Gianfranco Giberti walked up the steps to the restaurant at a brisk clip. Agnes could easily picture him heading toward an assignation with a glamorous dark-haired beauty. Perhaps a visiting model from Japan. He was a man who always looked as if he were heading to or from a tryst. The deliberately rough shave, the well-tailored robin’s-egg-blue suit worn a little too casually, the Ferragamo shoes, and the slightly loosened knot of his tie. His hair was dark and worn long to his collar, swept back from his face in a wave and held in a low ponytail. She hesitated for a moment, then followed him.
She was shocked to find that he was eating alone at a table for two. The other place setting had been cleared, and Agnes slid into the vacant chair. He half rose, his expression quizzical. When she introduced herself, his manner turned somber.
“Of course, I had met Monsieur Chavanon and was very sorry to learn about his death.” Giberti motioned for a waiter to bring another menu. Agnes declined, requesting a small bottle of San Pellegrino.
“Had met sounds a bit formal for the father of your former girlfriend. Surely you knew him better than that?”
“Christine and I went out a few times. I date a lot of women. It’s impossible to be serious with anyone given my work schedule.”
A waiter brought a plate of steak tartare for Giberti and asked Agnes if she had changed her mind about ordering. She waved the waiter off, although the meal looked appetizing. Giberti mixed the chopped onion, capers, and raw egg into the minced meat, then took a bite.
“Despite this casual relationship, you were watching Christine closely the day before yesterday.”
Giberti’s fork stopped in midair. “That’s where I recognize you from. She was crying, of course I noticed.”
Agnes sipped sparkling water, eyeing the crowds passing back and forth across the Baselworld plaza. The enormous open circle in the center of the canopy looked like a giant metal web pulled open to the sky.
“When was the last time you saw Monsieur Chavanon?”
“Why are you asking these questions? Has something happened? Something else, I mean.”
“His workshop was burglarized. I found your business card there with an appointment marked on it and wondered how that meeting went, and if you had something to contribute to our investigation based on your conversation.”
“Appointment?” Giberti set his fork down with exaggerated care. “What has Christine told you about us, about me?”
“That you dated. She also mentioned your relationship with her father.”
“She wouldn’t have said I had a relationship with Monsieur Chavanon. He was clear that he didn’t want to know me better.” Giberti toyed with his silverware. “You’re sure the appointment was with me?”
“The time was marked on your card. Why did Monsieur Chavanon object to your dating his daughter?”
A laugh escaped Giberti. “No man wants his daughter to date, not really. At least in my experience.”
Agnes wondered if it was because fathers recognized the danger Giberti represented. Men might dream of being playboys, but they wanted their daughters to marry stolid, respectable bureaucrats. Giberti looked like a lifetime of despair dressed in a fine suit.
“When did you stop seeing Christine?”
“Three months ago this weekend.”
Agnes blinked. “Are you always so precise with dates?”
“I am in a precise business, Inspector.”
“And yet you don’t remember the appointment?”
“I can’t remember something that didn’t happen.”
Agnes stood, placing a ten-franc note on the table for her water. She was a half dozen steps away when Giberti called to her.
“Inspector, how is Christine? It’s hard to lose a parent and I should have called her.”
“You still can.” Agnes turned deliberately. “They’ve dusted the workshop for fingerprints. It may take a few days, but we’ll identify them all. And I may be back in touch.”
Outside the restaurant, she could see Giberti through the glass façade. He was on his telephone and it didn’t look like a business call.
* * *
“Step farther out,” Antoine Mercier said, beckoning toward the rail. The air high above the showroom floor was warm and stale, and the view through the open weave of the metal floor made Agnes uneasy. Mercier understood the power of place.
“Do they serve coffee and chocolates up here?” she asked, aiming for a light tone and failing. She took a final hesitant step to reach the rail.
“I thought you would appreciate the view.” Mercier leaned forward, waving one arm expansively. “The big picture for the police.”
“I’m more interested in details right now.” Agnes gripped the rail. She’d never been afraid of heights, but then she’d never stood on an open walkway before. She felt the pull, the sickening sense of tipping. All she could think of was the Pont Bessières and George. She longed for solid earth.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were at the Institute the day before Guy Chavanon died?” She fixed her gaze on Mercier, trying to forget where they were.
“If I had been present when he died, I would have told you. The day before?” Mercier shrugged. “I hadn’t seen Guy in months, not since our chance encounter in Genève.”
“Which restaurant did you see him in?”
“How should I remember? I dine out frequently.”
“You had such a clear memory of the meeting.”
“Why does the restaurant name matter?”
“It is an open question, and I don’t like those. Guy Chavanon didn’t go to Genève often. It is unlikely he was there without a purpose. I haven’t found out why, and if I knew which restaurant, they might locate his reservation—if there was one—and we might learn who he dined with. Unless you remember.”
“Perhaps he was alone?”
“His family say that he didn’t like to eat in restaurants by himself and that he wouldn’t have.”
“Well, I don’t remember. I’m sorry, Inspector, unlike Guy, I eat out both by myself and in company frequently. It is impossible to remember each instance. I only remember seeing Guy because it was so unusual, and as you know, I felt that he was particularly buoyant. That’s what I remember.”
“And that it was several months ago.”
“Yes, well, that, too.” Mercier kept his eyes fixed on the ground far beneath them.
Agnes followed his gaze, concentrating. Most of the people were a blur of anonymous black, tan, and dark blue clothing. Studying the patterns, she thought about the Roach. She imagined this was the kind of view he would have appreciated. He could stand here, high in the air, secure in the knowledge that while the tiny figures went about their business—buying, selling, entertaining, amusing—he was silently draining their bank accounts.
She turned to Mercier. “You’re not only the face, you are the eyes and ears of the Swiss watch industry.”
“You flatter me.”
“No, that’s the assessment of my colleagues in Financial Crimes.”
“You are now investigating me?” Mercier said sharply. “I have made it a personal mission to eliminate the sale and import of fakes to this country, and your colleagues have been my allies. The damage done to our national brand by counterfeit goods is inestimable—”
During their brief phone conversation Agnes had been warned by Aubry: once Mercier started on this topic, he wouldn’t stop until his audience died from boredom.
“Beyond that,” she interrupted. “You hear things, you know what is coming in the next years. People confide in you.”
“You are mistaken. You’ve not listened to me. Secrecy underpins what is done here. Each company keeps their own counsel. I manage trends and assist with legislation. I am a liaison. I am a voice.”
“I think you are more than that. Every industry needs their consigliere. Someone who keeps the secrets and advises.”
“Now, you are flattering me, Inspector.” Mercier appeared to relax. “I can assure you that I don’t play that role. The federation is composed of many companies, each operating independently, much like our cantons and the federal government. We work together for mutual benefit and protection.”
“Let’s not exaggerate. Many of the companies operate under larger parent names. How much of the industry does Swatch control?”
“That’s different. They may share internally, they certainly manage their brands in a tandem of development.” Mercier stopped short. “What is this interest in me, and in who confides in me?”
“I think Guy Chavanon recently—in the past months or weeks—shared or let slip an idea that he was working on. You are right about secrecy, and by all accounts he was a cautious man. That’s why I don’t think he would have talked to just anyone. He might have trusted you. Needed your advice.” Agnes glanced down and felt that heady sense of tipping again. She drew a short breath. “Perrault et Chavanon is smaller now than in Chavanon’s youth. After his daughter left he wouldn’t have had a natural confidant within the company.”
“His wife is—”
“Not a confidant who loves the industry and who could advise him on a special idea, particularly one that is innovative or revolutionary.”
“This has gone into the realm of the absurd. I’ve told you that I haven’t spoken with Guy in months, and on that occasion it was in a public restaurant for the duration of an aperitif. Hardly the time or place for the serious—clandestine—conversation you are suggesting.”
“Yet you don’t remember where you saw him or exactly when?”
“We have reached a stalemate, Inspector, where my memory is concerned.”
“But not where your knowledge is concerned. You warned me about Copernicus because he was a revolutionary. Are you afraid of leaps forward in the watch industry? That is what you meant, isn’t it?”
“Slow and steady is my mantra. That’s what brought us back from near devastation.”
“I understand that and applaud your work, but would you prevent a revolutionary idea? Shut it down?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“So if Guy Chavanon had a revolutionary idea—”
“Enough. Inspector Lüthi, I have known Guy for decades, an entire lifetime really, and do not like saying these things so soon after his death. He was a dreamer. An excitable dreamer. He was innovative, yes, with the innovations that we all develop to keep the industry alive and competitive. He had skills and a brain and a depth and breadth of knowledge and made good watches. That is all.”
“Sounds to me like it is possible he used all of those attributes to create something entirely new.” Agnes remembered something Christine had said. “I don’t expect a significant invention to pop out every year, but there can be one at the end of a lifetime of trying.”
“You have insinuated that he confided in me, and now you criticize me because I do not believe in him. I was a friend of Guy’s and resent being cornered into speaking ill of him, but he was not likely to develop anything of the magnitude of which you speak. He didn’t have the staying power. He never did.” Mercier glanced at his watch. “Now, if you will forgive me, I have other appointments. This is a busy week.”
They shook hands at the bottom of the stair, and Mercier walked away, leaving Agnes to wonder why he had lied. His assistant had been clear that Mercier’s calendar was open for another hour. And she wondered why he had been so interested in the movements of Gianfranco Giberti, whose bright blue jacket made him visible from the walkway.