The Zurich Conspiracy

by Calonego, Bernadette

  “The goods are first class.”

  “Can I see them?” The man in overalls tried to conceal his excitement. The less interest he showed, the better. He’d only be able to check afterward to see whether the articles the supplier was unpacking in front of him were really worth the money. But he had to take the risk. No guarantee of an exchange in this case.

  “So, as agreed?” the man in blue overalls asked.

  The supplier nodded.

  The man took a bundle of bills from the pocket of his overalls; the supplier counted them and tucked them away in his pocket. When the man jumped out of the truck with his package, the supplier called after him, “Good thing the guy can’t talk anymore!”

  The man in overalls went back to his truck without saying a word.

  The hotel corridor was deserted. And though she was in a hurry, Josefa didn’t knock immediately on the door to room 398. She wanted to collect herself first. Her temples were pounding, and her breastbone felt sore. She must have picked up some bruises on the streetcar when she was thrown against the man in the lambskin coat. He didn’t seem to notice that the hard object in his pocket had hurt her. She couldn’t shake off the thought that it was a gun. That was exactly what it felt like.

  Her knees were wobbly. It had all been a bit much recently, and her nerves were raw. But she mustn’t keep the representatives from Dessag waiting any longer. She knocked firmly on the door, ignoring an illuminated button blinking “PLEASE ENTER.” She walked into the vestibule. A light was on in the adjacent room. No wonder, the curtains were drawn.

  Should that have tipped her off—the drawn curtains? Or the fact that nobody opened the door when she knocked? Should she have been more cautious in light of the fact that six people had been killed during the past few months, all of them men she knew from work?

  When she saw the figure in the doorway, she froze. Cut and run! Run, Josefa, run. But she was unable to move a muscle.

  Curt Van Duisen motioned for her to enter.

  “I’ve been wanting us to have a little chat for a long time,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  Somebody was fiddling with the door behind her. Josefa spun around anxiously. The man in the lambskin coat.

  “My bodyguard,” she heard Van Duisen say. Her panic level rose higher, but her way out was blocked. How stupid of her! How could she have walked right into the trap?

  Van Duisen saw her fear. “Frau Rehmer, you’ve nothing to be afraid of. Do come in. I’ve always thought a lot of you, which is why I owe you an explanation.” He took a step back into the room and turned slightly. “The police are monitoring our meeting.” A man emerged from behind Van Duisen, another face she recognized.

  “Please excuse any unpleasantness we have caused you,” Franz Kündig said. “We had no choice but to arrange matters this way.”

  “Is this an interrogation?” Josefa asked, alarmed. She was rooted to the spot.

  “No, no,” both men assured her simultaneously. “I only want to explain a few things,” Van Duisen added.

  “I’ll take your word for it, Herr Van Duisen.” Josefa replied, following him into the suite. Maybe there are hidden microphones, maybe this talk’s being taped, Josefa thought to herself. She was determined not to disclose anything that could harm her.

  Van Duisen gestured toward a patterned upholstered chair. “Please take a seat, Frau Rehmer.” He sat down on the sofa next to it. Franz Kündig was no longer in her field of view. He must be standing in a corner behind her; she’d rather have kept an eye on him. The bodyguard had apparently gone out into the corridor.

  Van Duisen lit a cigarette—she’d never seen him smoke before. Or at least not that she could remember. His face was flabby, his skin rough like rice paper. Josefa sat up stiffly in her chair, her hands knitted together.

  “Frau Rehmer,” Van Duisen began, then cleared his throat. “What I’m about to tell you is what I’ve already told the police. But I should like you to know it as well. I do not want you to think I’m a cad. I know how much you have put yourself out for Loyn and how difficult it was for you to leave the corporation.”

  Josefa kept silent and looked him straight in the eye. Now, Herr Van Duisen, that’s not what it’s really about, she thought.

  He puffed on his cigarette, releasing a cloud of smoke. “I won’t beat about the bush any longer. Well—Beat Thüring, Henry Salzinger, and Karl Westek had designs on Loyn: They wanted to gobble up the company. They were looking for a way to get Hans-Rudolf Walther to sell. They were even ready to force him to unless he made a deal. They thought it would be a good idea if I joined their group. But…I did not want to have anything to do with it. I thought a lot of Walther, and I suspected that the three were up to no good with Loyn. Thüring dreamed of a comeback as a CEO of a famous corporation. And Salzinger and Westek probably wanted to buy the company in order to cannibalize it and auction it off piecemeal—the Loyn trademark above all—for a big pile of cash.”

  Ashes crumbled onto Van Duisen’s dark blue suit. He brushed them off impatiently. Josefa heard a noise behind her. Probably Kündig shifting position in his chair.

  “I told those men I was not interested. And I told them that their scheme was unwise as well. First, Walther wouldn’t sell, and secondly the company was overpriced, and thirdly nobody would want to do business with them after what happened with Swixan. Gentlemen, I said—this was at lunch in St. Moritz—gentlemen, the public would be against you.”

  Josefa didn’t know if she wanted to hear all this; she thought Van Duisen was laying it on rather thick, and she didn’t want to get sucked into this business any further. The point was that every one of these guys was dead, and the whole gang had died under very strange circumstances. Feeling uneasy, she took a look around. Van Duisen picked up on her lack of enthusiasm.

  “I’m sorry, would you like some water?” Before she could say anything he was at the fridge. “Or fruit juice?”

  Josefa chose the mineral water. The air in the suite was getting muggy, and the smoke was bothering her. She held the cold bottle to her pounding temples for a few seconds. Van Duisen went back to his seat. He drank nothing, as wrapped up in his story as he was.

  “At Lake Geneva, Karl Westek hinted that he had information that could compel Walther to sell. He said his information came from a reliable source, a mole inside the company. I thought he was just showing off. Walther’s not a very close friend of mine, but still, I know him well enough to know that he knows how to guard his secrets. But when I heard the tables had been bugged, I realized I had to take Westek’s words much more seriously than I had thought…Francis Bourdin or Werner Schulmann, or both of them, must have got wind of the business—Schulmann after the golf tournament at the very latest, Bourdin probably earlier, after St. Moritz.” He gave Kündig a brief, sideways glance. “The two of them would certainly have wanted to know what the three men were up to. And the mole inside Loyn probably really does exist.”

  Van Duisen paused, his eyes fixed on her. Josefa just squinted at him, her eyes burning.

  “A person with access to information,” he continued.

  “And what do you want from me, Herr Van Duisen?” she asked, her patience exhausted. Even if there was a mole, what did she have to do with it? It was the police’s job to shine a light into the darkness. What did they think her role was in this? Her anxiety made her forget that she’d been looking for answers herself for the past few months to no avail; now she had the opportunity to settle at least one of the questions.

  Van Duisen sounded as if he were pleading a little. “I want you to know that I was not in league with Thüring, Salzinger, and Westek. Whatever their scheme was, I was not a party to it.”

  Josefa gave him a blank stare. “Why is it so important for me in particular to know all this? Did you tell Herr Walther about these talks?”

  “Yes, of course, but he merely laughed and turned a deaf ear. Walther told me that he heard stories like these at least once a month,
that there probably wasn’t anyone around who had not been suspected of trying to acquire Loyn. It flattered him enormously.”

  “And what did he say about the mole?”

  “I didn’t mention it. As I said, I thought it was a trick of that braggart. I cannot go around spreading suspicion about innocent employees. That is not my style.”

  Josefa took a drink of water. “I have never suspected you of anything untoward, Herr Van Duisen. I don’t know the slightest thing about this whole business.”

  “You saw me sitting with Westek, Thüring, and Salzinger in St. Moritz, Frau Rehmer. At my age I’ve nothing to lose but my good reputation. I’ve already lost the most precious thing in my life; now I want to protect my family’s reputation. I want there to be some people in Zurich who believe in my integrity. People like you, Frau Rehmer. I’ve no other task in life—this is my only mission.”

  Josefa turned her glass around and around in her hands. Something didn’t add up, something was being left unsaid. With all due respect to Van Duisen’s mission, what was the subtext?

  He leaned forward. “I hope you understand that this conversation is proof of my trust, Frau Rehmer. I have taken some not insignificant risks to come here; you see I need bodyguards.”

  Suddenly she got it. Van Duisen was not being driven to confess out of pure sympathy. It was out of fear. He still had something to lose besides his reputation: his life. And she was supposed to spread the word. Van Duisen is innocent, Van Duisen has nothing to do with it. Anybody who valued her opinion at all was to get the message. Any person she was in contact with. Anybody in her closest circle. It wasn’t the general public that Van Duisen was aiming his mission at. It was a small group of people. Of potential murderers.

  She was bowled over. She couldn’t look Van Duisen in the face anymore, she was in such turmoil.

  “Herr Kündig, do you think the murderer is someone I might know?” she asked crossly, giving the detective a start.

  Kündig shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That’s one of the options we must consider, Frau Rehmer. I don’t think I’m telling you anything new. We follow up every clue that might shed light on the murders. We’re trying to do everything to prevent another one.”

  “Am I in danger? Or maybe even more, now that I’ve met with Herr Van Duisen?”

  Kündig didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be choosing his words with care.

  “Let me put it this way, Frau Rehmer. Suppose you come across a potentially dangerous dog. If I don’t say anything about his treacherous character, you’d probably walk past it, relaxed and with no inhibitions, and this self-assured behavior would keep him from attacking you. On the other hand, it could bite you because you’ve come too close. But if I warn you about it, and you meet up with that dog, then you’re prepared and can look out for yourself. On the other hand you might be afraid now, and when a dog smells fear, it bites. My job is to catch the murderer or murderers. We’re doing our utmost to achieve this as quickly as we possibly can. And by coming here you’ve made a contribution to this end.”

  “How so?” Josefa asked, perplexed.

  “Unfortunately we can’t tell you that.”

  Josefa rushed out of the hotel. She was mad, and most of her anger was directed at the giant of a man waiting for her at the hotel entrance. When she saw the contrite expression on his face, her rage grew.

  “You deceived me,” she yelled. “You betrayed me! Lied to me!” It didn’t bother her that passersby turned around and stared. Paul started to explain, but Josefa cut him off. “You’ve abused my trust, and that’s the second time,” she shouted in his face. “You’re ruining my life!” She’d have accused him of worse if her cell phone hadn’t rung at that very moment.

  “Josephine?” It was Kelly, Joan Caroll’s agent. Josefa had to get a grip on herself.

  “What’s up, Josephine?” the American lady asked. Oh, of course—she’d left a message for Kelly. When did I do that? She’d lost all sense of time.

  “Kelly, I got a gift from Joan and would like to thank her personally.”

  “Best to write her a card or an e-mail. Joan’s very busy,” was Kelly’s brusque reply.

  “No, I’d like to speak to Joan in person. Please tell her that.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. Joan’s traveling a lot, got very little time. OK? Bye-bye.” And she hung up.

  Josefa felt like throwing her phone in front of a car. Paul was still standing next to her. Before she could launch into a new tirade he blurted out, “Joan Caroll has backed out of her contract with Loyn, by the way.”

  “How the hell do you know? Have you got a mole at Loyn?”

  “A what? No, I got it from a business partner in the US Joan’s negotiating with Prada because she wants to fill the vacuum as fast as she can.” Josefa looked at him in astonishment, and Paul exploited the moment to justify his previous actions.

  “Josefa, the police asked me to arrange this whole business. That’s the only way it would work. It had to be hush-hush. What was I supposed to say to Kündig anyhow? That you wouldn’t cooperate? I thought you liked Curt Van Duisen. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Pleased? You’re off your rocker!”

  Paul raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s proof that the police trust you, Josefa. You can rest easy now.”

  She struggled to find her words, the rage mounting inside.

  “Shows what you know, Paul! You haven’t got the faintest idea! And how did you know where this meeting would be, anyway?”

  “Josefa, I set it up myself.”

  She shut her eyes. If things kept going like this, she could sign up for burnout therapy tomorrow.

  “Come on, let’s go to a café,” Paul suggested.

  “A café? Here, on Paradeplatz, at this hour? Forget it. They’re full of bankers now. Besides, I don’t want anybody overhearing us.”

  Paul took her tacit agreement as a sign that he might still calm her down. He thought for a second.

  “I’ve got it. Let’s go to the Fraumünster.”

  “To a church?”

  “There’s a whole gang of tourists going there to see the Chagall glass windows. Nobody will even notice us.”

  He took her arm, and she offered no resistance.

  Paul Klingler was right: A large tour bus was parked only a few steps away from the front of the Fraumünster. A guide was telling tourists inside about the history and significance of the windows, including the rose window that Marc Chagall had made in the seventies, but Josefa already knew all about it.

  She took a pew right at the front, and Paul sat down beside her. The two of them said nothing for a while; Josefa was organizing her thoughts while Paul waited patiently, something that didn’t come easily for him. But she didn’t want to make any allowances—the whole thing was so damn unfair! The police trusted her, Van Duisen trusted her, Sali trusted her, Sali’s aunt and uncle trusted her—but who could she trust?

  “We have to distrust each other. It’s our only defense against betrayal,” she finally said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s the quotation you sent me. From Tennessee Williams.”

  “Ah, yes.” Paul was trying to get his long legs under the pew. “You’ve every reason not to trust me, Josefa, after all that’s happened. But you’ve also good reason to trust me.”

  “Who says?”

  “Your instinct. Or else you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  Josefa shrugged. “What’s that supposed to mean? You trusted Schulmann, at the beginning, and then he double-crossed you.”

  “And now he’s dead as a doornail,” Paul added. “What’s with that mole at Loyn?”

  She decided to tell him what came up in her talk with Curt Van Duisen. Didn’t she have a mission? Paul would be her first victim.

  He listened intently, and when she told him about Thüring’s insinuation that he could force Walther to sell, he whistled
softly. After she was through, he said, “I’m not much surprised…not very surprised at all. Thought that’s what the gang of four might have been cooking up. You know what I think of Van Duisen. I think the old fox thought hard about joining in. Loyn’s a jewel, enough to make a lot of mouths water. But he also figured out that the deal wouldn’t pay. The risks were too great.” He was wiggling back and forth next to her, apparently finding it difficult to sit comfortably. Or Paul might have been suffering from gambler’s fever and hoping to hit the jackpot.

  “Maybe Van Duisen was genuinely convinced that public opinion would kill the deal, one way or another.” He coughed, then took out his handkerchief. “Or that the other three couldn’t be trusted, that they’d quarrel among themselves. The fact remains that he did sit at the same table with them in St. Moritz. And sat with Westek at Lake Geneva. The tapes will reveal what they actually discussed. Apart from that, Van Duisen can say whatever he wants. Thüring’s evidently drowned, and the other two are dead for sure.”

  “You might as well say it: ‘murdered,’” Josefa shot back.

  “Well, that hasn’t been proven yet. As far as I know, the police are only treating Westek’s accident as a possible murder.”

  “And Feller-Stähli, the lawyer?”

  “He certainly had a hand in it, that’s perfectly obvious.”

  Josefa mulled it over. “I don’t think Van Duisen had anything to do with Westek’s murder.”

  “Why?”

  “The police would be treating him as a suspect if they thought he did. And the poor dear wouldn’t be so afraid of becoming a murder victim himself.”

  The flock of tourists had wandered over to their side of the church, the guide’s voice interrupting their conversation. When they’d gone on, Paul picked up from where they’d left off.

  “I find Schulmann’s demise more interesting. What did Werner Schulmann have up his sleeve, and what did Francis Bourdin have up his? Why did they bug those guys? It strikes me as obvious that Bourdin brought Schulmann into Loyn, probably to expand his power base. And then things worked out quite differently from the way he imagined they would.”