The Man in the Black Suit

  Without comment, the bodyguard closed the door in Monsieur Roy’s face.

  The manager passed a hand over his eyes. He took a deep breath and knocked again.

  A moment later, the bodyguard reopened the door. Monsieur Breckman stood next to him and looked down his nose in irritation. “Yes?”

  “Acacia wishes to speak with you.” The manager glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

  Acacia gripped the leather-bound journal she held in her hand. “I apologize for not disclosing Marcel’s situation, monsieur.”

  The guest frowned. “His hospitalization is not a state secret.”

  Acacia’s chin lifted. “I didn’t wish to alarm you.”

  “Information about Marcel’s assault might be crucial to your guests’ safety. To my safety, mademoiselle.”

  “I apologize,” she repeated.

  The man regarded the much shorter manager with distaste. “What about you, Jacques? Why wasn’t my security detail advised that Marcel was assaulted mere steps from the hotel? I should have been notified before my arrival.”

  The manager appeared taken aback. He lifted his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We want to be sure you have all the information you need. But as Acacia mentioned, we didn’t wish to alarm you.”

  “Of course not, that would be bad for business. I might have decided to stay at the Ritz instead.” Breckman gave the manager a shrewd look. “So you marched mademoiselle to my suite so she could apologize for your decision?”

  “Monsieur,” Acacia intervened. “Now that you know about Marcel’s situation, I hope you’ll allow me to assist you during your stay.”

  The guest peered down at her.

  “You have courage.” He turned and glared at the manager. “More so than you.”

  The manager began to sputter, but Monsieur Breckman interrupted him by nodding at Acacia. “You have my attention, mademoiselle.”

  “I was educated at the Sorbonne and speak six languages. I have contacts all over the city and pride myself on opening doors for our guests. As I mentioned downstairs, I am a member of Les Clefs d’Or.”

  Immediately, the man’s expression grew less severe. “The Sorbonne?”

  “Yes, monsieur.” Acacia resisted the temptation to glance at his scar.

  The guest looked at her intently. “There may be something you can assist me with.”

  “Excellent.” The manager extended his hand to the guest and they shook. “Welcome back to Hotel Victoire.”

  The manager gave Acacia a pointed look and waddled off down the corridor.

  Monsieur Breckman stood next to his massive bodyguard. Neither made any move to invite her in or to dismiss her.

  “How may I assist you?” Acacia asked.

  The man addressed his bodyguard in English, with an Oxbridge accent. “It’s all right, Rick. I doubt mademoiselle is a threat.”

  Rick opened the door more widely and allowed Acacia to enter. After he closed it, he stood to the side, between her and his employer.

  The employer turned abruptly and walked down the hall.

  Acacia’s eyes followed him. His unhurried pace and squared shoulders spoke of confidence and control. When he disappeared from sight, she refocused her attention on the bodyguard.

  Rick offered little in the way of acknowledgment, apart from a blank stare. Acacia placed her hand on the doorknob, intent on escape.

  “Rick, escort Mademoiselle Santos to the living room.” Monsieur Breckman’s voice carried down the hall.

  Acacia startled, surprised the guest knew her surname. Monsieur Roy certainly hadn’t used it.

  Rick jerked his chin in the direction his employer had gone.

  She walked toward the living room, feeling anxious. She had no idea what the guest would say or do next.

  The penthouse living room was elegantly decorated in gold brocade and pale blue, with ivory silk window hangings and stately furniture. Large arrangements of fresh cut flowers had been placed artfully in various locations and impressive art volumes were stacked imperiously on the table in front of the sofa.

  Monsieur Breckman stood at the bar—a well-stocked affair set atop an antique wooden cabinet. He had a short, whispered exchange with Rick, who disappeared into the adjoining conservatory and left the door between the two rooms ajar.

  Rick’s departure drew Acacia’s attention to the floor-to-ceiling windows, whose curtains had been pulled back. She could see the impressive terrace and beyond it, the Eiffel Tower.

  Acacia tucked her concierge journal under her arm. She wondered how Monsieur Breckman had discovered the truth behind Marcel’s absence. Monsieur Breckman must have sources in the police prefecture.

  The guest placed ice cubes in a highball glass. He poured vodka from a bottle of Grey Goose and swirled the mixture before adding tonic water and a slice of lemon.

  He lifted the glass to his lips and paused, his attention drawn to the elegant mirror that hung over the bar.

  Acacia watched as the man shifted minutely, so he could no longer see his own scar.

  She looked down at her shoes, embarrassed at having witnessed so private a moment.

  “I’ve decided to increase my security detail,” he announced. “When they arrive, I’d like them escorted here. I’ll use the rear entrance to the hotel from now on.”

  “Of course,” Acacia replied. “I expect your security will want to liaise with hotel security. I can arrange a meeting.”

  “Absolutely not. Hotel security failed Marcel.”

  Acacia bristled. “I assure you, we’re all very upset about what happened. The management is taking steps to address the situation.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t trust the management.” The man leaned against the bar, his back to the mirror. “I’m curious. When did you learn of the assault?”

  Acacia hesitated.

  The man cocked an eyebrow at her.

  She swallowed. “Last night. Monsieur Roy rang me at home.”

  “Did Marcel have any enemies? A jilted lover? Anyone who might wish him harm?”

  “I’m not familiar with his personal life. Some of our guests are…challenging.” Acacia carefully avoided looking at the guest at that moment. “But Marcel is respected. The police said it was a mugging.”

  “If that’s what the police said, they lied. A mugging is a crime of opportunity, conducted swiftly with minimal violence. Marcel sustained several broken bones and a head injury. He was assaulted shortly after his shift ended and dragged around the corner, out of sight of the hotel doormen. That sounds premeditated, not opportunistic.”

  Acacia’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  The man lifted his glass to his lips. “Research.”

  “Why would the police lie?”

  “Did you speak to them directly?”

  “An officer interviewed me when I arrived this morning, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. Monsieur Roy is the one who addressed the staff.” Acacia came a step closer. “Why would someone want to harm Marcel?”

  “That is a very good question.” The guest swirled the contents of his glass.

  “Someone needs to speak to the police. Marcel could still be in danger.”

  “The Parisian police aren’t fools. They know this without being told.”

  Acacia pondered his words. She had a contact in the Brigade de Répression du Banditisme, but she wasn’t keen to speak to him. She wondered what contacts Monsieur Breckman had.

  She tilted her head toward the hall. “I should return to my desk so I can greet your security detail.”

  The guest retreated to the sofa. He sat and stretched out his long legs. “Are you from Portugal, mademoiselle?”

  “Brazil.

  “Monsieur, your reservation is at Guy Savoy’s at eight o’clock. I’m sure you wish to relax bef
ore dinner. If there isn’t anything else, I’ll wish you a good evening.” She forced a smile and turned to go.

  “How long have you lived in Paris?”

  Acacia stopped. She avoided sharing personal details with guests, but she was all too conscious of the manager’s threat. Monsieur Breckman was a highly valued guest.

  She faced him. “I came to Paris as a student.”

  “Did you study languages?”

  She examined his expression. If the guest was feigning interest, he was an exceptionally fine actor.

  “Among other things,” she hedged.

  “Such as?” His dark eyes pinned her to the spot.

  “I studied art.” Her posture stiffened.

  The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Which period?”

  “Impressionism.”

  Breckman gestured to a print of Edgar Degas’ The Ballet Class, which hung on the wall opposite. “Are you responsible for that?”

  She smiled to herself. “No, the hotel has an interior designer who is responsible for the furnishings.”

  “I sense Degas is not your favorite.”

  “I prefer Monet.”

  “Monet is very popular.”

  “One could argue that Degas is even more popular, if you take into consideration the number of his works that have been stolen.”

  “Stolen?” the guest repeated, his eyes suddenly alert.

  “There was the theft from the Gardiner Museum in America. And the Musée d’Orsay lost Les Choristes when it was stolen while on loan in Marseilles.”

  “Yes, but Les Choristes was recovered. Unfortunately, the Gardiner works have never been found.” The guest finished the rest of his drink. “What do you think of Matisse?”

  Acacia frowned. “Matisse is post-Impressionist.”

  Monsieur Breckman’s mouth turned up. “Really?”

  Acacia’s frown deepened.

  “I’m only teasing,” the man said gently.

  When Acacia’s frown didn’t abate, his smile faded.

  He moved to the bar. “May I offer you a drink?”

  Acacia blinked. “Thank you, but I’m on duty.”

  “Of course. I forgot.” He prepared another vodka and tonic for himself. “Did Monsieur Roy initiate any new protocols with respect to staff leaving the hotel after dark?”

  “No. He told us what happened to Marcel. We agreed to cooperate with the police investigation.”

  “He didn’t suggest anyone receive an escort?”

  “No.” She shifted her journal to her other hand. “You think we’re in danger?”

  The man looked at her via the mirror. “What do you think?”

  “I can’t imagine the kind of criminal who would attack a concierge.” She touched her lapel pins self-consciously. “We’re in the business of helping people.”

  The man turned around. “Do you take the Metro to and from the hotel?”

  “Not usually.”

  “You have a car?”

  “I drive a motorcycle.”

  “A motorcycle?” The dark slashes of his eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline.

  She smothered a smile. “Yes.”

  “I hope you wear a helmet. Paris drivers are mad.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” She adopted a serious tone. “I always wear a helmet.”

  His dark eyes met hers. “When you leave this evening, make sure one of the doormen escorts you to your motorcycle. Insist he remain with you until you’re safely away.”

  Acacia shifted her weight from foot to foot, surprised by the guest’s show of concern. “I will be more vigilant traveling to and from the hotel. But I should mention we are in a safe part of the city.”

  “The management’s lack of regard for their staff is truly staggering.” The man focused on his drink. “Unless…”

  When the guest didn’t continue, Acacia prompted him, “Monsieur?”

  He placed his drink on the bar and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving a bewildered Acacia behind.

  He returned from the bedroom a moment later, holding a distinctive red box, embossed in gold. He regarded it solemnly. “Today was not the best of days.”

  “I’m sorry, monsieur.”

  “Not as sorry as I am. I’m afraid I’ve been a fool, and it has caught up with me.” He sighed. “Can you be discreet?”

  “Absolutely. As a concierge, discretion is essential.”

  “Marcel made certain…arrangements, which must be undone.” He held the box out to her. “Can you return this to Cartier, in person?”

  “Yes.” She took the box and carefully schooled her reaction. She wondered if she was holding an engagement ring.

  She felt a twinge of compassion for the guest. She’d seen in his records that a female companion was supposed to have accompanied him. Perhaps his short temper was related to matters of the heart.

  She looked at Monsieur Breckman with new eyes. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “There are other items.” He inclined his head toward the bedroom. “I need them returned.”

  “Of course. Should I remove them now?”

  He nodded.

  She walked past him into the bedroom and saw three large shopping bags sitting on the bed, bearing the logos of Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and the lingerie designer Modiste.

  The guest had spent a great deal of money on lavish gifts and possibly an engagement ring, only to have to ask a stranger to return them. Acacia pressed her lips together to avoid making a comment. She doubted the guest would appreciate her sympathy.

  She gathered the bags with both hands, juggling the Cartier box and her journal, before she returned to the living room. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No.” He placed his hands in his pockets.

  “I hope you enjoy your evening at Guy Savoy’s. I should mention that his artichoke soup with black truffle is highly recommended.”

  Monsieur Breckman retrieved his drink from the bar. He turned and made eye contact. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Acacia ventured a small smile before leaving.

  Chapter Three

  MODISTE WOULD NOT ACCEPT RETURNS of custom-made lingerie. Monsieur Breckman’s taste could not be faulted; he’d chosen a basque in pale blue satin, edged with sheer black lace, as well as two sets of brassieres and panties, in red and in black. The items were finely made and crafted for a tall, thin woman with small breasts.

  Monsieur Breckman was going to have to keep his lingerie. Acacia hoped he’d enjoy them.

  She returned everything else, including an enviable pair of diamond earrings from Cartier. At each of the boutiques she visited, she made a point of introducing herself to the manager, some of whom she’d met previously via telephone. Acacia’s success as a concierge was linked with her outlook: she approached her tasks not as toil but as opportunities, cultivating friendships and always being polite and professional.

  At the end of her shift, she changed into jeans, a leather jacket, and motorcycle boots. Yusuf, one of the doormen, was kind enough to walk her to her vehicle and wait until she departed. She was confident in her ability to take care of herself, but her confidence was wedded to wisdom. Having an escort could deter a potential attacker.

  It was summer in Paris. The weather was warm, and the sun was still shining as she sped down the tree-lined Avenue George V and turned right on the Champs-Élysées, moving in the opposite direction of the Arc de Triomphe. Acacia revved her motorcycle as she weaved in and out of traffic on the multi-lane avenue.

  She could have avoided the heavy traffic on the Champs and taken a more efficient route, but she didn’t. She enjoyed the view along the avenue and suffered the traffic because of it.

  The wind whipped her face and fluttered the curls that had escaped her sturdy helmet. With a glance or two of appre
ciation, she shot past the Grande Palais, the Petit Palais, and approached Place de La Concorde before heading south toward the river Seine.

  Acacia had to fight to keep her eyes off the river and on the traffic in front of her. The Seine was mesmerizing. She’d spent hours walking its banks and bridges, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone.

  Boats carrying tourists traveled up and down the river. But the Seine was high this summer, owing to two weeks of heavy rain. As she approached the Pont des Arts, one of her favorite bridges, she saw a tourist boat turning around. The bridge was too low for it to clear.

  She nodded to the Louvre on her left before she continued to Pont Notre Dame, crossing over to Île de la Cité and heading to the Left Bank.

  Before she left the island, Acacia took a detour alongside Notre-Dame cathedral, slowing her speed to an almost unacceptable level. The thirteenth-century structure was smaller than one might expect, especially if one had seen it in films. But it was very impressive, with its twin towers and intricately carved portals on the western façade.

  Acacia wasn’t a Christian, but she made a note to herself to attend Mass at the Cathedral the next time she was able. The aesthetic experience fed her soul, and she couldn’t admire the rose windows from her motorcycle.

  She turned away from Notre-Dame and headed north so she could drive by the historic house of Héloïse and Abélard. Acacia disliked their story. In her estimation, Abélard was manipulative and controlling, and Héloïse had been foolish and co-dependent. But Acacia honored their love, even if she couldn’t understand it. So with a hand on her heart, she paid her respects to the lovers who had been dead since the twelfth century.

  She circled back to Petit Pont and crossed to the Latin Quarter, where she lived. She smiled at some of the buildings of the Sorbonne, her former university, before turning onto Rue Soufflot and parking her motorcycle.

  Acacia lived in a small studio on the third floor of an old but beautiful building on the corner of Rue Saint-Jacques and Rue Soufflot. A friend’s parents owned the studio and because of her friendship with their daughter, they blessed her with affordable rent. Acacia had lived in the flat since she was a student.