The Zurich Conspiracy

by Calonego, Bernadette

  “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.”

  “Who’s ultimately responsible for seeing that everything’s in order? Who’s in charge?”

  “Me. At least that’s how it was before Werner Schulmann came to Loyn. But I’ve already told you there was some uncertainty about whose job was what. For instance, I remember him being critical that evening about the red and gold chairs, saying they didn’t go with the white tables. But they were the colors of the golf club where the event was taking place.”

  Suddenly she remembered something. “There was one modification, about a day before the event.”

  Both men watched her, motionless.

  “Schulmann wanted to do the seating arrangements himself. That had always been my job—I’d worked it out with company management beforehand of course. We had always had fixed seating, with name cards on every table. We have places of honor, tables for VIPs, and then normal tables, you see—tables for guests not so closely connected with Loyn. But Schulmann insisted on settling the seating arrangements himself.”

  “What do you mean by that, Frau Rehmer?”

  “I’m just wondering why Herr Van Duisen was with Herr Westek at a table again. They were already together in St. Moritz, with Beat Thüring and Henry Salzinger.”

  “I see,” Kündig said. “Where exactly was the table with Van Duisen and Westek at Lake Geneva?”

  Josefa tried to concentrate. Van Duisen came to mind; she’d rechecked everything before lunch, and when she left the tent he called out a friendly greeting. He was sitting in the area near the tent entrance, which is what she told her interrogators.

  “When was the last time you were in the tent on Friday evening?”

  “Let me think…I walked around with the head of the catering firm shortly before seven. Then I met with Colin Hartwell—the Australian golfer—and his assistant. We had to discuss the rest of the program…So, shortly before seven.”

  “Did you see Schulmann that evening?”

  “Yes, at nine o’clock, to discuss the next day. The whole team was present.”

  “One final question, Frau Rehmer: Do you know a woman by the name of Dorita?”

  “Dorita? No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Kündig stood up, and Josefa was dismissed.

  Josefa stumbled into the damp winter air in a daze. A few gentle snowflakes were falling, and it was only the end of November! She wrapped her scarf over her head and crossed the bridge over the Limmat. She had to talk to somebody. But who? She was a little leery about seeing Helene; there were so many unanswered questions that Josefa didn’t look forward to asking. Not yet, at least. Her brother was too far away, and the phone was a poor medium in a dicey situation like this. Pius? Ah yes, Pius.

  People laden with shopping bags were coming toward her: Christmas shopping was already in high gear. She drifted toward Bellevueplatz. The snow was getting heavier. Why the devil hadn’t Paul called? He had to be back from Vienna by now. It wasn’t like him not to touch base with her, certainly not with all that was happening. Josefa stopped for a moment to wait on the island at the Bellevue stop then set firmly off on her own. She would get to the bottom of this.

  A young woman she’d never seen before opened the door of Paul’s office. Josefa introduced herself and asked to see the head of the firm. The young lady hesitated before letting her into the hall without a word. Josefa was slightly put out and not terribly assuaged by Paul’s appearance on the stairway. He escorted her into his office and closed the door. As always, he was wearing a well-tailored suit.

  “Why haven’t you phoned? What’s the matter with you?” Josefa flung the words at him before she could even take off her coat.

  “A catastrophe,” Paul said, dropping into one of the two leather armchairs in front of the bay window, a look of anguish on his face. “Stomach and intestinal flu, absolutely horrible. I thought I’d die.” He did indeed look rather pale.

  “So what’s the story with Vienna?”

  “Vienna? Oh, yeah. That was the official story. After all, I can’t tell my clients that I’m puking and shitting like mad. Please excuse me.”

  “Frankly I’d prefer flu to the brouhaha over Schulmann,” Josefa said, rotating the rings on her fingers.

  “Yes, I’ve heard about it,” Paul said, noticeably more animated. “I did try to get you today, but you weren’t home, and your cell phone was off.”

  “I was being interrogated at the police station,” she explained, describing her conversation with the officers in detail to Paul. “Why did the police tell me about the bugs and the tapes? Why give me such important information? I don’t get it!” she continued.

  Paul rubbed his middle finger between his nose and his upper lip as if he were trying to smooth out a pleat. “Maybe they were testing to see how you’d react. Or maybe they want you to spread the information around and see what turns up,” he replied coolly.

  “Do you think they’re shadowing me?”

  “Possibly. Can’t rule it out. Those characters have to do something. After all, they’ve got a murder to solve.” He gave her an encouraging smile while rubbing his back against his chair. “You haven’t done anything stupid, have you? Did they tell you what was on the tapes?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll tell you one thing: If Westek, Salzinger, Thüring, and Van Duisen get together, then it’s sure not for a kaffeeklatsch. They don’t waste their time talking about golf. It’ll be about ‘big business,’ my dear. Or ‘bad business,’ depending on how you look at it.”

  “Van Duisen isn’t compatible with Westek, Thüring, and Salzinger,” Josefa objected.

  Paul stretched his already long torso. “I know you’ve got a weakness for older, fatherly types, Josefa.”

  She raised both hands in protest, but he kept going.

  “You’ve always thought a lot of Walther too; you practically worshipped him. How well he runs the business, you’ve said, how he backs up his employees, how he supports women. Correct? And at the same time there’s not a single woman in the company’s top management. And there’s never going to be either. I know that gang. They want to keep it among themselves. Women would only get in their way. Walther knew exactly what he was doing when he dumped Schulmann in ahead of you, believe you me. He didn’t think of promoting you for one second. Schulmann was supposed to put you in your place before you got too uppity.”

  Josefa felt bitterness rising inside her. “You know, I really did have a soft spot for Loyn. I loved my work, my colleagues, the trips, the atmosphere, meeting so many people. I thought I’d found my life’s work. And I tried to help the firm get ahead… Walther and Bourdin promised me the moon, but that was just sweet talk, fluff. It really took Schulmann for me to recognize it. And I should’ve had the guts to tell that to Walther, to his face.”

  “Forget it, Josefa. He wouldn’t have bothered to explain himself. Or he’d have found some excuse—and he did. You haven’t learned to bite before others bite you. You think he’s a dear old uncle who brings you presents—and now you’re disappointed. I can understand of course, but corporations are like shark-infested waters. Either you are one too or you’re dead meat. And Van Duisen…is another shark, take it from me. Van Duisen palms himself off as an entrepreneur, but his only concern is profit. He’s wiped out hundreds of jobs in his lifetime just so he could shovel a couple of million more into his own pocket.”

  “But his son died, I think that’s changed him.” Josefa was suddenly aware she was defending Van Duisen. “And anyway, why should those four be swapping secrets at a Loyn event, of all places, with all kinds of people around?”

  “But it’s the perfect camouflage,” Paul exclaimed, stopping shor
t when the young woman who’d met Josefa at the door brought in a tray. She put two cups and a plate of zwieback on the glass table.

  “Linden tea,” he apologized. Josefa was about to decline at first, but changed her mind. Maybe something soothing for the stomach would do her good. After the young woman left, closing the door behind her, Paul picked up the thread immediately. “Nobody would be suspicious, since these events are held so people can meet and talk informally. Anyway, where else were they supposed to meet without being noticed? In the men’s sauna on Hirschenplatz?”

  Josefa pressed her lips together. Paul glanced at her quickly. “Tell me, did they have anything to say about how Schulmann died?”

  “No. And they didn’t ask me anything along that line, whether I had an alibi or anything like that. Isn’t that odd? But I heard from somebody else that they think it was poison.”

  “Poison, are you sure? And who told you?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Death by poison, in Zurich.” Paul shook his head, though he seemed somewhat amused. “That’s a job I’d like our company to get.”

  “What job?”

  “How Loyn can best sell this to the public. I bet Walther’s losing a lot of sleep these nights. Who’s doing the media work when the marketing head’s been done in? Bugs in the party tent—what a scandal!”

  Josefa was at a loss. “There’s really nothing that can shock you, Paul. Schulmann was murdered. And Salzinger’s voice is on the tape. And he’s dead too. And anyway…I mean, look at all what’s happened! To Thüring and Feller-Stähli. That’s just not normal. That’s…” She struggled to find the words.

  “So it’s dawned on you at last. Congratulations, Josefa.”

  “It all feels so creepy. And maybe they even suspect me. They might think that I could have planted the bugs myself.”

  “And did you?” He reached for a piece of zwieback.

  “You can’t be serious…Schulmann certainly had the know-how. He was very savvy about technical things.”

  “You know, given the kinds of questions the police asked you, and if I’ve figured it correctly, then they know much more than you could ever dream of. They know what’s on the tapes, and maybe even who killed Schulmann.”

  “You think so?” she asked, stirring her tea.

  “Sure. I’m curious to see what’s going to be on TV. And in the papers. Our Francis will no doubt pull every string to get himself in the limelight.”

  The evening news confirmed Josefa’s worst suspicions. The tapes and the cause of death were already public knowledge. But the police were not about to say by what means the “poisonous substance” had been administered to Schulmann. There was no mention on the television of what the poison was either.

  The accompanying commentary created the impression that all the guests in the tent had been illegally taped. Josefa suspected it wouldn’t be long before the invitation list fell into the media’s hands.

  The media—and not only the press—speculated on the motives for what was already taken as murder. Did Schulmann have dynamite information, and was he blackmailing someone? Did Werner Schulmann have any enemies? Was it someone in his family? But the reporters were as undecided as the police—or as the police purported to be—about the answers to these questions.

  Loyn made a statement to the media the next morning: Eavesdropping on guests of the house was the despicable act of a misguided person. The company condemns most severely…We are as outraged as much as…and apologize to…

  Josefa knew the clichés all too well.

  This time Hans-Rudolf Walther kept out of sight, and Bourdin gave no explanation himself, which struck Josefa as mighty peculiar. He was, after all, Loyn’s poster boy.

  Even her opinion was sought; reporters called her at home time and again, but she was careful to give them only miniscule bits of information. She thought of Paul’s warning. We keep our nose out of it. All she told her questioners was that she left Loyn some time ago. No, not because of Schulmann. She remained as polite as possible while playing the ignorance card.

  Besides, she was up to her eyeballs in work: She had to organize three big company Christmas banquets, and the first one was on for today—in an old jail that some imaginative entrepreneur had converted into a dance hall, bar, and restaurant. Her client, an ambitious software firm, had been looking for an unusual location for the company party and was very much taken with her suggestion.

  When she arrived at the former jail, the delivery vans were already there with the tables, chairs, tablecloths, and decorations; the men were standing around waiting. Josefa saw immediately that these were not the tables she’d ordered. She made straight for Sepp Kohler, the foreman she worked with so frequently at Loyn and who had helped her with her move to Feltenstrasse.

  “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.