Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

‘Not losing your touch, are you?’ Levignier addressed his remark to Jacqueline Roget as she stepped inside his apartment a stone’s throw from the Jardin du Luxembourg in central Paris. His tone was only mildly accusatory in spite of his frustration at the failure of his plan to hobble the inspector. It was a small setback, and one he had not anticipated. But he had no desire for a fight with this woman, who was not as fully trained in security-related duties as other more direct-action members of the department, but infinitely better connected. The truth was, although she fulfilled certain assignments for his department, and he had a clear and definite authority over her, she was no lackey. Yet that knowledge alone, quite apart from her attractiveness, filled him with excitement. ‘I thought this one would be easy for you.’

Her eyes flashed momentarily at the implied dig, but she shrugged fatalistically. ‘Maybe your Inspector Rocco doesn’t like women,’ she commented.

‘You think?’ The thought actually hadn’t occurred to him, and he made a mental note; it might be an angle worth investigation. People with what society regarded as peccadilloes were always more vulnerable to pressure than others. Maybe this would be Rocco’s.

His hope was short-lived.

‘Actually, I don’t. Quite the opposite, in fact.’ She was holding a broken shoe, the heel hanging off at an angle. She was now wearing a pair of flat pumps. ‘I broke my shoe. These were my favourites.’

‘That’s not a problem, my dear. Send the bill to me personally.’

She dropped her purse on a Louis Quatorze table in the hallway and lifted carefully tended eyebrows. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured coolly, ‘but I do this work because I want to — not for the money. I also enjoy what I do … but I would like to do more.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ Levignier interpreted that to mean much more than real work, and decided to call a truce. Now was not the time for business talk, anyway. He took her arm, leading her through into the front salon. Like the rest of the apartment, it was elegantly furnished with antiques and fine glassware, a legacy from an uncle in the Foreign Service who had loathed the countryside and preferred to stay in the city where he was assured of every luxury money could buy. Levignier didn’t have quite the same level of finances, but the apartment was his for free, which gained him certain advantages, such as the attentions of certain young women. Like Jacqueline, he hoped. He had never tried to push beyond their professional relationship before, but he was sure there would be little resistance from her. As he knew well, power carries its own aphrodisiac.

He poured drinks and shrugged off his jacket. It had been a long day. He had been waiting for news of Rocco’s potential downfall. Accused of assaulting a distraught and very convincing Jacqueline Roget, daughter of a senior member of the French diplomatic corps and therefore above reproach, it should at least have put a dent in the inspector’s investigations long enough to have drawn attention away from anything to do with the Clos du Lac. He made a mental note to call off the men he’d instructed to deal with Rocco. They had missed their chance. He would have to think of another tactic for dealing with him. Especially now he had tracked down the dead Rotenbourg’s brother.

‘You sure you saw Rocco come out of the apartment block?’

‘Yes.’ Jacqueline took the glass he handed her. ‘As soon as I got the call from your men, I went round and checked upstairs. I could hear voices from inside. How did you know he was going to be there?’ She sipped her drink, eyeing Levignier carefully.

‘That should not concern you.’ Levignier tasted his own drink and reflected not for the first time that Jacqueline, considering her rather limited position in the security world, seemed to have an insatiable appetite for information. She appeared to have little hesitation in asking how things were done in a world where methods and explanations were rarely discussed unless among fellow professionals of a certain level. It made her dangerous, he decided, if she ever chose to switch allegiance. In fact, she probably already knew far too much than was good for her. Or himself, come to that.

The thought made an extra frisson run through him.

‘So what do you want me to do now?’ she asked, glancing around the room with a faint frown. ‘I thought you wanted to discuss the next approach.’

He smiled, a predator’s response. ‘We don’t have to discuss that now, do we?’ He stepped in close and touched his glass against hers, managing to brush her forearm with his other hand. He noticed it raised goosebumps on her soft skin. ‘Work can wait until tomorrow.’ His throat thickened at her nearness, and he felt a rush of heat pushing him on. It was the thrill of the chase. The last girl who’d come here had been less wary, but far more … accommodating. Yet somehow, less alluring. Less of a challenge.

Then she was moving away from him and placing her glass on a silver coaster.

‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t stay,’ she said, and moved towards the door. She paused long enough to pick up her purse.

‘Wait.’ Levignier was feeling an unaccustomed loss of control over the situation. This hadn’t happened to him before and he felt a ripple of irritation. She should have been willing to do anything, not be walking away from him.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said calmly. When she turned to look at him, there was no mistaking her air of quiet confidence. ‘I must go home. I promised to call my father. I haven’t talked to him in a while.’

Mention of her father the diplomat, a tough and powerful figure from the old school of French diplomatic circles, was enough to stop Levignier in his tracks, his ardour dented. He hadn’t reached his position without knowing who he could tangle with and who he couldn’t. And Roget père would be the wrong person to cross.

‘Of course,’ he conceded smoothly. ‘I should have realised you’d be tired. It can wait.’

He watched her leave, then reached for his private telephone directory. There were always other young women eager to advance in official circles, keen to do whatever extra-curricular work was expected of them.

Perhaps Jacqueline Roget would take a little more time to come round to his way of thinking.