The Bookseller (16 page)

Hugo shook his head, frustrated at twisting himself into unhelpful knots. He turned, crossed the street, and began to walk home the way he'd come, cutting south before hitting Max's stall—he still thought of it as Max's—and onto Rue Guénégaud. As he walked, he called Emma.

“Can I buy you lunch?” he asked.

“I brought mine.”

“It'll keep 'til tomorrow.”

“I don't eat leftovers on Saturdays. Are you planning to tell me what you're up to? If so, and you're paying for dessert, then I'm in.”

“Yes,” he said, “that's why I called.” He hesitated, and she heard that, too.

“What do you need, Hugo?”

“Just a tiny favor. I need to know the name and whereabouts of a woman named Ceci. She used to be the head of the SBP before Gravois.”

Emma snorted, delicately. “I told you her name once before. I'll look it up again and bring it to lunch. Where?”

Hugo wanted somewhere close to the embassy. “Brasserie Trudeau. It's been a week since I've eaten there. See you at one.”

He checked his watch and saw he had plenty of time to go back to his apartment, shower, and grab Tom.

Hugo had always done his best thinking while walking . He decided that a meander through the Luxembourg gardens could only help.

As he passed down Rue de Sévres he noticed a new boutique directly across the street, the storefront wearing a fresh coat of dark red paint and the large window filled with hats. Another store that would last a few months, Hugo figured, as he slipped between two parked
cars and trotted across the street. A blue Renault clattered toward him and honked feebly, its driver annoyed rather than at risk, but it startled Hugo enough to propel his final step into a leap for the safety of the pavement. As he landed, he pivoted as elegantly as he was able in order to avoid crashing into a man who'd been window shopping himself, a man alerted to Hugo's presence by the horn.

They locked eyes for just a second, and Hugo felt a hole open in the pit of his stomach. He stood still on the sidewalk as the man in his cloth cap lowered his head, muttered something in French, and walked quickly away. Hugo watched the man's back, testing his own instincts, knowing that if he were right, two things would happen. Both did; the man reached the end of the block and made a sharp right down a side street, and as he disappeared from view he pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began dialing.

This was no coincidence. He pulled out his own phone and dialed Claudia.

“Hugo!” Her voice was flooded with relief. “I'm so glad, I've been worried but didn't dare call. I thought you were furious with me.”

“And I thought maybe my dinner companion had put you off me,” he said.

She laughed, a gentle sound down the phone. “
Non
, Hugo. I know you went home alone. But can we meet? We should probably talk about all this.”

“Sure, but not right now. Listen, something's going on, and I really do need some answers.”

“OK. What is it?”

“I need to know if your father is having me followed.”

“What?” Her surprise sounded genuine. “No, of course not. That's ridiculous, Hugo, why would he?”

“You tell me.”

“Hugo, wait. Are you saying you're being followed? Right now?”

“Yes. Earlier this morning I almost bumped into a man. He wore a cloth cap and was keeping his face away from me. I didn't think anything of it at the time. But just now, I ran into him again.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“I know, it wouldn't usually. Except, an hour ago he was in a hurry. I just ran into him a block away from where I first saw him. A man doesn't hurry like that and cover two blocks in an hour. And the way he scurried away from me, both times. I'm sure, Claudia.”

“There could be other explanations. Coincidence? Maybe he was hurrying to an appointment nearby and is hurrying to another one now.”

“As soon as he noticed me, he went to the end of the block and turned right. Before he made it, his phone was in his hand. He was letting someone know I'd spotted him. Oh, and just so you know, the street he turned down was Rue Récamier.”

“I don't know it.”

“It's a pedestrian street, no cars, and a dead end.”
Which means he doesn't live around here
, Hugo thought,
else he'd know that
. And it also means that he'll be back this way any minute.

“Hugo, you're not going to confront him, are you?”

“What a good idea,” he said lightly, “thanks for suggesting it.”

“No, Hugo, it's not a suggestion. He may have a weapon.”

“Then that'll make two of us.”

“This is Paris, Hugo, not the Wild West. You can't have a shootout.
Merde
.”

Hugo moved into the hat shop and ignored the irritated glance from its proprietor. He stationed himself behind a mannequin and watched through the window. He aimed his next words at both women, saying, “Don't worry, I won't make a mess.” He tried to keep his tone light, but wasn't sure how it had come out.

“Look, can you meet me for lunch?” Claudia said.

“No, I have a date, sorry.” That sounded petty, so he added, “with my secretary, Emma. She has some information for me.”

“OK. Dinner?”

“A drink. Maybe dinner.”

They agreed to meet at the intersection of three streets, Rues de Buci, Mazarine, and Dauphine, at seven o'clock. That would give them a choice of two cafés right there, and another nearby.

A moment after Hugo rang off, the man in the hat appeared at the corner and lit a cigarette, his eyes darting up and down the street.
OK, amateur, let's see where you're going
. Hugo moved further into the store and looked around. A gray Homburg sat atop the wire head of a two-headed mannequin.
Trendy mannequins for traditional hats
, thought Hugo,
very Paris
. He picked it up. His size. A lot like his own fedora, but different enough to change his outline. The middle-aged proprietor, whose wild, bleached blonde hair would defy any hat, moved toward him.

“This one is perfect.” He pulled notes from his wallet and handed them over with a smile. “In a bit of a hurry, though.”

“
D'accord. Un sac, monsieur
?”

“
Oui
.” He took the bag and put his own black hat into it. He stuck the new hat on his head and slipped off his coat, turned it inside out, and put it back on. It wasn't designed to be reversible but its muted wool lining would do the trick from a distance. “
Merci
.” He took one more look through the window and strode out of the store in the direction his follower had taken. At the corner he saw the man talking on the phone as he hurried along the sidewalk. Hugo followed him for two blocks with ease, staying directly behind him and using other pedestrians, mail boxes, and streetlamps as light cover. If the man turned around, all he'd see would be foot traffic and, maybe, occasional glimpses of a man wearing an unfamiliar coat and hat, his face invisible.

He trailed the man south as they continued along Rue de Sévres. If he didn't live in this area, Hugo figured he would probably take the metro. But the man marched right past the entrance to the station at Sévres–Babylon and then past the Vaneau stop. Hugo checked his pace when he realized that his interest in the man had brought him a little too close.

Hugo paused at the entrance to the Vaneau metro and studied the map, a hint of an idea in his mind. He found the street they were on and then picked out the next station along this road. He traced a finger north from it, his suspicion confirmed.
We have that in common
, Hugo thought, looking at the man's back. You'd rather walk an extra two
blocks and get a direct train than have to wait ten or fifteen minutes underground to change trains. He was headed, Hugo was sure, to the next metro stop, Duroc, where he could take the train all the way to Place de Clichy. The stop closest to the offices of the SBP.

Hugo reached for his phone, intending to cancel his lunch, but it rang before he could pull it from his pocket. Emma. “Hey,” he said, “you're not ditching me, are you?”

“Yes and no. Lunch is off, but blame Ambassador Taylor.”

“Why?” Hugo started walking again, his eyes still on the man ahead. “Doesn't he know I'm on vacation?”

“He knows you're not in America, if that's what you mean.”

“It's not. And you're supposed to run interference for me on this stuff.”

“I did,” she said. “And I'm very good at it, but it turns out that I'm just a secretary and he's some sort of ambassador.”

“Ah, for a moment I thought missing lunch meant missing out on your sarcasm.”

A gentle peal of laughter. “I wonder where I get it from?”

“Fine. Look, I'm in the middle of something, so what's going on?”

“He didn't say. Remember the whole secretary-versus-ambassador thing? But he wants to see you right away.”

“Right away?”

“His words.”

If it were anyone else, Hugo would make him wait. Especially under these circumstances. But Ambassador Taylor wasn't just his boss, he was a man Hugo respected. If he was calling Hugo in from his vacation there was a good reason, and Hugo wasn't going to ignore it. Even if he chose to, what would his explanation sound like?
Sorry, ambassador, I was following a man who I think had been following me for some unknown reason but possibly related to the bouquiniste whose apartment I broke into, the one you told me to stop investigating
.

“OK,” he said, “it'll take me thirty minutes or so to get in, but tell him I'll be there.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” Hugo slowed and watched the man in the hat trot down the steps to the Duroc metro station, allowing himself some satisfaction from an accurate deduction. He was about to hang up when a thought struck him. “Oh, Emma, did you manage to find Ceci for me?”

“Sure did. I'll print out everything I have, which isn't much, so stop by here first. And Hugo? Seeing as you're bailing on me for lunch, you can pick me up a pastry. Something nice for dessert.”

She hung up before he could respond, and Hugo smiled. He turned around and started walking back the way he had come, dialing Tom to let him know where he was and keeping his eyes peeled for a patisserie.

 

 

Most of the murder scenes that Hugo had worked as an FBI agent involved children or people from the lower economic classes. Children, he'd realized, were easier targets and more fragile and, in Hugo's experience, rich people simply didn't kill each other in ways that attracted the attention of the FBI.

Once, though, while he was attending a conference in Philadelphia, he'd been asked to drive out to a grand house tucked away in the Pennsylvania countryside where the wealthy male owner had been killed in his study. On the way there, Hugo and a colleague had joked quietly about the butler using the lead piping, but when they walked into the room all humor fled.

The victim sat upright in his chair, and would have been staring at them if his head had still been attached to his shoulders. A crime scene tech had found it in a hollow globe normally used for storing drinks. It had been carefully positioned so when the lid was lifted, the elderly man's look of surprise would mirror the look on the face of the person who found him. Rather clever, Hugo had thought. His other thought was that the man's ornate study was forever ruined: blood had squirted from the dead man's neck, drenching the walls and ceiling. From the mess, Hugo estimated that the killer had tilted the body back and forth, spraying as much as he could. A waste of a life
and
a beautiful room.

Hugo thought of this case every time he met with Ambassador Taylor because the similarities between his office and the murder victim's study were inescapable. Both were lined with bookcases, a rolling staircase giving access to the higher tomes, both had stone fireplaces behind impressive mahogany desks, both had matching leather couches
sitting
face-en-face
, and both sported heavy oil paintings of men on horseback carrying weapons as they chased down hares, foxes, and other men. Hugo had meant to find out whether, by chance, the same interior designer had constructed both but he'd never cared quite enough to ask, the similarities only seeming important when he was in the room.

Hugo arrived at the embassy an hour after talking to Emma, having stopped by her office to deliver her pastry and collect two sheets of paper. One contained the address and a description of Cecilia Josephine Roget and the other was a brief history of her tenure in charge of the SBP. As curious as he was, he could only glance over it as he hurried back down the hall to the elevator. He'd breezed past the ambassador's secretary with a wave and pushed the door open to the grand office and had started to greet the ambassador but stopped when he saw who else was in the room.

If this was another coincidence, he'd about had his fill.

“Hugo, come on in,” Ambassador Taylor said, “I'm sorry to interrupt your vacation.” He gestured to his guest. “You know Gérard de Roussillon.”

Roussillon stood holding a cup and saucer, and Hugo didn't like the smile that was on his face. He tried not to let his own surprise show, instead shaking hands with the ambassador and then the Frenchman. “Yes, we met last night.”

“So I gather,” Ambassador Taylor said. “Sit down gentlemen, please.” They followed the ambassador to the pair of couches. “Hugo, I know you're out of the office, so to speak, but Gérard had some concerns and I wanted to run them past you directly.”

“Fine,” Hugo said. “What's up?”

“Do you know what the SBP is?” the ambassador asked.

“I do, yes,” said Hugo.

“The organization and the people it represents are kind of an institution in Paris,” the ambassador said. “Gérard here has done a lot of work with them and sometimes acts as liaison between them and the government. You know, disputes about healthcare, working conditions, the limits that the government puts on what they sell.”

“They need a liaison?” Hugo said. “Isn't that what the SBP does?”

“You'd think,” the ambassador said grimly. “But depending on who heads it they sometimes need a tactful voice. Let's just say a mediator can work wonders. Gérard has filled that role for a long time.”

“As you know, I collect books, Monsieur Marston,” Roussillon said. “I get many from the bouquinistes, so if they are happy, I am happy. And I have a lot of contacts in the government, so I help when I can.”

“I see.”

“Anyway,” the ambassador continued, “Gérard tells me that someone from our office, one of your agents, has been pestering Bruno Gravois, the head of the SBP, and starting rumors about disappearing bouquinistes.”

“Rumors?” Hugo asked, cursing himself for giving Gravois his real name.

“There are no police reports and no reports from friends or family.” Roussillon spread his hands wide. “No one has reported anyone missing, and these kinds of rumors…” He trailed off and looked at the ambassador for support.

“Just hang on a minute,” Hugo said. “It's not one of my agents, it's me.” He turned to address Taylor. “Mr. Ambassador, I was there when one bouquiniste was kidnapped.”

“As I said,” Roussillon repeated, “there is no police report, and no friends or family have reported him or anyone else missing.”

“The man kidnapped was my friend, and I was there, I saw it. Whoever did it either paid off or threatened witnesses to say nothing happened. I'm just trying to find out what happened, that's all.”

“Have you been to his home?” the ambassador asked.

“Yes. He wasn't there and his neighbor hadn't seen him.”

“Well, maybe he was out buying books or groceries,” Roussillon said. “I don't see my neighbors for weeks at a time.”

“He lives in an apartment, not a mansion,” Hugo snapped. “And last I checked, he didn't have servants to run out and fetch supplies for him.”

“All right, that's enough Hugo,” Ambassador Taylor said. “Even if you're right and this man is a missing person, unless he's an American
citizen we have no interest in the case. And you have no jurisdiction. It's a matter for the Préfecture de Police, and them alone.” The ambassador shifted in his seat, his tone softening. “Hugo, our job here, our mission at the embassy, is to foster and maintain good relations with our French allies. I don't need to tell you that. These bouquinistes, they are an icon for Americans coming here. We can't be stirring up trouble for them. We need to mind our own store and let them do the same.”

“I understand,” Hugo said, biting his tongue. This was not a conversation he wanted to have in front of Roussillon.

“OK, good.“ The ambassador turned to Roussillon. “Is there anything else, Gérard?”

“
Non, merci beaucoup
.” The Frenchman stood and offered a small bow to the ambassador, a nod to Hugo. “Thank you for your time.”

When he'd left the room Hugo stood, but the ambassador closed the door and said, “Hold on a second, we're not quite done.” Hugo lowered himself back onto the couch. “If I'd known it was you poking around,” the ambassador said, “I would have handled it differently. Roussillon is a powerful man, though, so the lecture was necessary. And true. I thought we'd talked about this. Can I assume you have been disobeying my instructions?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hugo.

“I figured. Then tell me what's really going on.”

Hugo hesitated. “His name is Max. Max Koche. I've known him for years, ambassador. He's a grouchy old guy but loves what he does. Last week I bought a book from him that turned out to be worth a lot of money. Minutes later he was kidnapped, in front of my eyes. But the police won't make a report because some people nearby, who they won't identify, said Max went with these guys of his own accord. It's insane and a bunch of crap. Anyway, I went back to his stall and talked to the new guy running it. When I started asking him about Max, he clammed up after claiming that he didn't know him. So I went to Max's apartment—”

“Yes, you mentioned that. No one home.”

“Right,” Hugo smiled, “but I went to his apartment.” He said the words slowly, making his meaning plain.

“Ah, I'm with you. And?”

“He'd not been there for days, but someone else had.”

“You're sure.”

Hugo nodded. “No one is that much of a slob, certainly not Max. I didn't see signs of a struggle or fight, but I did find his toothbrush. As well as empty suitcases and a closet full of clothes.”

“Fridge?” Hugo remembered that Taylor had been a spook himself, many years ago.

“Full of perished perishables.”

“Oh. That's not good. He have family close by? Or anywhere?”

“Not that I've found.”

“Any ideas?”

“Other than it's something to do with the book, not really. He was once a Nazi hunter, though, so I guess it's possible that caught up with him somehow.”

“Nazi hunter? Impressive.”

“I know. The thing is, this isn't adding up, and no one seems to give a damn.”

“So you say.” The ambassador sat back on the couch and pondered. “Here's my position. I meant what I said before, we really can't go stirring up a hornet's nest for a missing Frenchman. On the other hand, you're on vacation, so forget what I said before. What you do on your own time is your business as long as it doesn't reflect badly on the embassy.”

“Thank you, ambassador. I can be discreet.”

“Really?” the ambassador said dryly. “I've never seen that side of you.”

“It's not easy walking softly,” Hugo said, “when you're wearing cowboy boots.”

“I wouldn't know.” The ambassador stood, signaling an end to the meeting. “And Hugo? Being discreet means you don't flash your badge.”

“Understood.”

“And no gun.”

Hugo raised an eyebrow. “You want my pants, too?”

“No thanks,” said Taylor. “But if you piss off Roussillon and his buddies, I'll have your hide. How's that?”