The Bookseller (26 page)

 

 

Garcia offered to drop Hugo at the metro station at Place de Clichy. He wouldn't be needed at the restaurant, the policeman told him, as they'd have to identify Alex Vacher's body through fingerprints.

Outside the station, Hugo shook hands with Garcia and promised to call later if he found any new information about the book. Hugo thought that the capitaine was a little embarrassed, or uncomfortable, at leaving that line of questioning to an outsider. But with no evidence to suggest a link to the book, and given Roussillon's privileged position, they both knew that even the suggestion of a police investigation would be unwelcome.

Hugo also felt that by leaving Roussillon to him, Garcia was intentionally showing his trust, perhaps even an apology for the way Hugo had been treated early on in the investigation, for Garcia's own brusque tone at the prefecture. For his part, Hugo had never really minded Garcia's suspicious nature and he appreciated that the capitaine had been willing to revise his opinions. Not many senior cops were so open minded, Hugo thought, and such flexibility of mind showed Garcia's confidence and intelligence. And having spent a few hours with Garcia, there was an honest charm to the man that Hugo liked.

From the street, Hugo called Roussillon's house. One of the servants answered and politely asked him to wait. After a minute, Roussillon came on the line.

“Monsieur Marston, how are you?”

“I'm fine. I went by to see Claudia this morning, she looked good.”

“She does, doesn't she? The doctor said that just being shot is
enough to make the body shut down, even a minor flesh wound like hers.” He sighed. “I can't help but feel very lucky. And grateful. I just got back from the hospital myself, they are releasing her today. I have arranged for an ambulance to bring her home.”

“Good. She's a tough one, I'll say that much. And I guess we both got lucky.” He cleared his throat. “Gérard, the other reason I'm calling is to come by and see the book.”
And to ask how you know Gravois
, he thought. “My friend Tom came by earlier but you were out.”

“Yes, I'm sorry. I went to the hospital and then had a sudden business matter, nothing important to me, but it was to my colleague. You know how people can be.”

“I do,” said Hugo. “May I come by now?”

“If you want.” He wasn't sure, but Hugo thought he detected a note of hesitancy in Roussillon's voice.

“I don't want to impose, but it's important.”

“To you, I see that.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later Hugo tried calling Tom from the platform at Place de Clichy, but got no answer. With any luck he had his nose in a Monet. Hugo smiled at himself; he felt like a parent now that Tom was around. When they were together his old friend was fun, interesting, and excellent company, but when he had the run of the city, Hugo could never quite shake the feeling that Tom was up to something.

Hugo smiled at the thought, especially because he planned to do some snooping of his own before visiting Roussillon. Snooping from the comfort of his office at the embassy.

He began with the databases of France's foreign intelligence agency, the DGSE, and got no hits. He then tried the domestic intelligence network, the DCRI. A new screen came up, one he'd not seen before. It contained the name “Alain de Roussillon,” several addresses including the house Gérard lived in now, and his dates of birth and death. After
the general information page, the
Notes
tab was the only one Hugo was able to see, which puzzled him. He clicked on it and all that came up was what looked like a reference number: OIM-67892-01946. Hugo sat back and wondered.

He turned to his computer again and cleared the screen. He tried a general Internet search on the Roussillon family, but after half an hour was coming across the same information over and over again, none of it useful.

He then went to the website of
Le Monde
and typed in “Anton Dobrescu.” He paged through the articles but didn't learn anything new. He was interested to see a picture of the man, though. It looked like a surveillance photo, a good one. He stood taller than the man he was with, unidentified in the caption, and he had a full head of black hair. Thick, dark eyebrows sat over a heavy nose and his cheeks were pale but looked like slabs of meat.
A strong, healthy Romanian
, Hugo thought,
who might have been a farm laborer or dock worker
.

As he looked at the picture, a thought tugged at him, a question, and he called Garcia to try and get it answered.

“
Merde
, are you serious?” Garcia hesitated. “You really need that?”

“Yes. And he won't know.”

“I suppose it's not like we're actually bugging his phone, right?”

“Right,” Hugo said, giving the capitaine the reassurance he was seeking. “And all I want are the records from one day, just one day. I promise.”

“
D'accord
. I'll get my lieutenant to e-mail instructions. If you're in a hurry he can call you, he's good at this stuff, gets all kinds of records for me.”

“I'm in a hurry. You sure we don't need a subpoena or court order?”

Garcia snickered. “I don't know. But my lieutenant does, and he also knows if he doesn't do it by the book he'll feel my boot up his behind.”

Hugo grinned. He liked a by-the-book policeman. Especially because, every now and again, he had a tendency to push the bounds of what one former boss had called “procedural acceptability.” Working
with a straight-shooter like Garcia was a healthy reminder of the rules and what might happen if he pushed too hard. They rang off and Hugo wondered if that was how Tom saw him, the rock of propriety in his ever-shifting world.

Hugo brought himself back to the present as he closed his office door behind him, an idea growing in his mind. His immediate need, though, was a taxi.

Traffic clogged the main arteries leading out of the city center, forcing the taxi driver to duck down smaller streets where they were at the mercy of stop lights and pedestrians lingering in the crosswalks. At each turn Hugo checked his cell phone, willing it to ring, checking the signal and battery strength. It took almost an hour to reach Roussillon's house from the embassy, and the lieutenant finally called just as they were pulling into Roussillon's tree-lined street, as tranquil in the day as it was at night. Hugo sat in the idling taxi while he got the information he needed, then got out and tipped its driver more handsomely than was customary in Paris.

“
Merci
,” said the cabbie, eyeing the bills. “You would like me to wait?”

“
Non
,” Hugo said. “I'll manage.”

As Hugo walked up the front steps the door opened and Hugo recognized Jean, his driver from the night of the party. “Monsieur Marston,
bienvenue
. Please, come in, le Comte asked me to show you to the library.”

Jean led him past the large table in the reception hall, its oversized vase brimming with a new crop of fresh flowers, and Hugo nodded his thanks as the driver held open the door to the library.

The room still smelled of wood smoke and cigars, but Hugo could smell the books now, too, that familiar and comforting mustiness.
If peace had a smell
, he thought,
it would be the smell of a library full of old, leather-bound books
. He looked around but didn't see Roussillon, so he
walked over to one of the shelves and began to look for familiar titles. He spotted a row devoted to the history and practice of hand-to-hand combat, judo, and the other grappling arts. Not Hugo's area of interest, but above it were two shelves filled with the works of Arthur Conan Doyle and his finest creation, Sherlock Holmes. Hugo paid particular attention to a three-volume set of books covered in gray cloth, with black and gilt lettering on their spines.

He pulled the first volume out,
A Study in Scarlet
, and admired the gilt embellished pictorial cover plate depicting Sherlock Holmes smoking a pipe.

“First edition, published in 1903,” said a voice behind him. Roussillon. Hugo hadn't seen him slip into the room. He wore dark blue jeans and a white collared shirt. A pale blue sweater was draped around his shoulders.

“You are a fan?” Hugo said, indicating the many Holmes books.

“Oh yes, the finest detective ever created. By far. Brilliant but flawed, a nuanced character that you so rarely see these days. Can you imagine a heroin addict as the hero in a modern novel? Of course not, it would never happen. They are all tall and strong and handsome and shoot like Wild Bill Hickock.” Roussillon ran his fingertips over the spines. “I can say I have read every single one of his adventures, several times, and they still delight me.”

“I agree completely. You have a fine collection.”

“Thank you.” Roussillon straightened a book and then offered a manicured hand to Hugo. They shook and Roussillon thanked him again for saving Claudia's life.

“Come,” Roussillon said. He moved away from the fireplace toward the back of the library, and Hugo followed. A glass cabinet had been built into the wall, rows of shelves from floor to ceiling protected by thick glass. De Roussillon rapped on the glass with his knuckles. “Bulletproof,” he said. “For the stars of my collection.”

Hugo studied the books behind the glass. “
L'Étranger
, by Camus. Very nice. Softcover?”

“Yes. So only valued at about fifteen thousand of your dollars.”

“Only?” Hugo shook his head. “
Paradise Lost
, too.”

“I got that for twenty-five thousand. A steal. It's first edition, from 1668. Print run of just thirteen hundred copies. And did you know, Milton himself was paid just ten pounds? Amazing.”

“It is. Clearly the Rimbaud fits into such esteemed company.”

“Oh yes.” Two armchairs had been placed near the cabinet, their backs to it and a low table between them. Hugo now noticed that two glasses of water sat on the table. “Please sit. I will show you the Rimbaud.”

“Wait. Let's talk first, if you don't mind.”

Hugo moved around to the chairs and played host, gesturing for Roussillon to sit. The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then went to the empty chair and lowered himself into it, eyes on Hugo. “Is this about Claudia?”

“No,” said Hugo. “It's about your father.”

“My father?”

“Yes.” Hugo had thought he'd seen a shadow pass across Roussillon's face, but now the eyes and mouth were smiling.

“What about him?”

It was Hugo's turn to smile. “I think you know, Gérard.”

Roussillon spread his hands. “
Non
, I'm sorry I don't.”

“Then let me ask you about another book, before we talk about the Rimbaud. It's called
On War
, and it's by…well, you know who wrote it, don't you?”

“Yes.” There was the shadow again, there and gone in a moment. “Carl von Clausewitz. But then, any respectable book collector can tell you that.”

“I suppose so. Do you own a copy, by any chance?”

“No, I don't. What exactly is this about?” Roussillon's tone was harder now.