot of bouillon on the table. The liquid bubbled when they dipped in their forks and meat.

“So what do you think: Who killed Schulmann?” Pius asked without delay.

“That’s what I was about to ask you,” Josefa replied, trying to avoid his intense gaze.

“In a mystery novel it’s always the person who’s least suspicious; in real life it’s the other way round.”

“Don’t tell me you think it was Bourdin?”

“No, I don’t think he’s the murderer,” Pius said, unperturbed, as if talking about a soccer team’s line-up. “It’s true that Bourdin would like to take over the company, but that’s not illegal, is it? At the very most, it’s flattering for Walther. And it’s no secret that Bourdin shoots off his mouth and brags about anything and everything. It almost passes for good etiquette in those hallowed halls. Everybody’s bluffing from here to kingdom come.”

He refilled her glass.

“No way Walther would be a suspect either. For one thing, he can’t be the murderer because he’s going to finance my next coffee-table book.” He grinned. “Schulmann’s a guy who made enemies all over the place. He lusted for power and was unscrupulous. I think you can find the motive for his murder in the time before he came to Loyn. I told that to the police.”

“The police spoke to you?”

“Sure, they’ve talked to a lot of people. You too, of course, right?”

Josefa nodded and spooned some sauce onto her plate.

“So what do
you
think?”

Josefa didn’t answer right away. Should she tell Pius about Thüring and his pals and about Paul’s speculations about what they might have been planning to do to Loyn? Actually it was surprising that Pius didn’t mention this angle himself. Why did he think Bourdin planted the bugs? But she got hold of herself.
We keep our nose out of it
. Instead she remarked, “You’ve got to know a person really well to be able to poison him. I mean, you’ve got to have easy access to him, whereas you can shoot anybody from a distance.”

“Did the cops say anything at all that could point to a particular person?”

“No, of course not. Why should they? Maybe I’m a suspect too.”

Pius made a face and looked up at her mischievously from below. “Oh, for sure, Josefa, you’re the most dangerous person I know. Can tell by just looking at you. I like it when you’re so dangerous.” He skewered three pieces of meat with his fork. “I’ll tell you something: A year from now nobody will be talking about this murder anymore. That’s one advantage of our fast-paced age.” He stood up, leaned over the table, and lifted her chin so that she had to look at him. “When are you coming to the cave with me? You know, that would be fabulous for both of us. You could do the publicity for my book.”

“What book is that?”

“My book of photographs of the cave systems in Switzerland. Dripstone grottoes, Hölloch Cave, underground lakes, all the creepy-crawlies down there—it will be unique. A large-format book. There’s never been anything like it. What do you say?”

Josefa shook her head. “If Walther finances the book, he’ll certainly not want me of all people to do the PR.”

“Let me take care of that,” Pius said, clearing the dishes. “I’ve got Walther eating out of my hand.”

When Josefa looked at him nonplussed, he burst out laughing. You never knew with Pius whether he was joking or serious.

Josefa took a deep breath. “Say, listen, can I see the copies of the photos you took at the golf tournament? I’d like to have a few pictures of my last big event as souvenirs. But I don’t want to go begging people at Loyn for them; they’ve got other things to worry about anyhow.”

“Weren’t they on your desk on your last day of work? I remember a picture of Thüring.”

“That was in St. Moritz. Thüring wasn’t at the Lake Geneva event, as you know.”

“Yes, of course, no problem,” Pius said, leading her into his office. Pictures of beautiful young women were hanging everywhere; there weren’t any pictures of her. Josefa wasn’t sure whether she ought to be pleased or disappointed.

“You haven’t put up any bats or caves?” she asked.

“No, that’s my secret project. Anybody can take a picture of pretty women, but the other is far more difficult.” He pulled some wine-red files with contact prints down from a shelf and put them on the table. “Here, use that magnifying glass and write down the numbers. I’ll see to dessert.”

Josefa knew exactly what she was looking for. She went through all the pictures systematically that had the tent in the background. Pius had a different angle from the other photographers because his shots had to include the press crowd that was trying to shoot the golfers. Josefa held the magnifying glass up to the background. She went through picture after picture to see what was happening in front of the tent.

She came upon a series of pictures of Colin Hartwell, posing at first with his wife Pamela—that was still in the morning—then, in the afternoon, by himself with his golf club. She stopped short and leafed back to the pictures with Pamela Hartwell. And sure enough: there was the earring with the rubies and the diamond teardrop, the same one Marlene Dombrinski had put on her desk, the one slumbering in Loyn’s safe.

But she couldn’t stop there.

The pictures that followed were ones she hadn’t wanted to look at before: Francis Bourdin on the ground, bleeding. Confused and horrified faces all round.

Josefa took a closer look at the earlier photos. The metallic whir of a mixer came from the kitchen. Bourdin was nowhere to be seen on these particular prints; he’d been standing beside Pius. Then he suddenly stormed off toward Colin.

Her hand and the magnifying glass began to tremble. This was what she was looking for: a figure, very vague, at the tent entrance clad in a striped dress, then, a silhouette in front of the table on the right-hand side and a bare leg sticking out from under the table. She could just make out a woman’s sandal. If only she had a microscope! She went back a few pictures; there was the same striped dress—Pamela Hartwell’s dress.

The scales fell from Josefa’s eyes immediately.
That’s what Bourdin was so frightened about!
He’d seen Pamela Hartwell crawling under the table, maybe just a woman’s bare leg peeking out from beneath it. Bourdin must have been afraid that somebody would discover the bugs, so he went and ran straight into Hartwell’s club.
How could he have suspected that all Pamela was looking for was her lost earring? So much trouble over
a pretty bit of jewelry
.

Pius called from the kitchen. “Be right there,” she called back. She quickly shoved the contacts back into the file and tried to put them back on the shelf but couldn’t find a gap to put them in. A drawer was open—Pius must have taken the file from there. And in fact there was another file in there, also wine red. Josefa lifted its cover to see if there were more photos of the golf tournament. The first picture, and all that followed, was of a woman in an erotic pose.

Josefa’s heart began to race. She hastily leafed through the pile. Smiling, lascivious, playful, elegantly dressed, in sports clothes, in a scant bikini, in a half-open bathrobe: always the same person—Pamela Hartwell.

Josefa could hardly catch her breath. What did it all mean? She heard footsteps and quickly put the folder back. When Pius came in she was holding the first folder. “Where does this go?” she asked, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her flushed cheeks. He took the folder out of her hand, put it in the drawer, and shut it. She noticed the drawer had a lock on the outside.

“I’ve made zabaglione. We have to eat it right away,” he said.

“You’re not the lousy cook you say you are,” Josefa complimented him when they were seated again. Her voice was rough as sandpaper.

“You see, there are still some good sides to me for you to discover.” He winked at her. “Did you write down the numbers?”

“No, I couldn’t decide. Why don’t you make a selection for me and send me a few pictures.” She smiled at him. “That would be awfully nice.”

Pius nodded. “But don’t tell a soul. The police are interested in these pictures too, but they only took some from my office at the company. Fortunately I’ve got duplicate negatives.”

Josefa didn’t know quite how to take this. She’d mull it over later.

“Forget Loyn for a while, Josefa. We should really go see a cave together,” Pius suggested. “That will get you thinking about something else. It’s a whole different world, you’ll see.”

The last spoonful of zabaglione melted on her tongue. Maybe he was right. She needed new experiences, new projects. The job of launching a book of photographs was tempting.

Pius was watching her with a gleam in his eye. “Many things stay hidden from most people, luckily.”

Of course
, Josefa thought.
But just what are those things?