Sophie looked away from him and then back. “You don’t want money?”
“Not at all. Would I go through all this for some measly Francs?”
“I don’t know, inspector. You are a complete stranger to me.”
“Well, I would not.” He stood towering over her and then moved quickly away, taking the two handwritten items with him. “Do you recall what I told you when we met at the ball?”
“You said many things, inspector.”
“Yes I did. But most important is my desire to be the youngest commissioner in Paris. You said it was a lofty goal.”
“So it is,” she repeated.
“I also mentioned that I have no scruples. What say you?” His cold blue eyes watched her face.
“When you say no scruples, do you mean the killing of innocent people?” Sophie countered.
“Perhaps. But today I am giving a foolish young woman the opportunity to help me instead of earning a residency in a jail.”
“Helping you?” Sophie asked.
Alain turned toward Sophie and looked down at her. “It is not a compliment to say that you are beautiful. You must know it well yourself, having been told many times by many admirers.”
Sophie didn’t know how to respond so she remained silent.
“How long do you think you would last in jail?” Alain asked. “It would only take one night for several guards to have their fill of you. You will not be treated with respect or concern. They will rape you, one after the other. They will take you in any manner they like and discard you like rubbish when they are finished.”
“Please,” Sophie said.
“Do you know what jailers are like? Coarse, common men who like a quick tumble, ale and meat. Many of them don’t read and few write. They view women like they do their dogs. Each has a purpose.”
Sophie flushed under his scrutiny and words. “What do you want of me?”
Inspector Vennard smiled then. “Yes. Now we come to it. The reason for all of this. You know that you were always a means to an end. You were never my intended target, only a pretty stepping stone.”
“What are you saying?” Sophie asked, confused.
“I knew early on that you were the writer. To think Marie or dear Grand-mère was the writer was absurd. But I knew you would and could write such things. After your trips to Madame Necker’s salon and her influence upon you, I saw it clearly.”
“You have been following me for quite some time,” she said quietly.
“Yes.” He didn’t deny it. “I keep an eye on the popular salons. I was only for a moment distracted by Marie as the writer before I returned to you. I even thought there might have been an upstart governess in your father’s home, but no. It turned out so much better.”
“Why have you been watching me?”
“As I said, a means to an end. No. Not an end. My beginning,” he finished cryptically.
“Your beginning?” Sophie shook her head.
“To achieve what I must requires bringing down powerful people. And, my dear mademoiselle, as much as you like to write your drivel, you are in no way powerful. But your father is.”
“My father?” she asked, confused.
“Yes. As he works with the Ferme générale he has access to papers and knowledge that could be very useful to an ambitious man.”
“A man such as you?”
“Yes.”