The Zurich Conspiracy

anything and everything. It almost passes for good etiquette in those hallowed halls. Everybody’s bluffing from here to kingdom come.”
    He refilled her glass.
    “No way Walther would be a suspect either. For one thing, he can’t be the murderer because he’s going to finance my next coffee-table book.” He grinned. “Schulmann’s a guy who made enemies all over the place. He lusted for power and was unscrupulous. I think you can find the motive for his murder in the time before he came to Loyn. I told that to the police.”
    “The police spoke to you?”
    “Sure, they’ve talked to a lot of people. You too, of course, right?”
    Josefa nodded and spooned some sauce onto her plate.
    “So what do you think?”
    Josefa didn’t answer right away. Should she tell Pius about Thüring and his pals and about Paul’s speculations about what they might have been planning to do to Loyn? Actually it was surprising that Pius didn’t mention this angle himself. Why did he think Bourdin planted the bugs? But she got hold of herself. We keep our nose out of it . Instead she remarked, “You’ve got to know a person really well to be able to poison him. I mean, you’ve got to have easy access to him, whereas you can shoot anybody from a distance.”
    “Did the cops say anything at all that could point to a particular person?”
    “No, of course not. Why should they? Maybe I’m a suspect too.”
    Pius made a face and looked up at her mischievously from below. “Oh, for sure, Josefa, you’re the most dangerous person I know. Can tell by just looking at you. I like it when you’re so dangerous.” He skewered three pieces of meat with his fork. “I’ll tell you something: A year from now nobody will be talking about this murder anymore. That’s one advantage of our fast-paced age.” He stood up, leaned over the table, and lifted her chin so that she had to look at him. “When are you coming to the cave with me? You know, that would be fabulous for both of us. You could do the publicity for my book.”
    “What book is that?”
    “My book of photographs of the cave systems in Switzerland. Dripstone grottoes, Hölloch Cave, underground lakes, all the creepy-crawlies down there—it will be unique. A large-format book. There’s never been anything like it. What do you say?”
    Josefa shook her head. “If Walther finances the book, he’ll certainly not want me of all people to do the PR.”
    “Let me take care of that,” Pius said, clearing the dishes. “I’ve got Walther eating out of my hand.”
    When Josefa looked at him nonplussed, he burst out laughing. You never knew with Pius whether he was joking or serious.
    Josefa took a deep breath. “Say, listen, can I see the copies of the photos you took at the golf tournament? I’d like to have a few pictures of my last big event as souvenirs. But I don’t want to go begging people at Loyn for them; they’ve got other things to worry about anyhow.”
    “Weren’t they on your desk on your last day of work? I remember a picture of Thüring.”
    “That was in St. Moritz. Thüring wasn’t at the Lake Geneva event, as you know.”
    “Yes, of course, no problem,” Pius said, leading her into his office. Pictures of beautiful young women were hanging everywhere; there weren’t any pictures of her. Josefa wasn’t sure whether she ought to be pleased or disappointed.
    “You haven’t put up any bats or caves?” she asked.
    “No, that’s my secret project. Anybody can take a picture of pretty women, but the other is far more difficult.” He pulled some wine-red files with contact prints down from a shelf and put them on the table. “Here, use that magnifying glass and write down the numbers. I’ll see to dessert.”
    Josefa knew exactly what she was looking for. She went through all the pictures systematically that had the tent in the background. Pius had a different angle from the other photographers because his shots had to include the press crowd that was trying to shoot the golfers. Josefa held the magnifying glass up to the background. She went through picture after picture to see what was happening in front of the tent.
    She came upon a series of pictures of Colin Hartwell, posing at first with his wife Pamela—that was still in the morning—then, in the afternoon, by himself with his golf club. She stopped short and leafed back to the pictures with Pamela Hartwell. And sure enough: there was the earring with the rubies and the diamond