The Last Weynfeldt (23 page)

She was funny. Unlike Weynfeldt, who tended to be boring. Late thirties. Done a lot. Good figure. Four or five more pounds wouldn't look poorly on her. Seemed a bit affected, but that was understandable meeting Adrian's friends for the first time. He'd presented them to her as “my friends.”

“So you're an artist,” she observed. Weynfeldt had described him to her as “my friend, the artist Rolf Strasser.”

“I'm not so sure about that. I prefer the term ‘professional artist.' It implies an occupation rather than an attribute. Like a professional circus artist, or professional bullshit artist.”

Lorena exchanged glances with Adrian.

“Rolf is both,” Adrian interjected. “Artist and professional artist.”

It was the first time he'd described him as an artist. Today was Weynfeldt's day for firsts. No doubt about it: head over heels.

Then she asked the moronic question: “So what kind of things do you paint?” and Strasser started to revise his estimation of her.

“Whatever you want,” he replied.

And she saved herself with, “So more of a professional than an artist after all.”

The best thing about her was, she didn't care about his chain-smoking, even helping herself to one of his Chesterfields without asking, and she could match his pace when it came to drinking wine.

It was three by the time the last of them left. Weynfeldt stayed till the end, also a first.

Afterward, in Südflügel, where Strasser went with Casutt for a grappa, they both agreed: this Lorena was a great addition to the Thursday lunch club.

“N
OW THIS BIT
. T
HAT'S LUUVELY
,” T
EREZA SAID FOR THE
umpteenth time. The client said nothing, but Lorena heard an audible intake of breath as the beautician tore off another whole strip of wax.

Lorena was lying on a beauty treatment couch which, as Tereza liked to point out, had four motors, castors which could be lowered electrically and a foot pedal to ensure hygienic working conditions. She was wearing a headband to keep her hair out of her face, and the face mask Luxusní, formulated by Tereza herself using a closely guarded secret recipe. The mask alone cost a hundred and forty francs.

But Lorena had a bit of money at the moment, and she needed to come clean with herself. For some reason that always worked best with Tereza at Salon Perfektní.

The beauty salon consisted of one large space partitioned with a system of gold-trimmed brocade curtains to create a waiting room and three treatment cubicles. It smelled of perfume, nail polish remover and warm wax. A stereo system set on repeat played a selection of chill-out CDs which Tereza's daughter replenished regularly.

Despite the background music you could hear every word spoken anywhere in Salon Perfektní. These were often intimate words, spoken by clients expressing themselves as freely as if they were in soundproofed rooms. But when they were silent, like the one in the next cubicle, Tereza entertained them with stories about her daughter, who lived on Fuerteventura with a man who worked in tourism, or about the defects in the three-room apartment they had bought there. At the moment it was the apartment, where she had just spent two rainy weeks. “Now this bit. That's luuvely.”

Tereza was somewhere between fifty and sixty. She had lived in Switzerland since 1968, the Prague Spring. Her face was unwrinkled, thanks less to her profession than to her corpulence. Her eyebrows were depilated, and redrawn in a different place in black, arched so highly that her otherwise impassive face gave the impression of astonishment. Lorena had first met her at a catalogue shoot. Tereza had stepped in at short notice to do the makeup, and was the only one who occasionally made her laugh. Since then Lorena had been a regular customer—when she could afford her services.

The fact that she could afford them now was thanks to the two and a half thousand—her share of the five—which Pedroni had screwed poor Adrian out of. They had planned this job as a test. As a test, and to introduce Pedroni as Mr. X. For future, bigger jobs.

It had been fun. She'd come up with the idea, including the location for the handover—the cash point on the corner of Poststeg and City-Strasse, which sounded very professional. She'd been impressed by how hard she'd been—Lorena the ice-cold angel.

And afterward, at his apartment, she'd followed it through. Had hung up her heart with her coat and slept with him.

Next morning she'd had to remind herself a couple of times that he was just a signet ring man, who would get rid of her now that he'd gotten her into bed. Even if he was nicer than most.

And as if to prove to herself she'd left her heart with her coat, she started improvising. She'd come up with the figure one hundred and twenty thousand at random. Without consulting Pedroni. And Weynfeldt had laughed. What had he said? “Not to be sniffed at.” Nothing more. Just, “Not to be sniffed at.” And laughed.

Easy money, she thought, and the other project, with the old man, was looking promising too.

But then Weynfeldt had invited her to lunch and introduced her to his friends. That was definitely not signet ring man behavior. And it had been very pleasant. A meal with a group of very nice people. And she had officially been treated as one of them. Not only that: as the one who was his.

Back to plan C then? Certainly, when she'd met Pedroni later to discuss the state of play, told him about the hundred and twenty, and worked out the thing with the promissory note, she'd felt a bit sleazy. She'd have felt better sitting with Adrian, planning how to get one over on Pedroni. At any rate, when they had finished the business and he asked, “Your place or mine?” she had answered, “Whatever.”

The mask started to tighten, and the conversation on the other side of the curtain re-entered her consciousness. “… nothing but a little convector. No one thinks about heating on Fuerteventura.”

Was it happening again? The heart sabotaging the head?

The curtain behind her moved, and she heard Tereza's voice: “Now the luuvliness is sinking into your pores, darling.”

Lorena nodded cautiously beneath the stiffening mask. “And drawing out the stuupidness I hope.”

T
HEO
L. P
EDRONI LAY FULLY CLOTHED ON THE DOUBLE
bed in Room 212 of the Belotel waiting for Weynfeldt.

His jacket hung on a hanger in the narrow wardrobe between the imitation wood closet and the door to the ochre- and beige-tiled bathroom. Room 212 was described as a junior suite and therefore included an olive-green sofa bed with a matching armchair, and a mini coffee table strewn with leaflets.

Pedroni had his left hand bent behind his head; with his right he was smoking a cigarette, using the mug as an ashtray, balanced on his chest. Room 212 was a no-smoking room.

The TV was playing quiet Muzak. On the screen it said: “Welcome/Willkommen/Bienvenu Mr. Hans Meier!”

A daytime room, Lorena's idea. To be honest, Pedroni hadn't realized such a thing existed. A room you could rent for half price or cheaper to use during the day. She had come up with the idea while they were considering where he should meet Weynfeldt. Somewhere discreet, with just the two of them, not his apartment or Lore-na's. And not Weynfeldt's either. It was swarming with people there, Lorena had told him.

Then she had said suddenly, “Why don't you just rent a day room at the Belotel?” And explained what that was. He could well imagine how she knew.

If Weynfeldt actually showed up—and Pedroni had no reason to doubt that he would—he would congratulate himself yet again on his instinct, which had told him he should hook up with her. The girl was a gold mine.

For a while it had looked like it was going nowhere, but when she showed up to borrow money for Mallorca he knew they'd be doing business again. Although he'd been surprised himself how soon it had worked out.

The test with the five thousand went smoothly. Weynfeldt handed it over like something he'd been trying to get rid of all his life. He was so into the chick he'd pay any amount to score points with her. Well, maybe not any amount, but a hundred and twenty thousand wouldn't be a problem. Perhaps he should have gone higher—a hundred and twenty had been her idea—but this was certainly not the last chance.

He was particularly proud of the promissory note. Not just some vague letter acknowledging a debt of a hundred and twenty francs, but a document with signatures dating back two years, claiming a total debt of a hundred and forty-two thousand, three hundred and forty, and a neat record of repayments in varying sums, each with his signature, using a variety of pens. The last was Weynfeldt's payment of five thousand, also entered correctly and signed for. The balance was a hundred and twenty thousand, which Weynfeldt would hand him in a few minutes. He was pretty certain of that.

He had done some research about the man, which had not been at all easy. He lived a very inconspicuous life, the final descendant of an old family of industrialists, once incredibly rich, who had still left him enough that he had more income than he could spend. According to Lorena, he made over a million a year simply from the building he lived in.

The man worked—this information also came from Lorena—because he enjoyed it. Something Pedroni found very hard to grasp.

But it was fine by him. That way he used up less of his fortune. Because if everything went as smoothly as he expected with the hundred and twenty, there was no reason not to use him again. He wasn't sure how, but together with Lorena he'd think of something. Weynfeldt felt responsible for her, she'd told him. They would make sure that was interpreted financially.

The telephone rang. Reception informed him a Dr. Weynfeldt had arrived. “Send him on up.” He got up, went into the bathroom, washed his hands and ran his wet palms over the short hair he'd been growing again for a while.

A coincidence. Even if his head had still been shaved, Weynfeldt wouldn't have recognized him. Before the meeting in front of the ATM Pedroni had said to Lorena, “I'm sure he's never seen me, not even that day at Spotlight. People like him treat sales staff as if they're invisible. Bet you anything you like he doesn't recognize me.”

A knock. Pedroni took his jacket from the hanger and put it on. Then he opened the door and invited Weynfeldt in.

The man was wearing a rain-soaked, camel-hair overcoat, holding a wet felt hat in his hand. Pedroni hadn't noticed it had started raining again.

While Weynfeldt was unbuttoning his coat, Pedroni took one of the two hangers from the wardrobe and held his hand out toward Weynfeldt's coat. The man shook his head. “I'll keep it on. I don't have much time. Could I ask you to give me the promissory note, please?”

“Could I ask you to give me the money first, please?” Pedroni responded.

It was too good to be true. The man made no attempt to argue about the procedure. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat—he was carrying a hundred and twenty big ones in his coat pocket!—and took the money out. He placed it on the coffee table among the leaflets.

Pedroni sat on the sofa bed. They were fresh notes in the original wrappers. A hundred-pack of thousands and two hundred-packs of hundreds. Pedroni broke open the wrappers and counted the notes unhurriedly. Weynfeldt didn't sit down. He stood in his overcoat at the window looking out at the gray rainy afternoon. Only when Pedroni said, out loud, “Correct,” did he turn around.

“Could I have the promissory note now please?”

If the asshole hadn't looked at him so arrogantly while he'd said it, he would have gone to his briefcase and taken out the document. But now he said, “You'll receive it by post in a few days.”

Weynfeldt went bright red. Didn't say a word, just stood there in his five-thousand-franc coat and went red.

Pedroni shook his head, stood up and walked over to his briefcase. “My little joke,” he grinned, and handed him the document.

The best bit was what came next: Weynfeldt reached into his trouser pocket, took out a small leather case, extracted a magnifying glass from it, went to the window and examined the piece of paper.

“Do you think it's a fake?” Pedroni asked incredulously.

Weynfeldt gave no answer.

“I'm sure she was able to confirm that she owed me the money.”

Weynfeldt put the magnifying glass away, nodded, folded the paper and secreted it in the inside pocket—of his jacket this time. “In order,” he said.

“What do you mean,
in order
?”

“It's the original.”

“Right. You know about things like that?”

“Yes.” He walked past him towards the door. Before he opened it, he turned around once more. “From now on you will leave Frau—he hesitated—Steiner in peace, I hope that's clear.”

“Or what?”

“Then you'll find out what.”

“Or you'll go red?”

Weynfeldt searched for a response. Then he said, quietly, but loud enough for Pedroni to hear, “Or you will.”

I
T WASN'T THE FIRST TIME
L
ORENA HAD BEEN IN THE
Grand Imperial Hotel, but she preferred not to think about that time.

She was ushered in by a doorman in discreet livery, and went straight to the bar. She had arranged to meet Adrian's friend, the painter Rolf Strasser, on the pretext that as a professional he would be a good person to guide her around the exhibition; Adrian didn't have time.

That was not entirely true: she hadn't asked Adrian, she had just told him she wanted to visit the preview with Rolf, because he was probably very busy, wasn't he? Adrian had approved of the idea and given her Rolf's number.

The real reason she wanted to go to the preview with Strasser was of course the Vallotton. Adrian had given her a heavy hint that he was the one who painted the copy. And therefore the only one aside from Adrian who knew if the painting on show to the public here was the authentic one or not.