The Last Weynfeldt by Martin Suter

lucky she didn’t set Susi on him. He had to walk for ages till he found a phone booth. It was times like this when he considered actually getting a cell phone.
    Now he was standing in front of a phone booth, waiting for a taxi, thinking about Lorena. Did she do things like this often? Steal three-thousand-franc dresses? And why? Simply when she liked a certain dress but couldn’t afford it? Out of sheer boredom? Professionally—did she steal expensive clothes and sell them?
    A taxi approached. Weynfeldt took a couple of steps toward the curb. The taxi didn’t slow down. Weynfeldt raised his arm to hail it. The driver pointed over his shoulder to the passenger seat, filled by a plump figure, Frau Schär. She smiled vindictively at him. Weynfeldt didn’t react.
    Perhaps Lorena was a kleptomaniac. Adrian wondered which explanation he preferred. He came to the astonishing conclusion that he wasn’t interested. He didn’t care why she stole clothes. Not only that. He didn’t care that she did it. In fact he was pleased she had done it. Who knew when or if he would otherwise have seen her again?
    During the time since their first encounter her face had fused with Daphne’s in his mind. Thinking of Lorena, he had seen Daphne. And when his thoughts had turned to Daphne—which they still did after all these years—he saw Lorena before him.
    But after today he was able to distinguish the two. Lorena’s features were starker, as if drawn with a harder, sharper pencil. Her face was already marked by a life more excessive than Daphne would have led. A longer one too. The skin around Lorena’s eyes was a shade darker and even when she wasn’t smiling, at the corner of her eyes were the fine wrinkles his mother had called “crow’s feet.”
    Weynfeldt was so lost in thought he only noticed the taxi as it pulled up alongside him. He asked to be taken to the office, and was grateful the driver said nothing. He was too polite to fend off chatty people.
    â€œWas it worth the effort?” Véronique asked immediately.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSix Lugardons but it wasn’t worth it?”
    â€œOne Lugardon and five imitations.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry; the woman sounded very convincing. Next time I’ll insist on photos.” She gave him a searching look. When it looked like he would return to his office with no further comment she asked, “Was it okay for me to give Agustoni’s number to that Lorena? She said it was very urgent and personal.”
    â€œYes, it was fine, thanks.”
    He could see she was dying to know more. There weren’t many women in Weynfeldt’s life. When she realized no more details were forthcoming, Véronique said, “I’m just popping out; I’ll be right back.”
    â€œWould you bring me something please; I haven’t eaten.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhatever you’re having.” He went into his office to continue working on the catalogue.
    A short time later Véronique returned, bringing stuffed bamboo shoots with sweet plum sauce and pork dumplings. “The same as I’m having,” she said, adding, with a rare touch of ironic self-reflection, “but not as much.”
    Rolf Strasser wanted to “discuss something in private” with him, and suggested they meet in Weynfeldt’s apartment. Don’t go to a big effort, he had said.
    Weynfeldt never went to an effort. He left that to Frau Hauser. She would prepare what she called “a morsel”—tiny canapés with salmon, foie gras, roast beef, viande des Grison , lobster garnished with homegrown oat and lentil sprouts and radishes. For dessert there would be more morsels, this time sweet— éclairs , mille feuilles and the whole pâtisserie repertoire, all in dollhouse proportions.
    Weynfeldt had asked Frau Hauser to lay the table in the Von der Mühll room, a small space with a window