The Bookseller (18 page)

 

 

The next morning, Hugo woke early. He checked through his packed bag one last time and waited for his taxi to the Montparnasse rail station. He'd arranged the cab the previous night, after dinner, at the same time as he called one to take Claudia home.

They had, finally, talked about their situation, such as it was. She'd been surprised, and then curious, about Hugo's lack of resentment toward her father. He'd explained as best he could that a life chasing bad guys had taught him that there were, in reality, very few of them in this world. Mostly, he told her, good people did things that could be classed as good, bad, and everything in between. On the scale of possibilities, her father had done nothing but try to protect his daughter. And while she'd lied to him about her “humble origins,” it was a harmless lie and one that lay in reason. The simple truth, one that he didn't articulate over coffee, was that he wasn't looking to get married and was keeping his expectations in check. She was surprised and pleased by his graciousness, or so she said, and he knew that when they parted the air was clear. She climbed into her cab just before eleven, but before she left they shared a hug of genuine warmth and, he sensed, a certain amount of relief. He knew they could have gone back to his apartment, but he also knew that tonight was a new beginning. And no need to hurry.

As promised, Tom wasn't home when he got in. Hugo called and told him about the morning's taxi, said not to worry if he couldn't make it in time. And when Hugo's taxi arrived, just after seven, there was no sign of, or word from, Tom.

On the ride to the station he studied the two pages Emma had prepared for him. Cecilia Josephine Roget lived in a small village called
Bielle, about twenty miles south of the city of Pau in the Pyrénées-Atlantiques department of France. It was Basque country, in the lea of the Pyrénées mountains and not far from the Spanish border.

Years ago, Hugo had spent two weeks in the region studying the antiterrorist techniques of the French and Spanish police, who had waged a quiet but bloody war with the Basque separatist group ETA since the late 1960s. He remembered it as some of the most beautiful countryside he'd ever seen, underdeveloped and with huge swathes of it protected by the French government as parkland. Few foreign tourists knew about it and fewer still took the time to visit. As a capitaine in the provincial police had told him, the British preferred the sun and sand of the Riviera, the Americans fell for the cultivated cuteness of Provence, and the Japanese rarely made it out of Paris.

A motorcycle raced past the cab window, startling him, and he put the papers down, unable to concentrate. The news about Francoise Benoit had shaken him more than he would have predicted. Death had simply been off his radar screen for too long and its reappearance like this had been a nasty reminder of the black side of his profession…and an even more unpleasant reminder of what may have happened to Max.

Claudia had been open to the idea that Benoit's death was more than an accident but told Hugo what he already knew: the detectives investigating the drowning had to follow the evidence, not supposition. Hugo himself tried to see both sides; he'd smelled her early morning breath, had seen the heavy clothing that she wore. And would someone really commit murder in broad daylight in the middle of Paris? Unfortunately, he knew they would. A quick shove while under another one of the bridges, the water low so she'd be invisible from the walkway alongside it. And how long for her to slip under? Seconds, Hugo knew. Just seconds.

The cab let him out in front of Montparnasse station and Hugo battled against the flow of traffic, making his way to the arrivals and departures board to find his platform. A taped, hollow-sounding security announcement echoed around him and every few seconds train numbers and destinations clicked on to and off of the board with a
tchk-tchk-tchk
. His train sat waiting at platform 3, giving him thirty minutes to get his ticket and board. But like most experienced travelers, he knew to buy his breakfast and lunch for the five-hour trip at one of the station's cafés—the coffee was decent enough in the dining car, but too many times Hugo had paid the railway premium for sandwiches that were rubbery in look, feel, and taste.

Hugo's first-class ticket gave him space in a compartment that turned out to be empty. As the train left the dense suburbs and picked up speed, the muffled chatter of the wheels beneath him blanketed the compartment in its own white noise, the occasional whump of a passing train and bleat of a whistle barely registering. Its gentle rock and the lure of a new novel—full of prewar subterfuge—quickly veiled the outside world. He sank deeper into his book and was transported to 1937 to witness the bravery of an English bookseller in Berlin as she foiled the Nazis by producing counterfeit passports for fleeing Jews. Time and the countryside passed by unnoticed.

The drive from the Pau train station to Bielle was, as Hugo knew it would be, a delight. He'd rented a car for two days but told the agent he might keep it longer. “It's winter,” the man said, “keep it as long as you like.”

Hugo drove out of the station with the windows down and the heater on full. Clumps of snow lined the roadway but the pavement itself was clear and dry. He'd not realized how stuffy the train had been until he'd stepped outside to get the car, and he'd not yet had his fill of the dry, cold air.

He drove slowly, but the curved roads soon brought him through Jurançon and into Gan. Once through the little town, he hit a straight stretch of road lined with plane trees and bordered by open land and the occasional farmhouse. Eventually his nose began to freeze, and he closed the window most of the way, leaving just an inch at the top for the air to stream in and ruffle the top of his head.

Twenty minutes later he slowed as he passed the village of Castet,
looking for the turn to Bielle. The hedgerow fell away and he spotted a small road leading up toward the village where Cecilia Roget now lived, a gathering of stone houses that lay spread across the lower slopes of the mountain as if sprinkled by a giant as it strode to the peak.

Before entering the village, he pulled off the road to check his directions, parking in a lay-by next to a gate that led into an empty pasture, leaving just enough room in case someone wanted to get past on the narrow road. He looked at the second sheet of paper Emma had given him, listing the houses in Bielle that Ms. Roget owned. According to this, she had four.

Three of them were
gites
, houses that were rented out during the spring and summer to tourists but were usually empty in the winter. Hugo had rented several for weekend trips before and knew that
gites
were typically furnished with just the basics—an oven, a fridge, plenty of beds, and one or two bathrooms to share. Perfect for hiking or fishing vacations, and cheap to boot.

The fourth house was the one in which she lived, a five-bedroom farmhouse set behind stone walls. It was called
Le Nid
, the nest.
An odd choice of name for a place with two turrets
, he thought,
even if they were small ones
. For nine months of the year she ran it as a bed and breakfast, closing down in December for three months when mountain hiking became impossible, or at least unpleasant.

Four houses, and the question that had bugged Hugo all the way down here was simple: How did a bouquiniste get the cash to buy four houses all at once? Maybe Francoise Benoit was right, and the grim-faced chief of the SBP had greased Madame Roget's exit from the union with enough to get settled in Bielle. But that would be an awful lot of cash. Or perhaps she'd saved over the years and this had always been her plan.

He located the farmhouse on a more detailed local map he'd been given at the car rental office, then turned back onto the road, pulling over a moment later to let a tractor trundle past. He found the center of the village and parked in a small lot beside a World War II monument and within sight of the bed and breakfast. He shouldered his overnight
bag and walked up to the open gate. A short driveway led him to the front of the house, and when he looked up Hugo saw smoke curling from a chimney. He didn't see a doorbell, so he knocked loudly and waited. A moment later he heard footsteps and the door swung open.

“
Bonjour
. Monsieur Marston?”

“
Oui, bonjour
.” He smiled and offered a hand. The woman was sixty years old at least, but had the strong jaw and fine features that told of beauty in earlier years. Her gray hair was hidden beneath a neatly knotted blue scarf, and she wore a faded Barbour jacket and tweed skirt. This one-time bouquiniste was a long way from the booze-soaked bundle of warmth that had been Francoise Benoit.

She shook his hand and then gestured for him to come in. He felt a rush of warm air the moment he entered the stone-flagged foyer, which opened straight into a large living area where a fire snapped and hissed in the grate. The furniture and drapes in the room were all designed for comfort, heavy velvet curtains, woolen throw rugs on the two formidable couches, and wing-backed armchairs positioned near the fireplace.

“I don't get too many guests here in November,” she said. “In fact, we're pretty close to shutting down for the winter.”

“I'm glad I made it in time,” he said. “You have a beautiful home, Madame Roget.”

“
Merci
. And please, call me Ceci. Everyone does.” She led him into the main room and offered him a seat in one of the armchairs. “Your French is very good,” she said, “but, maybe American?”

“Yes. And thank you. I've been in Paris a long time.”

“I miss Paris.” She smiled. “It can be very quiet out here; some days I see more cows than people. And don't bother trying to use your cell phone, if you have one, this village is a dead zone. Go to Louvie or Castet and it should work.” She shrugged. “But I suppose that's why you are here, for some peace and quiet.”

“And some hiking,” said Hugo.
And some answers
.

“I hope the weather holds for you. Did you eat lunch? I have plenty in the kitchen if you're hungry.”

“I ate on the train, but thank you.”

“How about something to drink?”

“I don't suppose you have some tea?”

“I often have English guests,” she said with a smile. “Black, green, chamomile even.”

“Black tea. And with milk and sugar, like the English, please.”

He hoped she would join him. The role of the formal hostess suited her, but Hugo didn't want that, he wanted someone who liked to talk, to answer questions rather than ask them. Timing and technique were everything in an interrogation. Forget the tough-guy act of the movies, that only worked on teenagers—and sometimes not even then.

In his last years at the bureau, Hugo had taught a class on interrogations and confessions at the academy in Quantico. He littered his class with anecdotes to keep it interesting and to show how the techniques from the course worked in the real world. He always began the first class with the story of his best confession, the one he was most proud of: child killer Charles Wilford. The portly little man had kidnapped a nine-year-old girl just outside of Houston, but the police didn't have enough evidence to go into his house and look for her inside. Hugo had seen cases like that before and knew she was dead, but he wasn't about to let Wilford get away with it, so he sat the man down just to talk. Like so many guilty men, he'd not called for a lawyer but had sat up all night talking to Hugo, getting closer and closer to giving straight answers but never quite doing so. Only when Hugo sat beside him, took his hand, and explained how it was going to go on forever, the urges and the killings, did Wilford break down and confess. After drying his eyes on Hugo's handkerchief, Wilford led police to his garage, where the little girl's body was wrapped in a sheet behind a stack of boxes.

Ceci Roget was no Wilford, of course, but if he wanted to find Max, then this, despite the blazing fire and the tea, needed to be just as effective an interrogation. The biggest dilemma he had was whether to try to obtain the information by subterfuge or just be open. His natural inclination was toward the latter, and he was fairly certain that honesty, even unwelcome honesty, would sit better with Madame Roget than subterfuge.