The Last Weynfeldt Read Online Free

came the oil paintings by less familiar names: Castan, Vallet, Fröhlicher, Zünd, Barraud. The remainder consisted of studies by the big names, Anker, Hodler, Vallotton, Amiet, Segantini, Giacometti and Pellegrini, drawings and watercolors at prices in the one and two thousand category. What he lacked was works in upper middle range, between one and two hundred thousand francs, and one or two “conversation pieces,” as his assistant, Véronique, would put it: pictures and stories they could feed the press.
    Véronique was sitting in the outer office, two computer screens in front of her; a square, black take-out box of Thai food beside her. Ever since the Thai place in the next block had opened she was constantly battling the temptation to pop down and get something. She went in secret when she could, hoping Weynfeldt wouldn’t notice her absence. Not because he would object—he was an easygoing boss. But like all addicts, she didn’t want to admit her addiction to herself.
    Véronique was in her mid-thirties, with a round, heavily made-up, wrinkle-free face, framed by a blond bob, perhaps intended to make her face look longer and leaner. Her body was big and appeared shapeless thanks to the loose clothing she wore during this phase. Weynfeldt had experienced all her phases during the years they worked together; Véronique was a yo-yo woman. She starved herself as excessively as she ate. She was capable of passing through every BMI classification, from underweight to overweight, in a single year. The latter was more conducive to a good working atmosphere in Weynfeldt’s opinion, but of course he would never say something like that out loud.
    He had been embarrassed himself when he caught her returning earlier with her Thai snacks. He had come through his door to the outer office as she came through the main door. Her taste buds had been bored, she said, as she always said when an explanation couldn’t be avoided. Weynfeldt didn’t react, just took the Segantini catalogue from her immaculately tidy desk—his own was submerged in hopeless chaos—and retreated discreetly. He took in the aroma of ginger, coriander and lemongrass as he closed the door behind him and gave thanks for the opening of the Thai takeaway; the nearest food outlet before that had been a sausage grill.
    Weynfeldt would have been lost without Véronique. He was a recognized specialist in Swiss art of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; he was frequently asked to write expert reports, and even the rival auction houses preferred to have important works in this field valued by him. When it came to the administration, organization and management side of his job, however, he was clueless. He was by nature an unsystematic and impractical person.
    He had never learned to handle computers for instance. At first he hadn’t wanted to; they hadn’t suited his image of himself. Later, when he did want to learn, he had failed. And he was otherwise a quick learner. He had passed his degree with top marks, his PhD with summa cum laude. He spoke French, English, Spanish and Italian fluently—almost too authentically as far as some were concerned, and was currently learning Russian, which he didn’t find difficult even at fifty-four. But he had never been able to make friends with computers.
    This was the reason Véronique had two screens on her desk. Computers were an indispensable part of Weynfeldt’s job. It was unimaginable that a Murphy’s expert could not be contacted via e-mail, didn’t use search engines for his research or keep up to date with current prices and trends using the various art-market websites. Véronique dealt with all of that. She printed out his mail and typed up the answers he wrote by hand at the bottom of each message. Very few people suspected that Weynfeldt was useless with computers.
    Cell phones were yet to enter his life either. Each time