A Well-Timed Murder Page 4

  “Are you with the company?”

  “No, I’m not, and the name is coincidence.” Mercier had the grace to look embarrassed, and Agnes knew he had chosen the location to remind her that this was his territory, and not hers. He’d probably hoped she’d assume there was a family connection.

  “If I had less experience, I’d think you were worried.” She took another sip of the water. “I like this lime-flavored one.”

  Mercier leaned forward, elbows on knees, and fingertips together. Agnes noted the move from aggression to concern. She wondered where men—and women—picked up these standard poses.

  “It was an unsettling affair today. Not Chavanon, but the man who died here.” Mercier pushed a small button, and the uniformed young man reappeared as if he’d been waiting for a summons. “Inspector, a coffee? Or something else? Something to eat? They’ll bring whatever you want.”

  She shook her head, reminded of Château Vallotton and Julien. This was how he lived.

  She waited while Mercier explained exactly how he wanted his espresso made, down to the type of bean and the temperature of the water. When they were alone again, he was once more the relaxed, charming ambassador for Swiss products.

  “Hearing Guy’s name in the context of the police was a surprise,” Mercier said. “His funeral was only yesterday. A very small family affair, which I didn’t attend although, of course, it was at the forefront of my mind.”

  Agnes had a sudden image of Mercier diving into a private chapel tucked away in an exhibit hall, perhaps a room set up so people could pray before spending vast amounts of money. What would they pray for? Would they give thanks that they had so much money?

  “I’ve been in the industry my entire life,” he continued, “as was my father and his father before me. Guy comes—came—from the same tradition. It was a tragedy that he died so unexpectedly. Sad news for everyone. So many of the smaller old companies, the traditional backbone of what we call Swiss Made, are dying out.”

  “You believe Perrault et Chavanon will close?” Christine Chavanon had been certain the company wouldn’t be broken up or sold. Perhaps there was no struggle between heirs, only a stepmother who didn’t understand the work and might be anxious to get out of it altogether? Madame Chavanon could settle the estate with a sale.

  Mercier shook his head. “I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, but Guy was innovative, and that’s what’s needed today. When I heard about the accident…” His voice trailed off.

  Agnes ignored his obvious play for details. “You mentioned Monsieur Chavanon’s innovative spirit. Had you heard about any major advancements in his work?”

  The door to the room opened and the espresso was delivered on a tray accompanied by a selection of Lindt chocolates. Mercier added sugar to his cup and drank before answering her.

  “A major advancement? What an interesting idea, Inspector. Could you be more precise about the nature of this development?”

  “I was only adding to what you said, about Monsieur Chavanon being innovative.”

  “I meant it, but not in a specific way.”

  “If you were predicting a major advancement, what might that be? Generally, I mean.”

  Mercier reached for a chocolate, offering one to Agnes. She contented herself with a sip of lime-flavored water, wondering why she’d lied earlier about liking it. She would have preferred an espresso if she hadn’t already had enough caffeine today to consider popping the cork on the nearby champagne bottle for balance.

  “Most are refinements in the process of manufacture, in miniaturization of components, of use and content of metals. Things of that nature.” Mercier extended his arm to expose his wrist. “The one I’m wearing today was created by Richard Mille. He sponsors a Formula One racing team and created this with them in mind. It’s the world’s lightest split-seconds chronograph. Only forty grams total weight. Remarkable engineering.” He shrugged. “There are advancements to suit all types. Perhaps you have seen one of the e-straps? Attachable to any watch, it allows the connoisseur of analogical design to make the device … intelligent.”

  Agnes noted the barely disguised sneer. She leaned forward to examine Mercier’s watch. “Would you call this design revolutionary?”

  “If I was paid to write advertising copy, perhaps. But no. In the purest sense of the word, the last revolutionary advancement was the advent of quartz in the 1970s.” His face went rigid. “Not our best moment.”

  “Surely advancements are a positive thing, even intelligent watches?”

  Mercier looked as if he’d eaten something sour. “Up to the advent of quartz movement, watches were mechanical, full stop. With their introduction, all of mechanical craftsmanship was made obsolete.” He dropped his hand like a guillotine. “By 1981 the crisis was a death knell. Cheap and accurate was in demand. Interest declined in the grand complications; instead, it was all digital displays and integrated circuits.” He shivered. “Literally and figuratively that tiny sliver of mineral quartz powered the watches and powered the industry. Unfortunately, it powered design and manufacturing away from us to Japan, then elsewhere around the world. It has taken over forty years to truly recover.”

  He gave her a gentle smile. “But that is in the past. You’ve seen the crowds here today. We’ve reasserted ourselves with laws protecting Swiss Made. With rising populations and emerging markets, high-end watches—the kind that we are known for—have a bright future.”

  “Would you be surprised to learn that Monsieur Chavanon was working on something revolutionary?”

  “Yes.” The words echoed with finality. Agnes gave Mercier time to expand on the idea, but he didn’t.

  “You’d not heard anything specific about Perrault et Chavanon, their situation as a company, or about Monsieur Chavanon in the time before his death?”

  “These are very concerning questions, Inspector Lüthi. You are suggesting foul play.”

  “Would it surprise you?”

  Mercier glanced at her sharply, dark eyes gleaming. “We are a competitive industry. We have learned how to keep our secrets, how to protect our techniques and products. Our Swiss know-how, our pride and our identity. Guy was part of this community, and he was also…” Mercier placed a finger to his lips briefly, reflecting. “Not a renegade, but independent minded. He was part of a long continuum of tradition, and at the same time, he was forward thinking. I would laugh at his wit and only later would I consider that he was serious and perhaps didn’t see situations entirely as I did. As we do.”

  There was a knock on the door and a woman stepped in. “Monsieur Mercier, your press conference is starting. The others are waiting.”

  He stood and Agnes followed him. On the ground floor, television lights glared outside the pavilion. A huddle of dignitaries was waiting, and she thanked Mercier. He shook her hand more warmly than he had at the start of their conversation.

  “I spoke with Guy recently,” he said, as if the memory had sprung to mind at that moment. “If I had to characterize his mood, it was exultant. It appeared the future was bright.”

  “When was this?”

  Mercier hesitated. “A few months ago. At a restaurant in Genève.”

  A handler gestured impatiently for Mercier and he stepped into place. More lights flashed on and someone did a final sound check.

  “Inspector,” Mercier said, suddenly turning again to Agnes. “Remember Copernicus. I hope not to hear the word revolutionary again.”

  With that, he turned to the camera and began to speak.

  Five

  Standing under the enormous expanse of the cover over the plaza outside Halle 1, Agnes replayed Mercier’s final words. She disliked people who confused cryptic with clever. What had he meant about Copernicus? He was an astronomer, that much she remembered. Famous for saying that the sun and not the earth was at the center of the cosmic order.

  Absently, she thumbed through the copy of the Baselworld Daily News she’d plucked from a stack by the lobby door. The maga
zine-newspaper hybrid was filled with photographs of happy people and glamorous product. The articles were laced with words such as epic, technology par excellence, and dazzling. Scanning the pages she wished Guy Chavanon’s wife would answer the telephone. Agnes had already called the Chavanon residence three times with no response, although that wasn’t surprising the day after a funeral. She knew all too well that it was difficult to listen to condolence after condolence. She would wait another day before turning up at Marie Chavanon’s door unannounced.

  Halfway through the Daily News, Agnes stopped. She recognized two men in a large color photograph. On the left was Antoine Mercier, smiling broadly, holding up a watch for the camera. The other man was the kind of handsome that looked airbrushed even in real life, and she had seen him earlier in real life. She scanned the article. Gianfranco Giberti was being interviewed about the advance in the photo-realistic moon phase on the Omega Speedmaster.

  Agnes read the name again and verified that it referred to the man in the photograph before slapping the newspaper shut. This was Christine Chavanon’s former boyfriend? Christine hadn’t exaggerated when she’d said he was beautiful. Agnes had a hard time imagining the two of them together. Christine was too hesitant, too blurred. Giberti was sharp as cut crystal. Why had he watched them so intently earlier? Why not come forward with condolences or slip away if he wanted to avoid his former girlfriend?

  She glanced at the article again. Giberti ran the research division of Omega. That was interesting. Christine had hinted that her father liked her boyfriend; now Agnes wondered if that affection extended to shared confidences. Confidences about innovations and research. Confidences about revolutionary ideas. She amended confidences to hints. What if Giberti had listened to the hints more carefully than Christine did? It was possible to take the tiniest notion of an idea and develop it. With Guy Chavanon out of the way, there was no one to say that Giberti hadn’t come up with the idea on his own. From her experience in Financial Crimes Agnes knew all too well what people were willing to do to advance their careers. Industrial espionage and theft of intellectual property were more commonplace than anyone admitted.

  Mulling the implications, Agnes walked toward the narrow street where the Roach had died. Police tape still blocked the entrance, and a few officers were idling around the damaged Ferrari. She doubted they were doing anything productive. Likely they were on a break. She speculated that the cost of replacing the damaged hood was equivalent to replacing her entire Peugeot. One of the officers recognized her and she waved at his greeting before stepping off the curb.

  After winding her way through the trams on Clarastrasse, she headed to the Palace pavilion and the Perrault et Chavanon Frères booth. The Palace, where the International Brands were showcased, was by far the smallest of the five buildings: A miniature, one-story structure vaguely reminiscent of the “palaces” constructed by architects for eighteenth-century follies. Given the steel-framed exterior, Agnes half expected a plant-filled conservatory appropriate for ladies in long skirts wearing white gloves. Instead, her first impression of the interior was of white and modern and intimate.

  She made her way down the central hallway, weighing what she saw against the Global Brands in Halle 1. Since global and international were nearly synonymous, the organizers must have wanted to emphasize a distinction. To her eyes, the quality of the watches was equal, therefore the scale of manufacturing must be different. She paused at a booth. A watch was on display in a tall cabinet. “A unique piece,” the description read, detailing specifications about the movements and materials. The mechanism of the watch was partially visible through cutouts on the face, and a small mirror on the bottom of the display reflected the back side. The reverse casing was covered with highly detailed engraving. Agnes found the watch in the catalog she’d picked up upon entering the booth. They literally meant unique. This was the only one of its kind.

  Her instinct was confirmed. The booths in this pavilion might not represent the manufacturing power or have the widespread name recognition of Omega or Rolex or Blancpain, but that didn’t mean the quality was lesser; in fact, she wondered if the quality might be higher. Unique pieces. Custom designs. She wished Vallotton were with her; he understood custom-made products better than anyone else she knew.

  “Inspector Lüthi?” She heard a voice and for a moment thought she’d imagined it was Vallotton. When he entered the booth, she was caught off guard more by having been thinking of him than by the actual sight of him.

  “I thought you left,” she said.

  “Without seeing the entire show? I saw you crossing the street and managed to catch up.” He removed his calfskin gloves and slipped them into his coat pocket. Together they walked down the light-filled central aisle.

  “There they are.” Vallotton pointed to the end of the short wing of the pavilion. PERRAULT ET CHAVANON FRÈRES, 1841 read the sign.

  “Very different from Halle 1,” Agnes commented, remembering her meeting with Antoine Mercier. The Baume & Mercier pavilion had a grand showroom on the first level and private rooms upstairs, each space beautifully appointed. This was little more than a temporary shop, separated from its neighbors by impermanent walls covered by decorated panels. It didn’t look cheap, and the companies clearly went to a lot of trouble to brand their booths, but they couldn’t achieve the appearance of permanence and sheer luxury she’d experienced in the other building.

  “What do you know about Perrault et Chavanon?” she asked.

  “They were originally gunsmiths. Not unusual because of the precision involved in the workmanship. The family were French Huguenots who fled persecution. They set up workshops in small groups and—”

  She shot Vallotton a dry look. “I’m more interested in the current situation, not the history.”

  “Then I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know much.”

  “You’re Leo Chavanon’s godfather, you must know something.”

  “I send gifts for holidays and visit him at school. He’s too young to need me for more right now. My father was closer to the family, and to Guy. They live outside La Chaux-de-Fonds, up a hill to the northwest of the town, and the factory is beside their house. Typical for an old company.” Vallotton launched into a detailed description of the family home, apparently designed by a famous architect.

  Agnes gestured for him to move on to what interested her. “Christine said there are only two employees, not counting her stepmother.”

  “That was surprising. The factory building is large.” Vallotton flashed her a grin. “Not overwhelming you with details, am I?”

  She nodded toward the booth where they’d met. “Back there, the label in one of the cases said a unique piece. Is that the kind of work Perrault et Chavanon do?”

  “No, Philippe Dufour is a living legend and often makes only one watch a year. I suppose he has a helper or apprentice occasionally, but he works alone. It’s unbelievable, the attention he pays to every detail. The way he polishes metal is practically spiritual.”

  Agnes shuddered to think of the cost of a truly unique timepiece, particularly one that a craftsman spent an entire year fabricating. She suspected that passion for the products ran high, and passion meant behavior contrary to reason. Vallotton extended his arm, exposing his wrist. “This one of Dufour’s was my father’s.”

  Agnes looked from the watch to Vallotton’s face.

  “Don’t looked so shocked,” he said. “It’s not made of radioactive material.”

  “If it’s a collector’s piece, why are you wearing it?” She reached for his wrist.

  “To tell time, mainly.”

  She studied the watch face, conscious that she was holding his arm. Carefully she let go. “How can you walk about wearing something so valuable? What if you lose it?”

  Vallotton laughed. “Is your job more hazardous than I realize? Are watches routinely wrested from your wrist?”

  “Of course not, but things do happen.”

  “How many wat
ches have you lost?”

  “Three, maybe four?”

  Vallotton looked horrified.

  She held out her arm. “They get left on the beach or in hotels. I replace them.”

  He glanced at the navy-and-green plastic around her wrist. “Then that’s a good pick for you.”

  “You don’t approve of Swatch?” She looked at it fondly. “My youngest son picked this one out. Paid for it himself. It was a Christmas gift.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yes.” She was surprised he remembered the name.

  “I approve of it and them. Don’t look so shocked. If everyone was like Dufour, there wouldn’t be enough watches to go around. Hayek had a clear vision after quartz nearly doomed the country. Without him—without Swatch—the watch industry might have faltered irretrievably.”

  Agnes remembered a background dossier she’d read once at work. “The Swatch Group owns many of the big brands, don’t they? Including Omega.” She scrolled through her memory. Which others? “Harry Winston? Breguet, Blancpain. A dozen more?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  She pulled her sleeve over her watch. Hard enough being a small company, but competing against larger ones bundled together under a benevolent parent? Extremely competitive. She wondered again at the gaps in Christine Chavanon’s knowledge. It was possible Guy Chavanon had developed a transformative product. Something that would assure his company’s future. It was equally likely that he was experiencing the pressure of inexorable decline. Would a desperate man do something out of character—deal with people he’d normally shun? That would be an explanation for his recent behavior if the neighbor’s account was to be trusted and could justify the fear he’d expressed in the note. She’d arrested too many decent people who had taken a small turn in their financial dealings, an “only this once” decision made in a moment of desperation that had ended badly.

  With that in mind, Agnes examined the front of the Perrault et Chavanon booth. It was crowded, and it took her a moment to identify the employees Christine had described. The man, Ivo, iPad in hand, looked to be in his thirties. Handsome in a boyish way, he was huddled with a pair of foreign-looking gentlemen. His colleague, Gisele, was fielding questions left and right, her eyes darting everywhere.