The Zurich Conspiracy

women lie before your lens of their own free will,” she joked. “From Joan Caroll to Pamela Hartwell.”
    Pamela’s name had hardly escaped her lips when she realized her mistake. She could have kicked herself. How could she have been so thoughtless as to give away her obvious snooping?
    Pius didn’t respond, and Josefa feverishly imagined how she could make up for it. “Maybe ‘lie’ isn’t the right expression, I meant ‘place.’” You’re just making it worse!
    Pius still said nothing. The road was getting steeper. “Are we coming to the top of the pass soon?” she asked brightly, changing the subject.
    “So you think they make me rich?” Pius asked all of a sudden.
    “Who?” Josefa said nonchalantly, making a great show of admiring the dramatic landscape.
    “Women like Joan and Pamela.”
    “Pius, that was a dumb joke, I was just goofing around.”
    He took the next curve so fast she bounced against the car door.

The atmosphere in the conference room was downright solemn. Six men and one woman were looking expectantly toward the end of the table where Kündig and Zwicker were sitting. It was 7:30 a.m. Kündig got going without the usual formalities.
    “We have here the transcript of an interview with Pamela Hartwell, the wife of Colin Hartwell, the golfer. They are both in Paris at this moment—she’s gone shopping and he’s romping around on some golf course. Frau Hartwell did not want her husband present at the interrogation. But that doesn’t matter. Our colleague Zwicker went to Paris. He showed her some photos, the ones where she’s crawling under the table. Heinz, will you take over?”
    Zwicker cleared his throat. “When Frau Hartwell looked at the pictures, she grew nervous and asked what we wanted. A French justice official was present. I said she was to explain what she was doing under the table. She said she was looking for an earring she’d lost but didn’t find. She asked who took the pictures. I gave her the name of Pius Tschuor, the photographer at Loyn, whereupon she became visibly upset. ‘I don’t believe you. It was definitely somebody else who took these photos,’ she insisted. Then she stood up and shouted, ‘Why should he do that? What did he tell you?’ I asked her why she was so distressed. She was on the brink of tears. Then she demanded to talk to her lawyer.”
    Zwicker paused, and Kündig took the floor again.
    “On the basis of Pamela Hartwell’s remarkable reaction we would like to question Pius Tschuor. But he cannot be reached at home or on his cell phone. We could not find anyone who knows of his whereabouts. For this reason we have asked for a search warrant of his premises, which we will certainly get today.”
    Kündig looked around the table. The young woman, who had been assiduously taking notes, asked, “What do you expect to find in his apartment? Have you any definite suspicions?”
    “We suspect we will find pictures that Tschuor, for whatever reason, did not share with us.”
    Of course everyone at the table knew that this was only a half-answer. Kündig, the old dog, was once again holding something back.

“Black ice,” Pius noted. “That’s good.”
    Josefa looked at him in bewilderment.
    “The colder, the better,” he explained. “When it gets warmer in the spring, you can expect water seepage.”
    “But it’s been unusually warm for the past few days,” she objected.
    “No problem, it doesn’t happen that fast.” He took the curves more carefully now. “This book is very important to me, Josefa. It will be phenomenal, I can tell you. And if working with beautiful women ultimately makes the book doable, then it was worth the effort.”
    They were obviously now at the top of the pass, but Pius didn’t stop; he seemed anxious to get to the caves.
    “I thought Walther was bankrolling the book,” Josefa said, picking up where they had left off.
    “Walther’s a coward. First he made grandiose promises, and now he wants to renege.”
    “Just like him. What did he say about it?”
    “He said it wasn’t a promising time for a project like this, he had other priorities and didn’t want to commit himself to anything.” Pius suddenly sounded bitter. His smile had vanished. Josefa chose her next words with care.
    “I understand your disappointment, but…couldn’t you see it coming?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well…He’s in a really tough spot. Schulmann’s death, Bourdin’s suicide, rumors about Thüring