The Zurich Conspiracy

with your crossword,” she said walking away.
    She had already climbed to the brow of the hill when it suddenly hit her. She spun around; the old codger was still sitting on the bench.
    “ Koffertraeger ,” she said, gasping for air. “The word you’re looking for is Koffertraeger , a porter.”
    For a moment the old man looked puzzled, and then his face suddenly lit up. “Right,” he exclaimed in delight. “K-O-F-F-E-R-T-R-A-E-G-E-R!”
    When she got home she unpacked the last few things from her suitcase and kept repeating what the old man had said: “Observe things from a safe distance.” She decided that whenever things got to be too much, she would just climb a tree—a make-believe one—and look down on what was happening from there.
    Her phone rang at the same time as there was a knock at the door. She chose the phone: it was Paul Klingler.
    “Are you in your office? I’ll call you right back,” she shouted into the receiver while rushing to the door. It was the man from downstairs, an Albanian from Kosovo, as she’d discovered thanks to Esther.
    “You me help?” he asked, expectantly. “I no understand.”
    She reluctantly took the paper he held out to her and quickly scanned it. It was a form from a primary school. It had something to do with getting access to the school’s psychology service.
    “Doesn’t the school have to fill this out?” she asked impatiently. Or a counselor at some facility for asylum seekers? Why did this man come to her of all people? Just because they’d exchanged two words?
    “No, I must do,” the man insisted. “It is because my son. But I no understand.”
    Josefa held the form gingerly between two fingers, as if afraid of catching something, then remembered that Paul was waiting for her call. “I have to phone someone first. I’ll be down to see you in half an hour.”
    “Half an hour,” the Albanian repeated, as if holding her to it.
    “Half an hour,” Josefa confirmed, closing the door and dialing Paul’s number.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked in his usual penetrating voice, a voice completely at odds with his gaunt physique. “Did I get you out of the shower?”
    “No, my neighbor just dropped by.”
    “What neighbor was that?” Paul asked, ever curious.
    “The one downstairs, a Kosovo Albanian.”
    “A Kosovo Albanian? What did he want from you?”
    “Listen, I thought you wanted something from me!”
    “Maybe…I heard that Loyn’s gone shopping for a character called Schulmann.”
    “I just knew you’d know that! Even I didn’t find out until the day before I went on vacation.”
    “Sure, I’m in the same game. Tell me, who ever brought him on board?”
    “You know him?”
    “Slightly. So who brought him on board?”
    “Probably Bourdin, but I don’t know exactly. Schulmann worked for us in San Francisco once.”
    Josefa did not want to tell Paul about Schulmann’s assault. But her friend could figure out easily enough that the new man was a slap in her face.
    “Yes, I remember. He’s very good on technical things, but he’s an absolute misfit as head of marketing. You just have to ask the people he’s worked with,” Paul remarked. He clearly had his ear to every wall.
    “Nobody at Loyn ever asked the staff,” Josefa remarked bitterly.
    “Have you got anything on for today?” Paul continued.
    “Yes, I’m expecting a visit any minute.”
    “Too bad, I wanted to talk you into leaving that gang and coming to work for me.”
    Josefa was nonplussed. Working with Paul? How do I respond to this left-field offer? Fortunately he changed the subject immediately.
    “And how was St. Moritz?”
    “Good. The horses were really eye-catching, and the guests were totally pleased.”
    “That might have been Feller-Stähli’s last bash. By the way, they’ve brought the body back to Switzerland. The funeral was huge.”
    “That business is really peculiar. What’s a Swiss lawyer doing hunting bears in Canada?”
    “Grizzlies, dear girl, grizzly bears. Rich hobby hunters are particularly keen on them. They’re trophy hunters, understand? They’ll pay ten, twenty, fifty thousand for one, just so they can brag about it in their villa on Lake Zurich afterward.”
    “Is that even permitted in Canada? I mean bear hunting?”
    “Apparently in Prince George it is.”
    “Prince George?” That made Josefa sit up and take notice.
    “Yes, our dear Mister Feller-Stähli was trotting around in the wilds somewhere around