Alice-Miranda in Paris 7 by Jacqueline Harvey Page A

should have realised. She still didn’t know who the man was or how he had got into the building. There was no sign of forced entry.
    But it was all her fault that Monsieur Christian had lost the vicuna. She might as well have left a sign out and directions telling the fellow where he could find it.
    ‘Adele,’ Christian called from the other side of the room. She did not hear him. ‘Adele!’
    She flinched and looked up. Her boss was standing between the chief detective and one of the forensic investigators who had dusted the storeroom for fingerprints.
    ‘Come here, Adele,’ Christian instructed. He knew that his assistant could be vague at times but in the past few days he had found her incredibly testing.
    ‘Monsieur?’ said Adele. She approached the group cautiously.
    ‘There are no fingerprints. Except yours,’ he informed her.
    ‘But I . . .’ she began.
    ‘Adele, I am not accusing you. Of course your fingerprints will be all over the storeroom. Unless there is something you’re not telling us?’ said Christian.
    Adele shook her head. ‘Of course not.’
    ‘Are you sure that you’re all right, mademoiselle?’ the detective asked.
    ‘Fine, monsieur, just too many late nights getting ready for the show,’ she said. ‘May I go now?’
    ‘
Oui
,’ the detective nodded
    ‘And don’t look so worried, Adele. It is a terrible thing and I am dreadfully disappointed that my line is incomplete but of course the vicuna was insured, wasn’t it?’ Christian asked.
    ‘Of course, monsieur,’ she said, smiling tightly.
    Bile rose in the back of her throat. She scurried back to her desk and began to move piles of paper about, hoping desperately not to find what she suspected was still there. The little stack of envelopes she had meant to post on the day they discovered the robbery were sitting unsent. And inside one of them was the cheque for the insurance on the vicuna.
    She watched as her boss led the two men to the stairs and they disappeared from sight.
    Her stomach seemed to be doing backflips and she wondered how she could possibly tell Christian the truth.
    The phone rang on her desk.
    ‘
Bonjour
,’ Adele answered quietly.
    ‘
Bonjour
, mademoiselle,’ the voice on the other end replied.
    Adele flinched. It was him. The same man who had asked her all of those questions earlier in the week.
    ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
    ‘Oh, mademoiselle, when we last spoke, you were so kind and helpful. But it seems you are not so happy today.’
    ‘You tricked me,’ Adele accused.
    His voice turned cold. ‘I did no such thing. You have a mouth like a bucket. But now I thought we might be able to help each other. I believe that I have something your boss would like back. Particularly as your lack of security will have voided the insurance anyway.’
    Adele wondered if that was true. It hardly mattered, seeing that the cheque was still sitting on her desk.
    ‘I have helped you too much already,’ Adele whispered.
    ‘
Au contraire
, mademoiselle. There is something else I need from you. But if you go to the police, I can assure you that Monsieur Christian will never see that fabric again. I’ve heard that he can ill afford to lose such a large amount of money. Business is tough at the moment,’ he said threateningly. ‘And you seem to like working for him too. Sadly, not for much longer, I suspect. The other thing you must know is that I can make people disappear. Permanently.’
    Adele could hardly breathe.
    ‘What I want is simple. You give me the designs for Christian’s next line and I will return the vicuna.’
    Her heart was racing. ‘But I can’t,’ she said.
    ‘Then I am afraid that Monsieur Christian will just have to lose all that lovely money. Unless of course you reconsider. It is only a few sketches and no one will ever know. You can tell him they were lost. He is a clever man. He can design another line.’
    Adele’s hand trembled as she flipped open the notepad on her desk