The Zurich Conspiracy

was just talking about this with my father at Christmastime when I was visiting up in Mannheim.”
    Josefa thought she’d heard enough for now and was about to sidle off, but then he said something that stopped her in her tracks.
    “You probably know all of this from Helene. She visited Freya’s father two weeks ago.”
    “Two weeks ago? Are you sure?”
    “Oh, yes. My aunt went to see him in the clinic and Freya and Helene were there. She told my father about it.”
    Paul suddenly interrupted and took her away after a few words of apology.
    “I thought I should pry you away from your old colleague,” he whispered when she’d left Auer.
    “Very nice of you, Paul. But why did you invite him in the first place?”
    Paul shrugged. “Why not? It’s Open Doors Day, I can’t discriminate against anybody.”
    “He’s an ass-kisser, and you know it,” Josefa fumed.
    “Josefa, half the world is full of ass-kissers. If I ignore them, there goes my business. You’ve got to develop the hide of an elephant. Don’t let them get to you.”
    “Maybe that creep doesn’t bother you, but that guy would sell his own grandmother.”
    Paul grinned. “Knew that already.”
    “Very funny. Anyway, I think I’ve got to go somewhere quiet and catch my breath. Auer stressed me out,” she said.
    “Go to my office; it’s open.”
    “You’ve left your office open?”
    “Obviously, that’s why it’s called Open Doors Day—anything that shouldn’t be seen is safely locked away.”
    Josefa went up the wooden stairs with the wine-colored runner. Paul’s office reminded her of Athena Meyer-de Rechenstein’s living room. It was so rich in history. There was even a tile stove in the corner. The room had been painstakingly tidied up. A glossy prospectus lay on a little coffee table. Josefa dropped into a leather chair near the large bay windows. Her eyes wandered over the gray lake and the fog-shrouded mountains. She slipped off her high-heeled shoes and put her feet up on the table. What a blessing!
    A babble of voices and a clattering of dishes filtered up to her. Classical music was playing softly in the background. She closed her eyes and tried to calm down, but she couldn’t get the business about Helene and Freya off her mind. What dark secrets were these cousins hiding?
    Then she heard approaching footsteps. She quickly took her feet off the table and grabbed the brochure. Klingler & Partners. We make a difference in your company because your company makes a difference in the world. We give your company our best because your company gives the world its best.
    Well, Paul says a real mouthful there , she thought, amused. But he was right: It was exactly what his clients wanted to hear. The footsteps outside the room receded. She leafed ahead; terrific pictures, cool design, big words. Plastered above it all was a statement from the late Andy Warhol: Being good in business is the most fascinating kind of art .
    When Josefa finished translating the quotation, her heart skipped a few beats. Trancelike she closed the pamphlet, picked up her handbag and shoes, and tiptoed into the library across the hallway. She went systematically along the book spines, row after row. At last she found what she was looking for; her quivering finger searched through the index. She found the Warhol quotation. And she found all the other quotations, one after the other: Dorothy Parker, Lord Chesterfield, Oscar Wilde, Elizabeth Barrett Browning...
    But it couldn’t be! Paul sending me threatening e-mails? She rooted around in her bag. The page of messages was still there. She read through the sayings with absolute concentration. Was there anything that might point to Paul, a turn of phrase, an undertone? She couldn’t find anything. A lot of people have reference books like this one , she rationalized. That wasn’t necessarily significant; anybody could set up an address with Hotmail and invent a sender. “Nonoose”—what a curious expression. Maybe it was in the index as well. She went down the alphabet again. Nothing. Nonoose, no blues, no shoes —she rhymed them off to herself.
    That was it: no noose . Two words, not one!
    She went along the rows of books again and took out an English-German dictionary. noose (nu:s) 1. (n.) Schlinge (also fig.) to slip one’s head out of the hangman’s noose—to barely escape the gallows.
    The clamor from downstairs grew louder. The soft background music was practically inaudible now. “ No