The Bookseller (19 page)

“I think it may snow tonight,” she said, appearing with a steaming mug. “I hope not, it will make hiking difficult.”

“Thank you.” He took the drink and sipped. “If I can spend a day or two in the countryside I'm happy. Hiking or no hiking.” He nodded toward her coat. “Were you on your way out? I don't want to keep you.”

“Oh no. I have a Labrador, Sydney, who insists on being walked every afternoon.” She walked to the fire and knocked a loose log back into place with her boot. “I have one more guest arriving today, any minute, actually, so I'll take Syd out when he gets here. If you don't mind being left alone.”

“Not at all.” Hugo cleared his throat. “Before he arrives, I have a confession, Madame Roget…Ceci.”

“A confession?” She looked at him, suddenly unsure. “What do you mean?”

He lounged back in the chair, crossing his legs at the ankle to transmit through body language that it was no big deal and that he was no threat. “I'm not sure how to explain it best.” He looked up. “Do you know Max Koche?”

She didn't move. “I know a Max Koche.”

“The bouquiniste.”

“
Oui
.” She nodded slowly. “Why?”

“I'm a friend of his. I've been buying from him for years.” She waited for him to go on. “Madame, Max is missing.”

“Missing? What do you mean?”

He told her the story. He told her about his kidnap from the walkway, about the Rimbaud book and his meeting with Gravois, and about Francoise Benoit. As he spoke, she moved from the fireplace to the armchair beside him, never taking her eyes from his face, but giving nothing away by her own expression. When he stopped talking, both his tea and the fire were low, but only Hugo noticed. She stared at her hands for a full minute then looked up. “I knew Max well.”

“You did?”

“Many years ago, I helped him get his stall. He was a man with an obsession, did you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she hesitated. “Do you know about his past?”

“I know he was a Nazi hunter, yes.”

“He was.” She nodded. “Although he got tired of that. Tired of the travel and the stress, not the idea of catching them. And I think he had one or two cases where he felt let down by the judicial system. Anyway, when he came to Paris, he changed his focus, I suppose. He became interested in, and then obsessed by, Nazi collaborators. He was a member of some group that did research to find them.”

“I didn't know that,” Hugo said. “What did they do when they found them?”

“Not much, I think. I mean, mostly they were very old men and women by the time they were discovered. About all they could suffer was the shame of their collaboration being made public.”

“So that's what Max and his people did? They outed the collaborators?”

“Yes. Actually, I think his friends grew weary of it after a few years. As I said, these were old people, and sometimes their young relatives didn't take kindly to the information being revealed. But not Max. As I said, for him it became an obsession.” She smiled sadly. “Do you know why he became a bouquiniste?”

“No,” said Hugo, “he and I never talked about that.”

“Well, you are too young to remember, but you may understand that during the war information was key. For both sides. Whether it was the location of munitions dumps, the routes being used to get Jews out of the country, or who was in the Resistance. But to be useful, the knowledge had to be shared, to be transported. The Gestapo were very good at extracting information, as I'm sure you know.”

Hugo grimaced. “I know of their reputation.”

“Yes. Because they were so good, the Resistance had to think of ways of protecting the information that it gathered. To protect it even as it was being transferred.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, information was smuggled in different ways, so the carrier didn't know what it said. One of the ways was in books.”

“How exactly?”

“A variety of ways. Microdots, or notes pasted under the endpapers were common. Sometimes words or letters were highlighted in invisible ink. Those were probably the methods used most often by the Resistance.”

“And the kinds of information they passed, you're not just talking about munitions dumps and German troop movements, but information about collaborators.”

“Exactly. I think—no, I know, Max believed he could locate more collaborators if he could just search enough books. That's why he became a bouquiniste; he thought it was the best way to search as many old books as possible.”

Hugo pictured Max clinging to the copy of
On War
by Carl von Clausewitz on that cold, cloudy afternoon. Now he knew why. “Poor Max,” Hugo said. “I had no idea.” He sat back and shook his head. No idea at all.

“Don't feel bad, it did not make him an unhappy man. You know him, so you know that's true. It's almost as if it gives him purpose.”

They sat in silence for a minute, then Hugo looked up. “And you knew Francoise? They are calling her death an accident.”

“Yes, I knew poor Francoise. Frankly, her death could have been an accident. She used to leave her stall and go down by the river to drink. She thought no one would know that way. Perhaps it was inevitable that one day she would fall in.” She smiled sadly. “
C'est dommage
.” A great shame.

A knock at the door interrupted them and she excused herself. Hugo turned to stare into the fire. He'd not asked about Gravois yet, she needed to process this shock first. And so far she didn't look like being much help. But then why would she? A nice house, a safe business, and hundreds of miles from Paris. No reason in the world to get involved in whatever nasty stuff was happening in and around the Seine.

A man's voice spoke beside him. “Mind if I join you?”

Hugo twisted in his seat, looked up at Tom, and grinned. “Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” Tom flopped into the vacant armchair. “I got your message and was in the neighborhood.”

“Marseille is in the neighborhood?”

Tom grinned. “What a good memory you have.”

Madame Roget arrived with a large glass of water, which she handed to Tom. “I'm going to take Sydney out, I'll be back in an hour. Please, make yourselves at home. Would you care to eat here tonight, or will you be going out? I'm happy to cook, if you don't mind peasant cuisine.”

“Let's eat here, if you don't mind,” said Tom. “Just be sure and add it to his bill.”

“
Bien
. You like pork?”

They told her they did and watched her leave. Tom looked around the room, then back at Hugo. “So did I miss the interrogation?”

“Most of it. She doesn't seem to know much, I'm afraid.”

“The picture's the same, then?”

“Sadly, no. One other bouquiniste is dead for sure.” Hugo filled him in on his encounter with Benoit on the Seine's walkway and on the details of her death. He also told Tom about his being followed and about Roussillon's interference. Then he asked. “Tell me you have good news.”

“I have news.” Tom watched him for a moment, in a way that made Hugo uncomfortable.

“Spit it out.”

“I looked into your unhelpful cop, David Durand. Word I got, he was passing the scene and offered to check it out.”

“OK. And?”

“And, sheesh.” Tom sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Here comes the real news. Your new girlfriend has been hanging out with him.”

“What?” Hugo sat forward, his eyes fixed on Tom.

“They met at a café, played kissy-face like the French do, and were still there when I strolled past twenty minutes later.”

“Doing what?”

“It was a café, what do you think?”

“I don't understand. Were you following Durand or Claudia?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hell yes.”

“Fine. Claudia.”

“Tom, what the hell?”

“You're welcome.” He threw up a sheepish smile. “You have to admit, it's interesting information.”

It was, though Hugo wasn't happy about admitting it. “So they were having coffee. No idea why?”

“Nope.”

“Did you find out who bought the book?”

“I did, actually. Can you guess?”

They locked eyes for a moment, then Hugo spoke. “Roussillon bought it, didn't he?”

“He sure did. Well, not him, but a little girl he has working for him, I forget her name.”

So did Hugo, but no matter. Roussillon again. Did Claudia know about this? “I assume you didn't approach him yet?” Hugo asked.

“Not yet. Did a little digging and saw he was a big shot and figured you might want to handle with care. Glad I did, sounds like he's a thorn.”

“Good assessment.”

“So what's the plan?”

Hugo stretched his feet toward the fire, pushing away thoughts of Claudia meeting with a detective he didn't trust. “Let's ask madame about Gravois when she gets back,” he said. “We'll see if she has any more insight into that guy. And then we'll have a nice peasant dinner.”

 

 

She cooked supper in the pot, a shank and several thick cuts of roast boar that had baked in its own juices and red wine for a good two hours—time that Hugo and Tom spent by the fire. They talked about Max and the book, but found themselves coming up with more questions than answers so they turned to old times and frequently just stared into the flames. Ceci moved back and forth from the kitchen, bringing fresh drinks and slices of local brebis cheese, and dropping new logs on the fire when the two men forgot to do it themselves.

Once, as she was cooking at around six o'clock, Hugo wandered back to the kitchen to see if he could help, and when she declined with thanks, he stood and watched approvingly as she added onions, potatoes, and handfuls of whole garlic to the pot. When he went back to his chair by the fire, he carried the rich aroma with him.

The meal was served at a battered oak table in the kitchen and Ceci ate with them, a small wood stove pumping heat into the room. She'd put a bottle of wine and three glass tumblers on the table, and the men decided it would be impolite not to partake. A second bottle, with Ceci keeping pace, saw them through to a circle of pastry covered in crème patisserie and layered with strawberries. Night closed in around them but they didn't notice, and if they had, they would have welcomed it. No reason to go out and every reason in the world to stay in.

After they'd eaten, they moved back into the living room. Ceci offered to open another bottle of wine, but Hugo had turned pensive and his mood seemed to color theirs. He knew they had more talking to do. Or, he hoped, Ceci did. He asked what she knew about Gravois.

She frowned and thought for a moment, then told them that the
man had come out of nowhere. After twelve years heading the SBP, she'd thought about retiring but didn't have enough saved and so settled in for an unopposed election and another four-year term as the union's leader. But as the election drew near, she began to hear rumblings. Not so much of discontent, she said, but of concern. And then Bruno Gravois paid her a visit.

“He was nice enough,” she said. “Polite but in that way some people have, the way that lets you know they are not always so gentlemanly. He told me that some of the bouquinistes had asked him to throw his hat into the ring.”

“Wait, was he a bouquiniste himself ?” Hugo asked.

“No. That's what was odd. That was always the tradition. I'd only run a stall for a few years, then gotten myself a part interest in a bookshop in the Third Arrondissement. But I had been a bouquiniste.”

“Interesting,” said Tom. “Did you ask him about his background? Why he of all people should be any good at the job? Or want it?”

“Of course. He told me that he was well-connected, that he could give the bouquinistes a louder voice. No, wait. ‘A bigger stick to wield,' that's the way he put it.”

“Nice image,” Hugo muttered. “Go on.”

“I remember after that he did something odd. We'd been talking with my office door open, but he got up and closed it. He came to my desk and half-leaned over it. Have you seen him? Then you'll know what he looks like. To a woman,
messieurs
, he can be quite frightening.”

“I can see that,” Hugo said. “Did he threaten you?”

“No, I don't suppose I can say that he did.” She laughed gently. “That face, the look he had, that was threat enough. He didn't use any words that, when I repeat them now, sound threatening, but after he'd closed the door like that, walked so slowly to my desk…” She looked at Hugo and shuddered. “You've seen the limp? Then you know. Anyway, he offered me money. I remember his voice, so clear and cold. It's almost funny, he offered me money the way a robber demands it. You feel like you have no choice but to go along.” She waved a hand at the living room. “And this is what I did with it.”

“And some
gites
,” said Hugo.

“Yes. It was a lot of money.”

“Didn't you wonder, though? Wonder why?” asked Tom. “Or go to the police, even?”

“And say what? That a scary man had offered me lots of money? ‘Take it!' they would have said, ‘take it, you foolish woman!' So that's what I did.”

They sat in silence for a moment, then Hugo spoke. “Did you know he offered other bouquinistes money to quit?”

“No.” She looked up. “Why would he do that?”

“I don't know,” Hugo said. “For the same reason he offered you money, whatever that is.”

“You know, I have some files here,” she said. “They may be out of date, but you are welcome to them. They'd tell you who had stalls when I left Paris, maybe you could see who has left and find out why.”

“I think that's exactly what we should do,” said Hugo.

“I can take care of that pretty easily,” said Tom. “I'll get the names, find contact info, and start calling.”

“I'll go get them,” Ceci said. She stood and went to a heavy desk at the far side of the living room. She opened a file drawer and spent a few minutes looking through it. She returned with a manila folder containing half a dozen sheets of paper and handed it to Tom. “Not much more than a list of the bouquinistes, but it's something.”

“
Merci
,” Tom said. “I'll get started first thing tomorrow. Now, what do you say about just one more little bottle of
vin de table
?”

Ceci smiled and headed into the kitchen. Hugo looked at his friend, sprawled out in his chair, disheveled and bleary-eyed.
Good to be working with you again, Tom
.

When Ceci returned, Hugo was glad to see she carried a jug of water along with the bottle, and all three of them paid more attention to it than they did the wine. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed ten times. As Hugo stood to excuse himself for the night, the house phone rang. Ceci answered it, her eyes on Hugo. “
Oui. Il est la
.” Yes, he's here. “It's for you. A woman.”

Tom stirred in his chair and mumbled, “At this time of night? Don't bother ordering one for me, I'm turning in.”

Hugo took the phone. “Hello?”

“Hugo, it's me, Claudia.” Her voice was strained.

“Claudia, are you OK?”

“Yes, I'm fine. Been trying to get hold of you for hours.”

“Sorry, no cell phone coverage here.”

“So I gather. You didn't tell me where you were staying so I had to call the embassy, get your secretary's home number, and have her tell me where you were.”

Poor Emma. “So what's going on?”

“Hugo, I'm really sorry.” He could hear her take a breath, steadying herself. “I got a call from one of my contacts at the prefecture, they found another bouquiniste in the river. I'm so sorry, Hugo. It's Max—he's dead.”