The Man in the Black Suit

by Sylvain Reynard

  She sat down and opened her journal.

  The guest angled his head in the direction of the reservations desk, his gaze sharp. “Does that happen often?”

  “Monsieur, I—”

  “Mademoiselle?” His eyes met hers, his tone more of a command than a request.

  She shrugged, all too conscious that the lobby was filled with guests and other staff. “How was your evening?”

  The man ignored her question as he surveyed the other guests. “Anti-immigration sentiment is on the rise in Europe. I didn’t expect to find it here.”

  “Paris is the whole world.” Acacia attempted to defuse the situation with humor.

  “So they tell me,” he responded, his eyes finding hers. “You’re more restrained than I.”

  “A concierge provides service through friendship.”

  “Friendship with a xenophobe? Sounds unlikely.”

  “We cannot choose our guests, but we can choose how we respond.” Acacia looked toward the desk, where the woman from Lyon appeared to be giving Céline a difficult time.

  Her eyes moved back to the man sitting in front of her. “If someone hates me and I respond with hatred, all I’ve done is reinforced their hate. If I respond with kindness, I’ve changed the conversation. Perhaps on the receiving end of kindness, the person who hates me will see a better, peaceful way.”

  Monsieur Breckman made a sound that came perilously close to snort. “You censure me for deriding her?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  The guest gave her a hard look.

  Acacia lifted her pen pointedly. “How was breakfast this morning? Was everything to your liking?”

  “Now that I think about it, the hotel staff isn’t very diverse.” He turned in the direction of Céline again.

  “There’s diversity in the staff, I assure you.” Acacia’s gaze strayed to her desk. She was eager to retrieve the mysterious item attached to the drawer, but not in front of him.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” The guest’s eyes moved from her face to the desk.

  “No, monsieur.” She flushed. “How was dinner at Guy Savoy’s last evening?”

  “A work of art. The chef himself greeted all the patrons. Have you met him?”

  She smiled wistfully. “I’ve not had that pleasure.”

  “Really?” Monsieur Breckman seemed surprised. “I was told you send guests there regularly.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You’ve never dined there yourself?”

  “I toured the restaurant once. I was impressed with the location. The building they occupy used to house the French mint.”

  He studied her. “It must be vexing to arrange all these lavish experiences for your guests but never experience them for yourself.”

  “I prefer to think of it as an opportunity.” She leafed through her journal to the previous day’s entries. “With respect to the items you gave me yesterday, I was able to return all of them except the gifts from Modiste. I’m sorry, but they don’t accept returns of custom-made items.”

  “Damn.” He met Acacia’s eyes. “They’re of no use to me.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to avoid making an impertinent remark. “If I may make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Since the items are unworn, they could be donated to charity. There is a local organization, Vision du Monde, that would auction the items, discreetly, and give the proceeds to children in need.”

  “That’s an interesting proposal.” He scratched at his chin. “Fine.”

  “I’ll see that the items are delivered, along with a short explanation. The receipt will be issued in your name.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You’d prefer the donation be made anonymously?”

  He gave her a look that was its own reply.

  “Very good.” Acacia made note of their conversation in her journal, ignoring the feel of his eyes on her.

  “I hadn’t thought of donating the items to charity. Do you encourage guests to make charitable donations?”

  “Many of our guests are already involved in philanthropy. Sometimes when I’m problem solving for a guest, an opportunity arises to help a charity. It’s up to the guest to decide, of course. I simply present a range of solutions.”

  “I see. Obviously the clientele here can afford to be generous. But those who can afford to be generous seldom are, in my experience.”

  “A donor needs to be sufficiently motivated.” Acacia smiled. “They need to see value and purpose in donating to charity.”

  “You missed your calling. You should have gone into philanthropy.”

  Acacia’s smile widened. “We can all do our part to help others, no matter our occupation.”

  The guest frowned.

  “Is something wrong, monsieur?”

  “You’re very different from the concierges I usually deal with. You mentioned yesterday you speak several languages. How many?”

  “Six.”

  Monsieur Breckman looked impressed. “And they are?”

  “French, Portuguese, English, Spanish, Russian, and Arabic.”

  “Arabic?” the guest repeated. “Why Arabic?”

  Acacia’s response was a reflex. “Arabic is important in the service industry in Paris.”

  “And you studied art at the Sorbonne?”

  “Yes.” Acacia had no intention of expanding on her response.

  For a moment, she contemplated mentioning Marcel’s journal. It was possible it contained private and unflattering things pertaining to Monsieur Breckman and other guests. If the contents of the journal were made public, it could be embarrassing for him.

  But then he spoke. “How old are you?”

  She turned to her laptop and pressed a few buttons. “Monsieur, I don’t think—”

  He interrupted her. “I could find out through other means, but I’m giving you the courtesy of asking directly. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five.” Acacia’s words were clipped. She drew a deep breath through her nose and fought the urge to squirm.

  “Thirty-five,” he repeated, as if the number were a revelation. “Then you wouldn’t have been at the Sorbonne at the same time as…” He rearranged his position in the chair. “I’ve decided to extend my stay. Since Marcel is unavailable, I thought I’d avail myself of your services.”

  “How can I assist you?” Acacia positioned her pen over her open journal.

  The man consulted his expensive wristwatch. “I want a new, bespoke suit.”

  “Would you like to visit the tailor or have him see you in your suite?”

  “Have him come here. Tell him I’m looking for a black suit, and I’d like it finished in time for a dinner engagement this evening.”

  Acacia restrained a laugh and resisted the urge to point out that he already possessed at least two black suits, according to her observations.

  “I’m sorry, but a respectable Parisian tailor will require at least two fittings and a minimum of seventy hours of work. Some of the tailors require more.”

  “Really?” The man tried to sound surprised, but failed. “Monsieur Roy made it sound as if you were a miracle worker.”

  “I’m a concierge, not a saint.”

  The guest’s eyes took on a new intensity. “Nor am I, mademoiselle, I assure you.”

  Acacia felt something flare between them—a spark of attraction or warning, she wasn’t sure which.

  She lowered her gaze. “I can recommend a couple of tailors from Rue de la Paix and you can choose, or would you prefer I choose for you?”

  “You choose, but pick the best. I’m in need of a couple of custom shirts and a new tie, as well. I’d like the tailor to get started as soon as possible. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Paris.”
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br />   Acacia recorded his requests in her journal. “I shall do my best, monsieur.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He looked as if he were resisting the urge to smile.

  “Will there be anything else? Do you require dinner reservations? Or would you like tickets for a show or to a museum?”

  The guest grew thoughtful. “There may be one or two other things.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  The man scowled. “I don’t see how this could give anyone pleasure. You speak six languages and studied art at the Sorbonne. Wouldn’t you rather be employed in the art world? Not being abused by racists?” He waved at her uniform. “Or trotted around as a minion to the manager? I fail to see how someone with your intelligence and education could be content to work in such an environment.”

  His speech pierced her. Anger, hot and violent, burned in her middle.

  A torrent of ugly words stood gated at the back of her throat. He had no idea, no idea why she did what she did. Or that she had an exit strategy.

  She clutched her pen so tightly she thought it might break.

  The man’s gaze fixated on her pen, his expression morphing from displeasure to something else.

  Acacia focused on her breathing, a technique she’d learned through her martial arts training, and moved her hand to her lap.

  As she breathed, she noticed Monsieur Roy had chosen that moment to walk through the lobby. She was grateful she hadn’t given voice to the anger fighting to escape her pursed lips.

  The manager nodded at Monsieur Breckman, who returned his nod, and disappeared in the direction of the marble courtyard, seemingly unaware of Acacia’s show of temper.

  “I spoke without thinking.” The guest’s voice was low.

  Acacia kept her hand and her pen in her lap. She avoided his eyes. “You had additional requests?”

  “Mademoiselle.”

  “Monsieur?” She took a deep breath.

  The guest placed his hand flat on the desk, next to her open journal. “Acacia, I apologize.”

  She visualized her anger as a wave, watching in her mind’s eye as it retreated with the outgoing tide. She felt her body begin to relax.

  She lifted her pen to the journal. And waited.

  In her peripheral vision, she could see the guest move his hand, bypassing his scar to rub at his forehead. “Everything about this visit has gone straight to hell. First Silke. Then Marcel.”

  Now Acacia’s eyes ventured to meet his.

  “I apologize,” he repeated firmly. “You’ve been nothing but professional in the face of ugliness, mademoiselle. I’m sorry to have contributed to that ugliness. It’s not who I am.”

  There was something open about his expression at that moment. The man looked contrite.

  Acacia glanced up at Rick, who didn’t bother making eye contact. She wondered what he’d do if she spoke to him directly. She wondered what he’d say if she dared criticize his employer.

  “The Victoire is very fortunate to have you,” the guest continued. “I doubt they realize precisely how fortunate.”

  Acacia ignored his compliment. “I’ll be sure to make arrangements with the tailor. Now, if there isn’t anything else…”

  “A round of drinks for you and the staff, with my compliments.”

  Acacia’s eyes widened. “That isn’t necessary.”

  “It is.” Monsieur Breckman’s tone was firm.

  Acacia elected not to argue with him. A gift of drinks for the staff would certainly improve morale, in the wake of the attack on Marcel. “I’ll make arrangements with the bar.”

  “Thank you.” The guest smoothed the silk of his tie. “Out of curiosity, have you ever received a request you were unable to satisfy?”

  “A guest once asked if I could provide a bespoke suit in a couple of hours.”

  He grinned, and his smile almost obliterated his scar. “Touché.”

  “You mentioned you have a dinner engagement this evening. Will you be needing a table here at the hotel or would you like me to make a reservation elsewhere?”

  “I believe my associate has already made arrangements.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “There’s one more thing I’d like you to help me with.”

  “Yes?”

  “In my travels, I’ve been searching for a relic of St. Teresa of Avila. I’d like you to acquire one for me.”

  Acacia’s mouth fell open.

  She shut her mouth quickly and recorded the request, deciding she would not be mentioning Marcel’s missing journal.

  “Can you help me?” His eyes were searching.

  Acacia kept her expression neutral. “I will research the matter and present the options to you.”

  The man’s face showed signs of admiration. “Thank you. That’s all for now.”

  He stood and buttoned his suit jacket.

  She looked up at him. “Monsieur, as I mentioned yesterday, I was unable to find any notes from Marcel on your meeting. Were you able to discover the details?”

  He looked over his shoulder swiftly, so swiftly he’d turned back to Acacia before she’d even realized he’d moved.

  He placed his hands on top of the concierge desk and leaned over her. “Forget about the meeting,” he barked in a whisper. “Don’t mention it again, to anyone.”

  Acacia moved her chair back, out of reach of the guest’s long arms.

  Rick grabbed his employer’s elbow.

  Evidently his touch was enough to capture the guest’s attention. He withdrew immediately.

  Monsieur Breckman smoothed his hair back from his forehead and adjusted the sleeves of his suit. He marched through the lobby toward the rear of the hotel, his security detail forming an impenetrable wall around him.

  Rick glanced over his shoulder, his eyes trained on Acacia.

  She was frozen in place. A guest had never threatened her before. There was no mistaking his tone or the look in his eyes. The fact that Rick had to intervene made the situation all the more menacing.

  Acacia didn’t waste any time. She ensured no one was watching her before leaning over to retrieve the item from under the desk. It took several tries to dislodge it as it had been attached to the drawer with wide, sticky tape.

  Acacia placed the item in a file folder, away from potentially prying eyes. She carried the file folder to the staff room and barricaded herself in the adjacent bathroom. Only then did she examine the contents.

  It was a leather-bound journal, remarkably like the one she owned. She undid the clasp on the cover and opened it. On the flyleaf, in Marcel’s handwriting, was his full name and contact information.

  Her thoughts moved to her colleague, lying unconscious in the hospital.

  She leafed to the last page. There was an entry that included today’s date and the following words:

  Breckman. 10 PM. Important. V.

  Acacia scanned the previous entries and searched for any reference to Pierre Breckman. He was named, along with Silke Rainier, but there was nothing unusual in Marcel’s notes—just remarks about breakfast preferences, an allergy to strawberries, the gifts Marcel had been asked to procure for Silke, and a dinner reservation at Guy Savoy’s.

  There was no indication as to who Breckman was supposed to be meeting that evening at ten o’clock, unless one of the person’s initials was a V.

  What was Marcel doing? And why was he attacked?

  Monsieur Breckman might have threatened her, but he couldn’t control her thoughts. And at that moment, she was thinking the connection between him and Marcel was something sinister.

  Chapter Six

  HOTEL VICTOIRE WAS A FIVE STAR HOTEL that enjoyed an excellent reputation and attracted a wealthy clientele. However, some of its guests took pleasure in testing the concierges with ridiculous requests, simply for amusement. Monsieur Breckman’s need f
or a relic of St. Teresa appeared to be one of those requests.

  Acacia wasn’t in the mood to devote her time and attention to indulging him, especially since he’d threatened her. Instead, she spent most of her day assisting guests with genuine needs.

  During her breaks, she hid in the staff room, poring over Marcel’s journal. To her frustration, she found nothing out of the ordinary. Many of his entries were written sparsely, with full names and details omitted. Since she didn’t know what she was looking for, the search seemed hopeless.

  At the very end of the day, she turned her attention to relics.

  Some of the relics of St. Teresa were housed in Avila, while some were housed in the town of Alba de Tormes. The Church would never sell the first-class relics. However, one could acquire a third-class relic—a piece of cloth that had been touched to a first-class relic—quite easily. Somehow Acacia knew a piece of cloth was not what Monsieur Breckman had in mind.

  At the end of her shift, she changed out of her uniform and made her way to the sumptuously decorated hotel bar—its walls paneled with gleaming wood—where she’d set up a tab for the staff on Monsieur Breckman’s account. As on most evenings, hotel guests populated the bar. With the exception of the bartender, Acacia was the only staff member in sight.

  “Good evening, Carlos.” She greeted the bartender in Spanish as she sat inconspicuously at the very end of the bar. “Where is everyone?”

  Carlos greeted her with a wide smile and replied in Spanish. “Everyone from the day shift already stopped by. I have something special for you.”

  She gazed at the rows of bottles wistfully. “What is it?”

  “Champagne.” Carlos retrieved a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal that had been chilling and presented it to her.

  Her eyes widened when she saw the label. “Are you sure?”

  “The guest chose this vintage personally. And he told me to give you the bottle.” Carlos winked.

  She shook her head at the extravagance, but she wasn’t about to reject the gift. “I want to share.”

  “I’m on duty.” He looked around the room.