The Zurich Conspiracy (22 page)

“Herr Kohler, what’s happened to the tables?”

“Frau Rehmer, it’s not my mistake, but the boss didn’t want to let the other tables go,” he admitted, obviously embarrassed by the position this decision had put him in.

“
Whatever
for?” she asked incredulously.

Kohler grimaced. “They were the tables we used for Loyn at Lake Geneva, remember? At the golf tournament on Lake Geneva.”

“So what?” Josefa didn’t understand.

“The boss wants to hold those tables until the affair is cleared up.”

“What affair?”

“That thing with the bugs and eavesdropping.”

“Good grief!” she exclaimed.
So that’s how far things have gone
.

“We’ve got the proper tablecloths,” Kohler assured her.

Josefa examined the furniture and then gave instructions to the movers and decorators, as she’d done dozens of times before, and she would make it work this time too.

When the work was finished and the foreman reappeared to have her sign off on the delivery sheets, he remarked, “We’ve never found anything, you know.”

“Found what, Herr Kohler?” Josefa asked absentmindedly, glancing through the paperwork.

“Bugs or whatnot. We check the tables every time they come back. Maybe repairs are needed, maybe some loose screws or splintered wood. We’d definitely have spotted the gadgets.”

“I’m no expert,” she said, “but I’d say the bugs were probably somewhere else. In the bouquets, in the ventilators, in the candleholders—what do I know.”

“The police say they were under the tables.”

Josefa looked at Kohler in surprise.
What kind of information
won’t
detectives throw around…?

The foreman kept talking. “The microphones couldn’t have been that small. There was a heavy tablecloth on the tables. And noise all around the place. We’d have to have seen them.”

“Nobody’s blaming you,” she reassured him.

Kohler took the signed papers and put them in a briefcase. He hesitated a moment. Obviously there was something else he wanted to get off his chest.

“By the way, we had some trouble at the horse show in St. Moritz. We were there right on time to pick up the tables. After they were all ready to go, I mean. On time as always. Man, was he in a flap. Yelling at us that we were an hour early, and that was not what was agreed to, and we were to come back in an hour.”

“Who yelled at you?” Josefa was all ears now.

“Herr Bourdin,” Kohler said.

“Francis Bourdin? But that’s not his responsibility.” Josefa looked at the foreman doubtfully, but Kohler vigorously nodded his head.

“We had to leave and come back later. Though everything was ready for pickup.”

Josefa’s thoughts were moving very fast.

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“Yes, I did. Honestly, my colleagues were really cheesed off with Herr Bourdin.”

“And what did the police say?” she persisted.

“They wrote it down.”

Kohler looked at her expectantly. He probably wanted to know what she made of it. But she just thanked him, handed him a generous tip, and went to the restaurant to check the list of drinks.

The next lull in the evening wouldn’t come until the managers and staff representatives of the software company had finished their aperitifs and were making their speeches. Josefa closed the door to the hall and retreated to a little corner table in the bar next door. The staff there was busy getting drinks ready for the dinner. Glasses tinkled. Josefa noticed a woman sitting on a barstool with a cocktail before her looking bored. She wore a black chiffon see-through blouse that allowed her pale skin to shimmer through. Her tight leather skirt barely covered her thighs.

Josefa took a women’s magazine from the rack on the wall and looked at the ads. Loyn was represented, naturally, with a two-page spread, on paper thicker than the magazine’s other pages. There was Joan Caroll, slightly wicked and aloof, with full, shiny lips and a Mona Lisa smile, sitting on grandiose marble stairs, with skin-tight pants on her outspread legs and high heels planted like spear tips. One step below, a reclining cheetah lay with a Loyn bag between its paws. The bag was almost as seductive as Joan. Josefa heaved a sigh.

There she sat, literally in jail, supervising an insignificant company banquet; every day she was running after jobs that had about as much sex appeal as escargot. She had to sell herself cheap as if she’d never staged brilliant blockbuster events for the most select international clientele with one of Switzerland’s most famous firms. She did miss her work at Loyn, and in moments like these she thought that resigning had been a serious mistake. There was no doubt she’d been relieved those first few weeks that she’d escaped the trench warfare of Loyn, and she was looking forward to new challenges, but the attraction of freedom regained had quickly evaporated. She missed the contact with the “ambassadors,” the interaction with her team, the stimulating interchanges in the office. She wasn’t part of anything anymore.

It pained her that she couldn’t be at the Loyn Festival with the world-class stars of classical music she’d invited, that she wouldn’t be pulling the strings in the background, noiselessly and skillfully, as always. Maybe she should have proceeded differently, been smarter tactically. Wouldn’t it have been better if she’d started a rumor that she might be leaving, so that Walther would have to do some thinking about it? Maybe he’d have recalled how valuable she’d been to the company, all her tremendous accomplishments over the past five years; maybe then he’d have tried to get her to change her mind.

But after she’d resigned, Walther hadn’t made the slightest effort to persuade her to stay on, hadn’t offered her a higher salary, and hadn’t made any concessions in her job description. She’d become expendable overnight. How was that possible? Josefa knew she was good, very good even, and they’d simply let her go her merry way. So easy to replace.

Failure was just not in her plans, but this time she had failed. She felt anger rising inside her. Why did she let them do this to her? How could things have gone this far? Why had Bourdin brought Schulmann of all people into Loyn? So that Schulmann could toss her overboard? No, it couldn’t have been revenge. Not for Bourdin and not for Walther. Her instinct told her that.
What are they keeping from me?

Josefa closed the magazine. She’d been the victim of a dirty game—she was convinced of that. But the players were not going to get off so easily.
She
would not leave Loyn empty-handed. She wouldn’t let herself be dumped after five years. She was after something else: an answer she could live with.

She heard applause through the closed door of the “prison hall,” chairs being shoved around, and loud voices. Somebody came into the restaurant; Josefa recognized him at once: Karl Westek. What was the former CFO of Swixan doing at some obscure company’s holiday party? Westek scanned the room, his body bouncing stiffly like a firm spring. Their eyes met. Josefa gave him a friendly nod, but before she could open her mouth he turned away and hurried over to the bored young woman at the bar. Westek said something to the blonde, and then he took her arm and left the bar, without deigning to acknowledge Josefa again.

So now
I
am persona non grata, even for a fallen angel like Westek
, she thought derisively. Did he not recognize her or not want to recognize her? Maybe he was a bit paranoid since two of his old cronies no longer dwelt in the land of the living and a third had gone missing.
And who might that attractively dressed woman be?

The door opened again. It was the band, who had a half hour before they went on. Josefa busied herself arranging the final details with the leader of the combo while the other members lugged their instrument cases inside.
Koffertraeger—porter
. The old man with the tomcat from Irchel Park popped into her head.
Porter
. She was still proud she hit upon that word.
Porter!
Why didn’t she think of it earlier? She gave the musicians a little nod and retreated to a quiet corner to dial a number on her cell phone.

When the reception desk at the hotel near the Lake Geneva golf course picked up, she asked for the concierge. She was glad the man recognized her name right away; it spared her a long explanation. He assumed she was still working for Loyn. Josefa asked her question.

The concierge replied that it was Herr Schulmann who had cleared out Herr Bourdin’s things from his hotel room. He corrected himself: No, Herr Schulmann packed Bourdin’s clothes and other appliances himself and then had the suitcase taken downstairs. Herr Schulmann had also taken on the responsibility, he said, of informing Bourdin’s wife that everything would be sent to her. But Herr Schulmann probably forgot to call, he added, because shortly afterward—Herr Schulmann had already left—Frau Bourdin called and didn’t have any knowledge of it.

That was all Josefa wanted to know.

She sipped on her orange juice as she tried to bring it all into focus.
Did Bourdin plant the bugs and not Schulmann? But why? What would ever drive him to eavesdrop on people like Westek and Van Duisen? Maybe guests had been bugged at St. Moritz as well.
It seemed clear to her that Schulmann knew about the bugs, but she couldn’t figure out exactly when he knew. Maybe he was in cahoots with Bourdin. Maybe he didn’t find out about it until he discovered the tapes and recording equipment in Bourdin’s room.

So had Schulmann removed the bugs in time, before the men came for the furniture? Maybe he’d been blackmailing Bourdin with them? And then Bourdin killed him?
Josefa held her breath. Things were more and more baffling.

One last question flashed through her mind:
Is Schulmann’s murder in any way connected with Thüring, Salzinger, and Feller-Stähli’s extraordinary accidents
?

“I don’t know why I’m doing this—I really can’t stand the sight of blood,” Josefa said to the Red Cross nurse as she was taking off her bracelet. She was lying in one of the trailers parked for a few days on the Sechseläuten Wiese. The Red Cross had started a major blood-donation campaign, and Josefa thought it was high time for her to do a good deed, maybe her only one in the year that was nearing its end.

“Your blood pressure’s very low,” the nurse said, looking worried. “I don’t know if it’s advisable to draw blood.”

“I’ve always had low blood pressure,” Josefa assured her, fearing that she’d come for naught. “Donating blood has never hurt me.”

The nurse looked at her with raised eyebrows. “But promise me that you’ll go to the breakfast area and have a really strong coffee and something to eat afterward.” Her face was stern. “And if you feel the least bit unwell come back immediately.”

Josefa promised and walked out a little unsteadily ten minutes later. It was early on a Saturday morning in December and bitterly cold on the street. A cluster of men in dark coats was standing outside the trailer.
Police! What are they doing here?
It was a regular deployment, about eight men. She disappeared quickly into the breakfast trailer—only to find herself face-to-face with yet another police officer.

“You here?” Sebastian Sauter exclaimed. He was holding a coffee cup in his hand.

Josefa tried not to appear as surprised as she was. “I smelled blood and thought it might be worth dropping in and having a look,” she responded, more flippantly than she had intended.

“You see, it’s worth it,” Sauter riposted. “So let’s go talk for a few minutes.” He radiated a certain authority in his sharp uniform. His hair appeared freshly washed and his face had a healthy glow.
Everything about him seems fresh
, Josefa thought to herself. She, on the other hand, was pale as death.

A woman in a white nurse’s uniform brought her a steaming coffee and a roll with butter and marmalade. Sauter sat down beside her at a little bistro table. He smelled of herbal shampoo. A dozen blood donors were sitting around, chatting and noshing, half of them cops, she guessed.

“Were all the detectives in Zurich detailed to give blood?”

“Yes, it’s one of our noble duties,” Sauter said with a wink. “We’re role models for the rest of the population so you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

What did he mean by that?
Was she supposed to be afraid of anybody?
He surely knew about Schulmann’s sudden death, maybe about her interrogation at the police station as well.
Isn’t he in charge of murder cases?
At least that’s what Esther said.
Then why did he show up at a routine burglary?
But she was careful not to broach the subject, and Sauter seemed in silent agreement.

“I admit I’m hopelessly spoiled,” he said.

“Spoiled?”

He pointed to his cup. “You’ve spoiled me. Ever since I had your espresso, no other coffee makes me happy.”

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “
Herr Polizist
, you cannot expect the Red Cross to grant itself the luxury of serving Italian espresso. That would be wasting cash donations.”