“Hello,” she said, slamming the file folder closed.

“Madame St. James,” he said, closing the door and crossing his arms. “I hope you realize that what you’re doing—in my private office—is illegal. I could call the police and have you arrested.”

“I understand. I wanted to come to you, but they said you weren’t in,” she said, hoping to throw a little bit of a guilt trip on him.

“Oui, well, I’ve been busy. I thought yesterday there was something in my office you were interested. But what I don’t understand is . . . why?”

“You don’t understand why?” She nearly laughed at that. “Really? In case you didn’t notice, the police think I stole that necklace, and I’m on the hook for it. Not to mention that they think I murdered some man I don’t even know. So pardon me if I’m interested in getting answers.”

“What kind of answers do you think you’ll find in my office?”

“I think I know who stole the necklace.”

His eyes widened for a moment, but quickly, the doubt seeped in. “And how do you know that?”

“Because I was wearing it, remember? And I remember seeing a man, a man with a very distinct mask. It was black . . . with gold accents . . . and surprised eyebrows?”

“How do you know—”

“Because he helped me when I fell on the balcony stairs. I was wearing the necklace right before that, and it was gone—right after. I’m sure it’s him.” She motioned to his files. “So do you have information about who rented what pieces? Can you tell based on that?”

He nodded, “I can. It might take a while. We rented out over a thousand masks that night. Let me see.”

She let out a sigh of relief as he went to the cabinet and pulled out a thick file of paper. He started to go through the pages. “Usually, we’d have this in our computer, but our computers were down the whole week, so we had to resort to paper.” He started sorting through the pages. “Each form is a mask rental. This is private information. I could lose my job if anyone knew I was sharing this with you.”

“I promise, I—”

He waved her off. “Let me just get it, and then you and I can pretend we never talked.”

Diana didn’t dare say anything. He was actually helping her, and she was afraid one wrong move could change his mind and make him call the police. She let him go through the pages, watching over his shoulder, until he pulled a paper out. “Black mask with gold scrolling, male. Here it is. Is this what you saw?”

She stared at it. There was a photograph of the item clipped to the paper. “Yes! That’s it. Who does it belong to?”

He studied it. She moved closer, trying to read the name and address. Leo Linville, 47 rue La Boétie *3, 8. “You really think that this person stole the necklace from you?”