“It’s late, and I want to go home to bed.” She wanted to be fresh and clear-headed when she saw him, not tired as she was.
“Come by the office tomorrow then, and bring your proof.” He paused, and for a moment she wondered if he’d hung up. “I have a meeting with Royale tomorrow.”
She sucked in a breath. “You’ll tell him what we discussed?”
“It’ll depend on what he wants,” Marc said obliquely. Her relief turned to dread. Would Marc lie as he’d promised?
“That’s no answer.”
“It’s the best I can do.”
“Did your answer change because of last night? Because of what happened between us?”
Marc cleared his throat. Last night, she hadn’t thought that he would betray her, but now? “Good night, Sera.”
She stared at her phone. How could he?
Chapter 19
Marc’s office phone buzzed for the fifth time that morning and he glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave immediately, he would be late for his meeting with Royale. He’d rather spend all day listening to Fournier babble on instead of making this appointment, but he had little choice. He rose, grabbing a light trench coat from its hook to protect against the morning’s drizzle. He let the phone ring.
Aurore caught him on his way out. “Monsieur!”
He slowed, allowing her to have a word.
“You have an appointment in ten minutes. Where are you going?”
“I have another appointment—rather last minute. Can Fournier handle it?”
Aurore bit her lip and bent to look at the day’s schedule. “If Monsieur Labelle is willing to wait an extra ten to fifteen minutes, it might just work.”
“Good.” Marc tied the belt of the coat. “I’ll be back later. Hold all my calls.”
“When is later?” he heard her ask, but he’d already pushed open the heavy door. He took the stairs two at a time and burst out onto the street.
Unoccupied cabs were in short supply, so he walked briskly up to the street, turning onto the boulevard St. Germain. He reached Le Chat Rouge at precisely eleven o’clock. The drizzle had tapered off and he undid his coat. He didn’t bother knocking, but pushed the door open. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness inside the club. He wrinkled his nose at the sickly smell of stale liquor that wafted near as he passed the bar. He’d never felt ill at ease coming here, but he did today. If this didn’t go his way, he wouldn’t have a second chance. At anything. His steps echoed in the empty club and he wondered if Royale had planned to keep him waiting.
“Perron.”
He turned. Royale sat at the far banquette in the corner. A thin cloud of smoke hovered over the table and he could hear Royale cough as he made his way down the steps.
“You’re prompt. I like that,” Royale remarked.
“Of course.” Marc shrugged out of his coat and took a chair across from Royale.
He didn’t waste time. “As I told you on the phone, we have a bit of a situation.”
“You told me very little,” Marc said. He took his case from his pocket and flipped it open, removing a cigarette. He closed the case and tapped the cigarette idly against the cover.
“Things needed to be said in private,” Royale replied. “Now, the building I could care less about—my insurers tell me I’ll get full coverage since I wasn’t at fault.”
“How fortunate.” Marc lit his cigarette.
“However,” Royale continued, “I’ve heard what went on there. It had been my impression that you’d hired Jeremy Gordon to take care of those two bumblers. I hadn’t expected to see them on the club’s doorstep, demanding to see me.”
“Gordon screwed up. They should have been dead.”
“And why didn’t you take care of it?” Royale’s tone implied that Marc should have known better.
“It became more useful to let them live.” Marc leaned back in his chair. He had to stay cool, calm.
Royale snorted. “Instead, you and Gordon were at each other’s throats, and I’ve heard from a contact in the police that his body was identified in the rubble.” He paused to sip from a snifter of cognac. “For some reason, they wouldn’t tell me more, even when I threatened. So what, or who, were you fighting over?”
Marc weighed his options. Royale chuckled.
“So, you don’t want to say anything. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Jean had mentioned that Gordon had an interest in Mademoiselle Durand.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “An unhealthy interest, at that.”
“So why did you ask?”
“Curiosity. She is rather charming, and I can see why you’d be possessive of her. A shame I’m married.” Royale lit a cigarette to replace the last. “So you two fought over her and you killed him. It happens. And I’m not mourning that sadistic bastard. But now I have a problem.”
Marc heard the approval implicit in Royale’s words. There was respect there, as if he were a gangster like Royale and his worth was in who he killed. It chilled him. “And what is it I can assist you with?”
“Gordon worked for an associate of mine in England. Needless to say, the man’s a bit broken up over what happened. I thought it would be best to send him a gift offering my condolences.”
“How much?”
“You’re always so direct.” Royale gave him a genial smile. “I knew I could rely on you. I thought to offer him some art, but that would take too long to arrange.”
“So, money then?” Marc felt a slight relaxation of the tension he’d been hiding from Royale. If he had to pay a bribe, or blood money, to keep things hushed up and Sera safe, he would.
“Quite. I’m prepared to offer him a small portion of the insurance payout, but as the one involved, I expect to be repaid. Fifteen thousand euros should cover it nicely.”
“I’ll have it couriered over.” Marc knew he had more than double that in the safe at his office.
“Très bien.” Royale coughed. “And you should realize that I don’t normally extend any sort of mercies, Perron. If this sort of thing happens again, I don’t care what you’ve done for me or how much money you can pay.”
“Understood.” Marc stubbed out his cigarette in the pewter ashtray.
“One more thing. The wife fancies a genuine Monet. Could you look into that?”
“Of course. I’ll have my office check into it.” He’d have Aurore browse the auction listings. What Royale wanted—a black market Monet—was no longer in his purview, but the expectation was obvious.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Royale’s tone indicated dismissal.
Marc didn’t move. “Regarding Mademoiselle Durand—”
“What of her?”
“I hear she owes you money.”
Marc leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He’d survived. The rest was only money. The day had been long and the hint of a headache that had begun after he’d left the club had let itself be known. His office phone buzzed, and he grimaced.
“What is it, Aurore?” he asked.
“Mademoiselle Durand is here to see you. Shall I send her back?”
Marc straightened in his chair. “Do.” He’d almost given up on seeing her today. He looked up and she stood in the doorway, dressed in a slim-fitting dress in a violet so dark it looked almost black. She’d put up her hair and her neck seemed fragile and overexposed. He knew he should be angry for how things had ended the day before, but her presence had vanquished his fury.
“Hello, Marc.” She gave him the barest of smiles, looking cool and unapproachable. He came around the desk and escorted her to a chair.
“Hello, Sera.” He took her hand and bent over it, but she pulled her hand away, rebuffing his familiarity. “You have the proof?” he asked, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. He’d rarely seen her so emotionless. She’d played him so utterly.
“I do.” Sera reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She dialed, listened, and pressed a few buttons before holding out the phone to h
im. He listened to the message from Sophie, scowling when she gave the news. The message ended and he handed backed the phone.
“It seems real enough,” he remarked. “And she sounds happy.” How unfair that Sophie could find a lover, while they were here, barely speaking to each other.
“Do you have the money?”
“Of course I have the money. Are you in a hurry?”
Sera shifted in her chair. He strode over to the shelves opposite and opened a cabinet, snagging a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
“We should have a celebratory drink,” he said by way of explanation, pouring the liquor. He returned to his spot, handing her the second glass. “After all, it’s not often that I lose a wager.”
“What shall we drink to? I doubt you really want to drink to your loss.” Sera rested the glass on her knee. He’d drink to his real loss later, when he could be alone.
“True.” He held up his glass. “To Sophie and Edouard—may they avoid all our mistakes.”
Sera lifted her glass and met his eyes. Not even a glimmer of feeling touched her expression. “To their happiness.” They drank. Marc cleared his throat.
“So, your debts—how much do you owe?” No point wasting any more time.
“Only what I owe Royale,” she replied, “and you already know that.”
Marc took another sip of his scotch. “And three months expenses—another five thousand euros.”
“That’s all?”
He raised a brow. “You can’t tell me that rent on that tiny apartment and all your other expenses would come to more than that.”
“Ten thousand euros would help me to find something better,” she countered.
So mercenary. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d killed Jeremy Gordon. She didn’t deserve more. She should have asked him before this mess. “That wasn’t our deal. Living expenses. My offer stands. Take it or leave it.”
Sera looked down at her glass. “Do you have it in cash?”
Was she so desperate to get away from him? “Not all of it.” He knew he had another fifteen thousand in his safe, but he had no intention of giving it all away. “I have ten thousand I could give you, but the rest will have to be transferred from one of my accounts.”
“But you can do that now, right?” She glanced at his laptop.
“If you insist, ma chère.” He sat down and pulled the laptop towards him, accessing his banking information. Sera came around the desk, standing so close that he barely had to reach out a hand to clasp hers. Instead, he kept things businesslike. He set up the transfer of funds.
“Your account number?” She gave him the information and he entered it and confirmed the transaction. “Done.” He closed the laptop and turned his chair. He went to his safe and drew out the remaining funds, tossing the two bundles onto his desk.
“Do you want to count it?” The question sounded bitter, even to his own ears. She stiffened, but set down her glass and picked up the first bundle, flipping through it. She did the same with the second bundle before putting them into her bag.
“Thank you.” She turned to leave.
“Won’t you stay?”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “What for?”
“It can’t end like this—not after all we’ve had.” He kept his voice level, but he knew that if she walked out that door, he might never see her again. He’d almost lost her in that apartment.
Her reply was emotionless as his had been calm. “But it is. Goodbye, Marc.” She went to the door and he thought she’d turn back. But she didn’t. He tried to tell himself that she would be back once she realized what he’d done for her, but her receding steps had a cold finality to them. For the first time since his mother’s death, he felt utterly bereft.
Chapter 20
Sera lingered at the café long after she knew Royale would be in his office. She’d started the day in a jubilant mood, counting the money again, as if she might wake from a dream, but the closer the time came to see Royale, the more her stomach churned. And if she thought of Marc, she’d never be able to see this through. It had been so hard to leave him, but she could do little else. He’d known Jeremy Gordon, he knew Royale…what else had he done?
Royale. It was time. She patted the bag on her lap, reassuring herself that the money hadn’t disappeared. She wished she could disappear, take the money and leave, but fifteen thousand euros wasn’t nearly enough to reestablish herself. As it was, she’d just have enough money left over to visit her mother in Marseille, and to find another job.
She placed a handful of change beside her empty cup and rose, pulling her shawl around the blue dress she wore. She’d left her hair loose and the breeze teased a few locks into her face as she walked along the boulevard St. Germain. It didn’t take her long to reach the club. She pushed open the door.
The old woman mopping the floor was the club’s only occupant. Sera walked around the bar and entered the back corridor. The muted sound of coughing from behind the door at the end of the corridor assured her that Royale was inside. She knew she shouldn’t be so nervous, having the full amount to pay off her loan, but having to tell him that she was quitting...she had no idea what his reaction would be. She took a deep breath and knocked.
At first, no answer seemed forthcoming. She knocked again.
“Entrez.” Royale’s tone sounded irate and she wanted to turn around and leave. Instead, she pushed open the door. She saw Royale’s expression merge from irritation to thinly veiled interest, and even a hint of surprise.
“Mademoiselle Durand. I hadn’t expected to see you.”
“I should have come earlier.” Royale nodded, but waited for her to continue, lighting another cigarette.
“I had two things to speak with you about,” Sera said, summoning her courage. “First, I’m giving my notice.” His expression didn’t change. “And, I’ve come to pay off what I owe you.”
At this, he smiled. “As to the first, mademoiselle, I’m surprised that you stayed as long as you did.” He chuckled. “When I first saw you, you didn’t seem the sort to make it in my club. And as for your debt—” He coughed. “—It has already been paid.”
Sera stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“I no longer hold your account. That has been settled.” He pulled a small book from his jacket pocket, turning the worn pages. “Monsieur Perron holds the remainder of your debt, so I suggest you speak with him.”
“Marc took over my debt?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. What did he want from her?
“He did. Now, if you don’t mind, mademoiselle, I have work to do.” He waved a fleshy hand, scattering cigarette ash on his desk. “Don’t bother coming in tonight; I’ll have Jean call up a replacement.”
When Sera didn’t move, he gave her a pointed stare. “Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
She rose and shuffled from the room in a daze. Why hadn’t Marc said anything? He could have used his newfound leverage against her, but instead he’d given her the money. She walked out into the bar.
“You’re here early.” Jean’s voice startled her from her thoughts.
“Not for long,” she replied. “Goodbye, Jean.”
“What? Where are you going?”
She paused at the door. “I’ve quit.” She didn’t bother to wait for his reply.
The late afternoon sunshine bathed her face as she made her way back to the boulevard, feeling the lightness in her step. Her association with Royale was over. Her pace slowed as she passed the church, and paused in the square. Marc. Why had he given her the money, only to have to take it back? She needed somewhere to think in peace. The door swung open under her hands and she headed to the chapel of the Virgin. She lit a taper out of habit, though she didn’t know what to pray for. The pews were empty and she found a seat off to one side, away from the aisle. She took her rosary from her bag and the cool touch of the beads helped calm her. She knelt.
The first Hail Mary she whispered
by rote, but from there, she stuttered. Jeremy’s face, choking on blood, kept her stumbling over the words, insinuating himself even here. The beads dug into her skin as she tightened her grip, trying to find that calm she’d always found in prayer. She said the next Hail Mary aloud, as if the strength of her voice would drive him away. And the next. She hadn’t wanted to kill him. God would know that. It had been Jeremy or Marc. Or herself. She looked up at the Virgin, whispering the Hail Marys, her eyes fixed on the statue’s serene and solemn face.
She’d only prayed two decades of the rosary before her mind overtook her prayers again. Her lips stopped moving in the midst of the next ‘Our Father’ and her fingers counting the beads stilled. What did Marc mean by it? What could he possibly have intended by paying Royale? He’d bought leverage over her, if he wanted it, but he hadn’t taken advantage. Instead she had ten thousand euros in her bag and another five thousand in her bank account. She wanted to call him, but she didn’t know what to ask, or if he would even answer.
Fifteen thousand euros. More money than she’d ever had in her possession at any one time. She would need to find a new job, but she didn’t have to stay here. She should go home to Marseille, if only for a little while. Her mother needed minding; she was getting older and there had to be something that could be done about her gambling. Her mind rambled through the possibilities, and she let the beads hang loose in her hand. The trains left daily from Gare de Lyon to Marseille. She could leave tomorrow and come back in a month to pay her last month’s rent. Maybe she’d even have a bit of a holiday. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a break. Her head swam with the possibilities.
Sera rose from the prie-dieu and sat back in the pew, slipping her rosary back into her bag. She began to rise, then stopped, her knees weakening, sinking back into her seat. Marc stood near the rack of tapers, watching her. She didn’t move as he came to the pew and slid in next to her.
“I’d hoped to find you here,” he said quietly. She dropped her gaze to her hands, avoiding eye contact.
The Paris Game Page 26
