The Last Weynfeldt by Martin Suter Page A

onto the rear courtyard devoted to the noted Lausanne architect. He had furnished it simply with a walnut ensemble consisting of two uncushioned chairs, a table, and a file cabinet for drawings. Von der Mühll had designed the minimal, right-angled ensemble back in 1924, as furnishings for an office waiting room—at a time, in other words, when Lausanne was still dominated by Parisian Art Deco. Only a handful of experts knew it still existed; even fewer that it belonged to Adrian Weynfeldt.
    On the walls hung works by Paul Zoelli, geometric oils from the same period. Although he had no evidence, Weynfeldt was convinced Von der Mühll and Zoelli must have known each other.
    The room was ideal for a private conversation. And alongside its aesthetic rigor, there was another advantage to the furniture: it was so uncomfortable that any conversation held sitting on it would not be drawn out. Although in this situation that wasn’t an issue. This was undoubtedly about money, and when it was about money Weynfeldt generally gave in sooner rather than later.
    He went to sit in his study till Strasser came. The high plate-glass window let in light from the brightly lit offices which framed four floors of the rear courtyard. In some of them teams of cleaners could be seen, vacuuming, emptying wastepaper bins, dusting telephones and wiping screens. In one office sat a lonely figure working to get ahead; in another a meeting was being held.
    The dim light fell on the walls filled with bookshelves, and on easels holding pictures—Weynfeldt’s own and those he had to write expert reports on.
    He flicked a switch on; a spot threw a beam of light onto an easel in the center of the room. La Salamandre shone out, with its yellows, reds, lilacs, browns and flesh tones, as if the light emanated from the painting itself.
    The picture had been here since he picked it up from Baier. He had told no one that it would be put up for auction. Not even Véronique. He wasn’t sure what was holding him back; the work would give the next auction a whole new impetus. But he had strange misgivings.
    La Salamandre had been reproduced millions of times to be sold as a poster, but the original had remained in private hands since it was painted. And it was a very private image. Not all art was meant to be public. Somehow Weynfeldt couldn’t bring himself to disrupt the intimacy of the scene by releasing it into the public domain.
    He knew this was ridiculous. But why shouldn’t he have the picture to himself for a few days?
    The bell rang. Weynfeldt went to the door and spoke into the intercom. It was Rolf Strasser. He asked him to wait while he came down in the elevator.
    Strasser was drunk. That didn’t surprise Weynfeldt; Rolf was normally drunk by this time. The question was simply which stage of drunkenness he had reached. He had undoubtedly passed through the lucid stage at Agustoni’s, staying for a bottle or two of Brunello with those members of the group who had stamina, making them laugh. He had hopefully seen off the sludgy stage with a late siesta on his studio sofa. He had probably got over the headache stage with an aperitif in his local bar. The question now was whether he was still in the peaceful stage, already in the sentimental stage, or slipping into the aggressive.
    Weynfeldt led him into the Von der Mühll room. Strasser sat on the hard, angular chair with a reproachful look.
    â€œWould you like a glass of white?” Weynfeldt inquired. He had put a bottle of Twanner to cool and showed Strasser the label.
    â€œYou got beer too?” Strasser asked.
    Strasser drank beer the way other people drink mineral water when they want a brief pause from alcohol. That meant that he wasn’t yet in the aggressive phase. Weynfeldt went to the kitchen for beer. He could have waited till Frau Hauser brought the morsels and asked her to bring beer. But this would have represented another defeat in his