The Zurich Conspiracy

her at this moment, when she looked so sensuous and radiant.
    She unfolded the sheet of paper.
    I never write letters. But this is important to me. Why don’t you come visit and I’ll cook the only thing I can: fondue bourguignonne. That is my contribution to the peaceful coexistence of the sexes. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be ready at twelve o’clock on Thursday.
    The invitation was the very thing she needed.

The sprawling apartment complex rose like a giant white steamship from the high-priced land in Zurich’s downtown. The sides of the buildings converged at the front and back almost as large as the bow of the Titanic . There weren’t any swimming pools or tennis courts in the belly of this gigantic ship, though the architecture evoked the sun, the dolce far niente , and laughter—forget about the gray sky.
    So this was the city’s famous public housing project. Josefa was stunned when she entered the airy inner courtyard and looked up at the large, roofed-in patios facing out from all the units. She’d heard that the floors in the apartments were made of low-maintenance marble. People fought like dogs to live here, with its view of the river and the mountains—and all for a rent low wage-earners could afford.
    Josefa couldn’t exactly count a Loyn photographer among those wage-earners, and it was a riddle to her how Pius Tschuor had managed to latch onto an apartment here. He wasn’t on permanent staff at Loyn, but he was certainly well paid. She really knew very little about this attractive man except that he was an old buddy of Joe Müller from the Internet café. Is it a good idea to walk into a corner of his life that’s been hidden until now?
    Pius was standing in the doorway, a winning smile on his face, and Josefa’s heart beat faster. She’d deliberately dressed modestly—a defensive layer of sorts. She wore a thick, white wool sweater under her green down jacket, along with washed-out jeans and lined boots. Pius, however, had donned a tight-fitting T-shirt outlining a powerful yet slim torso, and stylish pants fitted tightly over his derrière. Josefa looked away quickly; she wanted to concentrate on the mission at hand. At least Pius showed enough restraint to invite her to lunch instead of supper.
    “I was a bit nervous you might not come,” he confessed frankly, helping her off with her jacket.
    His admission was sweet, but she couldn’t help but quip, “I hope you thawed the meat nevertheless.”
    “The meat’s fresh from the butcher,” Pius protested. He escorted her through the apartment, which did in fact have white marble floors, as well as a huge living room, a bedroom with walk-in closet, an office that Pius obviously used as his archive, a black-tiled bathroom, and a small kitchen. Almost all the furniture was black—the whole décor struck Josefa like an oversized black-and-white photograph. Not a speck of dust could be seen anywhere.
    Josefa thought of her colorful cushions, flowered curtains, and multicolored bathroom tiles. Pius would undergo a genuine culture shock in her apartment.
    “Martini?” he asked. Josefa could smell his aftershave; how familiar she’d become with his intoxicating scent. She declined. “I’ve still got to work this afternoon.” She had to keep a clear head first and foremost.
    They toasted each other with mineral water instead.
    “Josefa, shall we finally start using the familiar form of address between us?”
    Nothing spoke against it. She realized she was no longer Loyn’s event manager. Evidently Claire was doing Josefa’s job now; she seemed to have replaced her former boss without a hitch. How fast it had gone. Josefa felt an ache in her stomach.
    Pius put the pot of bouillon on the table. The liquid bubbled when they dipped in their forks and meat.
    “So what do you think: Who killed Schulmann?” Pius asked without delay.
    “That’s what I was about to ask you,” Josefa replied, trying to avoid his intense gaze.
    “In a mystery novel it’s always the person who’s least suspicious; in real life it’s the other way round.”
    “Don’t tell me you think it was Bourdin?”
    “No, I don’t think he’s the murderer,” Pius said, unperturbed, as if talking about a soccer team’s line-up. “It’s true that Bourdin would like to take over the company, but that’s not illegal, is it? At the very most, it’s flattering for Walther. And it’s no secret that Bourdin shoots off his mouth and brags about