The Paris Game (22 page)

“I’m hardly scared.” Jeremy retraced his steps, sneering. “He’s a lowlife compared to Mayson, not even fit to clean his boots.” When Marc looked at him questioningly, Jeremy added, “my boss back home. Royale’s a fly, easy to swat.”

A muffled ringing sound interrupted Marc’s reply. Jeremy pulled his phone from an inner pocket and glanced at the screen. He walked a short distance away, just out of earshot and answered the call. Marc lit another cigarette as he waited. He could hear Jeremy’s voice getting louder, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. It was too tempting not to try, so he stepped unobtrusively closer, just enough to make out Jeremy’s half of the conversation. Jeremy spoke in English, snapping out the words.

“I have this job to do, but it should be over soon. You’ll be able to move in afterwards; I doubt he has any real bodyguards. His club is practically empty most of the day. Yes, really. I don’t know why he doesn’t have bodyguards, but maybe he’s just overconfident.” Jeremy paced back and forth, listening. “No, if you came now it wouldn’t look right.” His accent got thicker as he argued. “For fuck’s sake, you’d give the game away, all right? I can do well enough on my own, thank you.” He shook his head. “Look, I’ve gotta go.”

Marc had very carefully positioned himself near Baudelaire’s tomb, making it look as though he was reading the inscription. He waited several moments before turning, as if he was impatiently waiting for Jeremy to finish his conversation. Jeremy strode over.

“My apologies,” he said abruptly. “Sometimes these things just can’t wait.”

“You’ve taken so long already, what’s another few minutes?”

“I didn’t need to take this job. I have a woman to get back to.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Marc pulled out his phone. Jeremy held out a hand, forestalling him.

“Let’s not get Royale into it just yet.”

Marc put his phone away. “What do you need from me about the Girards?” Once they were taken care of, then he could threaten Jeremy as he needed to.

“They’ve been difficult to locate,” Jeremy said. They continued along the path, circling around the centre of the cemetery to return nearer the gate. “They haven’t been using any credit cards, nothing traceable. Where else might they be staying?”

“Claude likes to bet on the races. They might be spending time at the track in Vincennes, or one of the others.” Marc shrugged. “I’m not a betting man.”

“I’ll give those a try. Nothing else? They don’t seem to have any family in the area; are there any friends I should know about?”

“I have no idea. Claude doesn’t seem the type to have a lot of friends, and Michel is just too timid.”

“You should know more about your associates, monsieur.”

“I wasn’t expecting failure of this sort.” Marc tried to keep the irritation from his voice.

“And that’s when it always happens, but luckily you can afford to have someone else sort it out for you.”

“You’re quite certain I’m pure and virginal, aren’t you?”

Jeremy laughed. “Where it counts, I’m sure you are.”

“La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure pour vous, n’est pas?”

Jeremy gave him a blank look.

“You think that might makes right, do you not?” Marc said in English.

“It does in my world,” Jeremy retorted. He paused by the gate. “I’ll be in touch in a few days, monsieur.”

“À bientôt.” Marc watched Jeremy walk back the way they had come. It would be satisfying to take him down, hit him between the shoulder blades and leave him lying on the pavement for even having the gall to touch Sera, but he’d left the gun in his apartment. He’d give Jeremy two days.

Marc entered
Perron et fils
, pausing to pick up a small bundle of mail Aurore had left for him on Friday evening. He continued back to his office, passing Fournier’s closed door. He could hear the faint sound of the radio and knew Fournier was inside, but he didn’t bother to stop. He didn’t care to see Fournier today. He tossed the mail onto his desk, noting the small stack of files that Aurore had set to one side, with a printout of the current accounts and invoices paid lying on top. He left them lying there, drifting over to the floor-length window to look down into the quiet, narrow street. The green cross of the pharmacy on the corner flickered erratically, but otherwise the view was dull. Marc slid his hands into his pockets as he considered what he had overheard.

Not being a part of Royale’s organization, he felt no loyalty for the man, only a vague disquiet. His uncle had dealt with gangsters on occasion, but he had liked their style: large, luxurious houses, begging to be filled with art that could be admired at parties, along with the good taste of their owners. It had led to an increase in their client list, as the firm’s name was dropped among the gatherings and the politicians and glitterati had come calling, bringing their greedy demands and open wallets. He doubted that anyone would miss Royale if he were suddenly deposed, but if Le Chat Rouge was taken over—

Fournier bustled in with only a perfunctory knock. Marc turned. Fournier held a thick sheaf of papers.

“Ah, monsieur, you’re finally here. Dawson sent the information from the baroness’s estate yesterday,” he indicated the papers with a small shake, “and I knew you’d want to inspect them personally.”

“That looks like more than what the baroness owns,” Marc replied as he took the pages from Fournier and flipped through them.

“Dawson says that Cyril reminded her of the storage at her country estate, so he went and catalogued all that as well. I had a look—depending on what she wants to part with, she might make enough to refurbish her London house.”

“The lowest estimate, assuming everything in here sells?”

“Seven hundred thousand,” Fournier replied. “Dawson’s high estimate was just over a million, but she’s indecisive about several pieces. He said she’d like you to call her personally.”

“Did Dawson tell her his estimates?”

“He didn’t give her specifics; he wanted everything verified before he’d commit. For his usual cut he said he’d be happy to arrange everything with Sotheby’s to save you the trip.”

“That’s kind of him.” Marc’s tone was dry. “His fee is probably more than the cost of my stay. I’ll consider it.” He expected Fournier to make his usual excuses and return to his own office, but the man lingered. Marc settled behind his desk. “Was that all?”

Fournier grinned sheepishly. “Did you speak with the young mademoiselle?”

“Miss Harper? She wasn’t at home when I called, but if I get some time today I may try her again.”

“She has a lot of potential, monsieur. Quite an impressive knowledge of history, and artists.”

“Yes, I thought so as well.”

Fournier seemed satisfied with his answer and turned to go. “Let me know your thoughts on the file.”

Marc took his phone out to look up Sophie’s number. It buzzed in his hand as a text arrived from Sera: “Call me when you get a moment.”

Later, he decided. The stack of information for the baroness was a monolith on his desk, demanding his attention. At least from the baroness, he felt needed. When he told her the estimates, she’d be grateful.

Marc set up the headset he’d borrowed from Aurore on his office phone and began to dial the number for the baroness. His mobile phone rang. He glanced at it. The number wasn’t one he recognized and he considered leaving it, but curiosity got the better of him.

“Oui?”

“Marc?”

He smiled in satisfaction. “Sophie. Just the woman I wanted to hear from. You made quite an impression on my staff last week.”

“Did I?” He could imagine her blushing. “They were so nice. Monsieur Fournier offered me an internship—I didn’t know your firm did that.”

“Not often,” Marc told her. He leaned back in his chair, swiveling to look at the tapestry that hung behind his desk. “But we do occasionally offer them to the most qualified candidates. Is it something you would want to do?”

“Is it paid? I couldn’t afford Paris otherwise, and my family...” she paused, obviously looking for words. “I doubt they’d approve.”

“You’ll be paid; I usually take the intern’s salary out of Fournier’s pay packet so he can’t buy new clothes for a month or two,” Marc quipped. He heard Sophie giggle.

“How cruel of you.”

“But kind to everyone else.”

“Philanthropic, even,” she agreed.

“Are you free later, Sophie? We could discuss the details over drinks.”

“I wish I could.” She sounded disheartened. “I have a meeting with my advisor. I’m dreading this long distance call.”

“What are you worried about? I’m sure you’ll impress him.”

She sighed. “I hope so. I’ll spend the afternoon writing and then I’ll email him what I’ve done. I don’t think I’ve done enough in the time I’ve been here. If he’s not impressed...”

“He will be. How could he not?” Marc interjected.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll need it.”

“You should come by tomorrow and let me know how it went.”

“Would late afternoon be all right?” Sophie asked.

“Parfait. And I can take you out for a celebratory aperitif after you accept the internship.” If she interned with them, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fulfill the bet with Sera, but she wouldn’t start work right away. Plenty of time to seduce her before she became an employee. Tomorrow could start with an aperitif, and end with her in his bed.

“I’d better start searching my closet,” she joked. “Most of what I have is typical student wear.”

“You look lovely in everything, Sophie.” And she’d look lovelier in nothing, but he didn't say so. His gaze fell on the nymph nestled in the corner of the tapestry. She stared back at him with an expectant look, and he could picture Sophie in just the same pose.

There was an awkward pause on her end. “That’s very kind of you.”

He chuckled. “Remember what I said?” He heard her laugh.

“Yes, sorry. I’d forgotten—you’re not kind.”

“Exactly. Until tomorrow, Sophie?”

“À demain, Marc.”

He hung up and turned back to his desk, flipping to the first section of Dawson’s report. He put on the earpiece and adjusted the microphone as he dialed the number for the baroness.

Marc had just gotten off the phone with the baroness when Fournier knocked on his door. He rose from his chair and stretched.

“Hello, Fournier. Still here?”

“I thought you were going to be stuck here all night,” Fournier remarked. “I was just going to tell you not to fall asleep on the baroness, but now I can ask you how it went instead.” He paused for theatrical effect. “How did it go?”

“Very well. There were a few items she was indecisive about, but most will go up for auction in several weeks. I’ll call Dawson tomorrow and get a quote for his services.”

“Should we celebrate with a drink?”

“Once the estate sells,” Marc replied.

“Of course. Counting chickens and all that. Home then? Or will you be seeing Miss Harper?”

Marc straightened the files on his desk and slipped his mobile phone into his pocket. “You’ll be happy to hear that Miss Harper will be coming by tomorrow afternoon and we shall be discussing the intern position,” he told Fournier. “And do tell Aurore on Monday morning so I don’t have to repeat myself.”

Fournier laughed. “Of course I shall. She’s been waiting for the news. I’m surprised she hasn’t resorted to emailing or texting you to get your attention this afternoon. Are you coming?”

“Shortly. I’ll see you tomorrow, Fournier. I’ll lock up.”

Fournier waved and Marc heard him on his phone, talking to his boyfriend. He took up his phone to call Sera, then glanced at his watch. He could go for a meal, he reasoned, and then stop in at the club on his way home. Then he could convince her to come back with him, and Jeremy be damned.

The club was characteristically quiet for a Sunday evening. Edouard manned the bar, but only Benoît was on stage, playing a rendition of Stardust. Marc stepped up to the bar.

“Bonsoir. What can I get you?”

“Whiskey, the Jameson’s.” He surveyed the club again, wondering if he’d missed seeing Sera the first time. When Edouard set down the glass of whiskey, he turned back, looking puzzled.

“I thought Sera was working tonight.”

Edouard nodded. “She was supposed to, but Jean said she called in sick.”

“That was all?”

“Jean also made a comment about how she at least waited until Sunday to be sick.” Edouard rolled his eyes. “I think he was just annoyed that she got to drink good champagne all evening last night thanks to her admirer.”

“Were they here all night?” Marc’s anger rose, but he covered it with a sip of whiskey.

“That’s what I heard from Jean. I had the early shift yesterday,” Edouard replied. “The guy even sent her flowers.” Suddenly he looked embarrassed, dropping his gaze to look for his cloth. He began to wipe down his already clean work area. “Sorry, monsieur. That’s probably not something you wanted to hear about.”

“Why not?”

Edouard shifted on his feet, looking miserable.