The Chaser

Henri Moret drummed his fingers on the desk top as he always did when he was angry or nervous. He had picked up the phone and listened expressionlessly to what Devenaz on the other end of the line. After the first few sentences, he knew that Devenaz was right and that Weichsler, that complete idiot, had taken action again. They both knew that it could only be Weichsler. Moret thanked Devenaz with a nod of his head, though the other couldn't see that, and hung up.

His gaze slid to the silver‐plated picture frame on his desk. What might have prompted his father years ago to enter into such an uncertain standstill agreement with Weichsler? Well, he certainly had every intention of not backing down this time. On the contrary. Weichsler deserved a severe punishment — and the more insiders learned about it, the more he could chalk it up as a success for himself. No one should believe that he would let anyone off cheaply. Irritated, he stopped drumming his fingers when he became aware of it and picked up the phone.

Another day, Wimmer and the one in the floppy hat were sitting in his office. Moret walked over to the closet and looked inquiringly to see if they wanted a drink, too. Wimmer nodded, the one with the floppy hat remained silent. Henri Moret was annoyed that he never took off his hat, not even in the directors office, but so what? Moret poured two glasses and used the time to think about Wimmer and his Wimmer and his shadow. Wimmer and Partners, the best hunters in western Switzerland and always responsible for cleaning up the Moret‐s empire. They worked quickly and discreetly, and were well worth the big bucks they charged. Wimmer had been in the private sector long enough to understand complexities — no, thugs they were not. They were both licensed private detectives, Moret knew, although Wimmer ran a tiny photography business in Lausanne as a cover, but why Wimmer didn't officially run a detective agency was beyond him. He took the drinks and went to the table, where he handed Wimmer a glass before sitting down.

The one in the floppy hat suddenly pointed his index finger at one of the documents Wimmer was looking through. Wimmer nodded and looked up. "It's the second one, the" he glanced briefly at the papers, searching for the name, "the Rizzi, P. Rizzi, the one from the Vienna Bank," Wimmer looked again at the papers spread out before him, "Kantor Privatbank."

"Weichsler has found a clever companion, that's quite clear!" he said again, and glanced at Moret. "What do you expect?"

Henri Moret felt uncomfortable in his skin. Devenaz had meticulously gathered and neatly noted down. Of course, when he read the reports, it was immediately clear to him and later to Moret how the deal had gone down. The only new thing was that Weichsler had a partner with banking experience. That made him even more dangerous. Moret gave himself a jolt before replying, "I want all the money back, and I want Weichsler just as much. Unharmed," he continued with a shy sidelong glance at Wimmer's somber‐looking partner.

What about Rizzi, Wimmer asked. But Moret shook his head. "I want Weichsler and the money. I don't care about Rizzi — probably Weichsler has used him so cleverly that he doesn't even know the true story at all." Wimmer looked at him doubtfully, and objected that Weichsler would never be able to make such a complicated merry‐go‐round, but Moret could not go back; he had already made up his mind with Devenaz beforehand and insisted on his opinion, although Wimmer's objections seemed to him quite right.

Wimmer drank his glass empty in one go. Before setting the glass down on the tabletop, his gaze slid for a moment to the man in the floppy hat. Then he said simply, "All right, Mr. Moret, as you wish!" Both rose and took their leave with a brief nod of the head. Moret called Devenaz to tell him that the two bloodhounds were on their way.