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In that one moment, I realized that if this were my last day on earth, I wanted it to be with her. “Miss Atwater,” I said, holding my hand out to her.
She clasped it tightly in hers. “Mr. Payton.”
When we arrived at the warehouse in my father’s carriage, Isaac Bell seemed to accept her presence without question. He was, after all, a man of extraordinary intelligence. Byron was a bit shocked, but he quickly came ’round, and the three of us listened while Mr. Bell outlined his plan. Miss Atwater glanced at my cousin, bound, gagged, and seated against the wall of the warehouse. “And what of him?” she asked Bell.
“He will be in the carriage, where you and Payton will be in charge of watching him. The two of you need to remain out of sight. Byron will pose as your driver.”
Concerned about Miss Atwater’s proximity to a murderer, I hoped to change Mr. Bell’s mind. “Is there some reason we aren’t turning him over to the authorities?”
“We may still need him,” Bell said. “You never know when something might go wrong.”
70
Arthur Oren’s dark mood lifted considerably as he arrived at Lorenzo Rossi’s Paris office. By the time he took the elevator to the third floor and the receptionist announced him, nothing could detract from the feeling of triumph now that all his meticulous planning was finally paying off.
The receptionist returned, saying, “Monsieur Marchand will see you now.”
“I was told Lorenzo Rossi would be meeting me personally.”
Before she could answer, a heavy middle-aged man stepped from the doorway behind her, extending his hand in greeting. “Monsieur Oren. A pleasure.”
Oren shook his hand, looking past him into the empty office. “Where’s Rossi?”
“He’s on his way to Calais to make sure that your order is ready for shipping. I’ll order a car to be brought ’round.” Marchand waved a hand toward his office. “Please, come in, sit. Would you care for a cup of coffee, or something else to drink, while we wait?”
“No, thank you,” Oren said, as Marchand took a seat behind his large mahogany desk. Oren eased into the leather armchair near the window. “I was under the impression that Rossi was going to meet me here, and we’d drive out together.”
“For which he sends his apologies. He felt it necessary to make sure everything was prepared for shipping. Of course, I shall accompany you to the warehouse personally, once the transfer is made.”
“That wasn’t our agreement,” Oren said, forcing himself to remain calm. He’d already been duped before, which resulted in the car being stolen from his own warehouse. That theft he’d deal with, once he found out who was behind it. This time he wasn’t about to let the car out of his sight. “The transfer will be made when I see the car and verify that it’s the vehicle as described. Until then, the money remains in my account.”
Marchand looked through the open door at his receptionist, who was sitting at her desk, then looked back at Oren. “Monsieur Rossi’s reputation is without question,” he said, his voice sounding strained and on edge. “If he says the car is there, it’s there. To suggest otherwise—”
“Is prudent, and good business,” Oren replied. “Perhaps, though, I need to point out why I’m taking such precautions. This car was stolen from my warehouse less than a week ago. As such, I am paying good money for the return of property that is rightfully mine to begin with.”
“Understand that Monsieur Rossi is merely brokering the deal. He does not involve himself in such matters.”
“While I respect his position, I take offense that he’s not respecting the terms of our agreement.”
“What terms?”
“That my purchase was conditional. I see the car in person, he gets the money. In that order. If he can’t honor those terms, I’m prepared to walk away,” he said, though he had no intention of doing so.
Marchand stared at him for several seconds, then sputtered, “You’re expecting me to call him with your demands?”
“In fact, yes. I’ll wait.” When Marchand failed to pick up the phone, Oren stood. “Or explain to him why I left.”
“Monsieur, there is no need to be hasty. It’s just that I’ve never yet run across anyone who’s doubted the word of Lorenzo Rossi. It’s simply not done.”
“And yet, I’m doing it.”
“Please, have a seat,” he said, picking up the phone, pressing a button. “I’m calling now.”
Oren returned to the chair, his eye catching on a compact dark rectangular object on the windowsill just visible beneath the right curtain panel. He pulled the curtain aside, picked up a mobile phone, pressing the home button. The screen lit up. But when he tried to get beyond the home screen, he found it was locked. “Yours?” he asked Marchand.
“No.”
“A rather odd place for a phone, don’t you agree?”
