The Zurich Conspiracy

teardrop, the same one Marlene Dombrinski had put on her desk, the one slumbering in Loyn’s safe.
    But she couldn’t stop there.
    The pictures that followed were ones she hadn’t wanted to look at before: Francis Bourdin on the ground, bleeding. Confused and horrified faces all round.
    Josefa took a closer look at the earlier photos. The metallic whir of a mixer came from the kitchen. Bourdin was nowhere to be seen on these particular prints; he’d been standing beside Pius. Then he suddenly stormed off toward Colin.
    Her hand and the magnifying glass began to tremble. This was what she was looking for: a figure, very vague, at the tent entrance clad in a striped dress, then, a silhouette in front of the table on the right-hand side and a bare leg sticking out from under the table. She could just make out a woman’s sandal. If only she had a microscope! She went back a few pictures; there was the same striped dress—Pamela Hartwell’s dress.
    The scales fell from Josefa’s eyes immediately. That’s what Bourdin was so frightened about! He’d seen Pamela Hartwell crawling under the table, maybe just a woman’s bare leg peeking out from beneath it. Bourdin must have been afraid that somebody would discover the bugs, so he went and ran straight into Hartwell’s club. How could he have suspected that all Pamela was looking for was her lost earring? So much trouble over a pretty bit of jewelry .
    Pius called from the kitchen. “Be right there,” she called back. She quickly shoved the contacts back into the file and tried to put them back on the shelf but couldn’t find a gap to put them in. A drawer was open—Pius must have taken the file from there. And in fact there was another file in there, also wine red. Josefa lifted its cover to see if there were more photos of the golf tournament. The first picture, and all that followed, was of a woman in an erotic pose.
    Josefa’s heart began to race. She hastily leafed through the pile. Smiling, lascivious, playful, elegantly dressed, in sports clothes, in a scant bikini, in a half-open bathrobe: always the same person—Pamela Hartwell.
    Josefa could hardly catch her breath. What did it all mean? She heard footsteps and quickly put the folder back. When Pius came in she was holding the first folder. “Where does this go?” she asked, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her flushed cheeks. He took the folder out of her hand, put it in the drawer, and shut it. She noticed the drawer had a lock on the outside.
    “I’ve made zabaglione. We have to eat it right away,” he said.
    “You’re not the lousy cook you say you are,” Josefa complimented him when they were seated again. Her voice was rough as sandpaper.
    “You see, there are still some good sides to me for you to discover.” He winked at her. “Did you write down the numbers?”
    “No, I couldn’t decide. Why don’t you make a selection for me and send me a few pictures.” She smiled at him. “That would be awfully nice.”
    Pius nodded. “But don’t tell a soul. The police are interested in these pictures too, but they only took some from my office at the company. Fortunately I’ve got duplicate negatives.”
    Josefa didn’t know quite how to take this. She’d mull it over later.
    “Forget Loyn for a while, Josefa. We should really go see a cave together,” Pius suggested. “That will get you thinking about something else. It’s a whole different world, you’ll see.”
    The last spoonful of zabaglione melted on her tongue. Maybe he was right. She needed new experiences, new projects. The job of launching a book of photographs was tempting.
    Pius was watching her with a gleam in his eye. “Many things stay hidden from most people, luckily.”
    Of course , Josefa thought. But just what are those things?

It was dusk when Josefa left the photographer’s apartment. After so opulent a meal she chose to go at least part of the way on foot. Maybe that would help her sort out her thoughts. She had reacted to the flattering portrait of her like a naïve schoolgirl. How could she be so stupid? She’d given in to the illusion that the photo revealed how Pius saw her: lovely, sensual, seductive. And yet at the same time he was taking pictures of other women. They were in his lens every day—impeccable, desirable beauties, absolutely sure about their effect on men. Women like Pamela Hartwell.
    But how did Pius come to take those revealing photographs? Did Pamela ask him to? Did Colin