The Bookseller (34 page)

The only remaining question was about Roussillon's death, and those pieces were falling into place, though the picture wasn't ideal.

On the plus side, though, he had two friends, one very pretty, waiting for him at home.

At the end of the Tuileries, he turned right and crossed the river on Pont Royal. He paused at the end of the bridge, eager to get away from the cold but curious to see Max's stall. It was past six o'clock, so he didn't expect anyone to be there, but somehow he wanted to go by and let his old friend know that justice was being done, that the man responsible would soon be caught or, at least, would likely never return to Paris.

Ten minutes later Hugo was within sight of the stall, the four metal boxes visible in a patch of light falling from a nearby streetlamp. He paused for a moment, then squinted, sure he'd seen movement. He had. Someone was there. He moved closer, and the man walked into the light.

Hugo didn't recognize him, his body shrouded by the long, dark coat that swept the ground every time the man stooped, his head covered for warmth. The man bent over a box, packing up, and Hugo stared. Had Gravois sent someone to close Chabot's stall, fearing an open one might look suspicious? But why would he care anymore? More likely, Hugo thought, a fellow bouquiniste had taken pity on Chabot, not wanting to leave the stall open all night. Come morning, there would have been nothing left.

As Hugo approached, the man bent over a box, trying to fill it with the stack of books in his hands. He lost his balance, just for a second, but long enough for the books to spill to the sidewalk. As the man
grabbed at them his hat slipped from his head, revealing a shock of brown hair. He straightened and kicked the box in frustration, then started picking the books up. When he stood, the yellow light from a nearby lamp washed over the man's flat, comic-book face.

 

 

Thirty yards away, Hugo's world closed in around him. The cold disappeared, the traffic blurred, and the only place in the whole of Paris with any light was the patch of sidewalk containing a thug who carried an ice pick and a silver pistol.

“Nica,” Hugo whispered. He felt a rush of anger toward the man who'd all but committed murder in front of him, the man who'd rendered him impotent and who would have happily killed him, too. He started forward and then stopped. Ambassador Taylor's admonition rang in his head. “Leave it to the French,” he'd said.

Hugo turned his back on the man as he dialed the emergency number for the police. He spoke quickly and quietly, giving the dispatcher enough information to propel her into high gear. He put the phone away, then crept forward.

As he got within twenty yards, a boat's horn sounded from the river, a long, low moan that was repeated twice more. Nica stopped what he was doing and looked over the low parapet toward the sound. Hugo did the same. A barge had changed course, plowing its way from the center of the river toward the bank, its wake a silver curve in the black water below. Nica looked away from the boat and started to work faster, and Hugo saw that he was loading something along with the books, plastic-wrapped bricks that had to be drugs.

Hugo clenched his teeth. This was Nica's escape route, the river. The same way his boss had planned to bring the drugs in to his bouquinistes. The damn river. Hugo shook his head in disgust. On their anonymous barge, Gravois, Nica, and whoever else remained could glide into central France among the industrial barges and pleasure boats and
then go wherever the hell they liked. Hugo guessed that the books Nica was loading were expensive first editions, a currency as valuable as, and easier to trade than, the bricks of dope. All of them had been stashed at Chabot's stall, held in trust for just such an eventuality.

Hugo didn't let the Romanian's impressive cunning slow him down. He put his hand inside his coat and cursed. Delacroix had his gun, and he hadn't picked up another from the embassy's armory because this was supposed to be over.

He looked up and down the broad Quai de Conti for signs of the police but saw no flashing lights and heard no sirens. Nica was moving with more purpose now, and Hugo knew it was up to him to stop the bastard from escaping. He began to run, trying to close down the space between them as fast as possible, but he only got halfway before the man looked up. The flat face stared blankly for a second, then the mouth opened in surprise, eyes sparkling as he stood frozen over his box.

But Nica didn't hesitate for long. He leapt to the open stall and scrabbled under a pile of magazines. Hugo was ten feet away when he saw the gun swing toward him, a silver flash under the street lamp, and he launched himself, arms outstretched. His fist connected with the man's forearm, knocking the gun away. A split second later they were on the sidewalk, Hugo's shoulder pressing into Nica's chest. Hugo fought for a solid grip, but Nica bucked and kicked under him, cursing as wildly as he struggled. With a howl of desperation, Nica won himself enough freedom to roll out from under Hugo and clamber to his knees.

Hugo looked around desperately for the gun and saw it near his foot. Nica dove for it, and Hugo swung his leg as hard as he could. His toe connected with the barrel and the gun skittered along the sidewalk and disappeared over the stone steps leading down to the walkway beside the river.

Hugo scrambled to his feet, ten yards behind Nica, who lurched toward the top step, winded. When he reached it he glanced back at Hugo and started down, two at a time. As Hugo crested the steps behind him, the Romanian was halfway down and stooped over the gun, the fingers of his right hand closing around the butt. Hugo leapt toward him, and just as Nica began to raise the weapon, Hugo lashed
out with his right leg and connected with his wrist. Nica lost his grip on the pistol and his arms windmilled for a second before he lost his balance and crashed down the remaining dozen steps. The gun clattered down after him and Hugo charged down, three and four steps at a time. He dropped on top of the Romanian, planting his left knee on Nica's wrist, pinning it to the ground, and drove his fist into his chest, knocking the wind out of him again.

From the street above, Hugo heard sirens approaching. He reached out and picked up the gun, then looked down at his captive. The dark eyes spewed hate, and his mouth twisted with pain and rage. “You had better kill me,” Nica hissed. “If you think you will live past tomorrow, you are wrong.”

“I'd love to.” Hugo leaned in and they locked eyes. “Or maybe I'll arrange for you to share a cell with some Africans from the Seventeenth Arrondissement. That way you can slip out of jail piece by piece.”

Nica let out a roar and bucked hard. Hugo steadied himself and drove the heel of his hand into the writhing man's throat. He stopped struggling and his face turned blue as he gasped for air.

“Now lie still like a good boy,” Hugo growled.

The sirens grew louder and Hugo turned to look toward the main road, hoping to see the blue lights of the police. Instead, a light from the river flashed over them. Hugo looked back toward the water and tightened his grip on the gun. The light came from the barge, now less than thirty yards from the bank. Two men, silhouettes to Hugo, stood on the prow, one operating the spotlight. The other stood a few inches taller, the light gleaming on his hairless skull, his body propped up by a cane. Hugo raised the gun so the men would see it, then put the barrel right between his captive's eyes.

Five long seconds later, the silhouette with the cane shifted, Gravois moving away from the light. The sounds of a shouted order drifted over the water to Hugo and the barge's engine growled louder, its bow slowly swinging away, aiming back into the Seine. Still gasping for air, the man on the ground twisted to see what was happening.

“There goes your ride,” Hugo said, and Nica cursed again.

Behind them, up on the quai, the blue lights finally arrived. Within seconds, Hugo heard a clatter of feet and shouts to drop the weapon. Four policemen, two in uniform and two in plain clothes, hurtled down the steps, guns drawn. Slowly, deliberately, Hugo put the pistol down beside him and slid it toward the foot of the steps, then raised his arms high. The uniformed officers ran up and grabbed his arms, pulling him to his feet. As his prisoner sat up, Hugo gave in to an impulse and landed the heel of his cowboy boot on the Romanian's nose, hard.

“That's for Max,” he said.

Hugo didn't resist as the two cops wrestled him away, twisting his arms behind his back to snap on handcuffs. They deposited him on the bottom step, one standing over him while the other radioed for back up. He smiled as their plainclothes colleagues cuffed the bleeding and mumbling Nica. A uniformed policeman leaned over and put a hand inside Hugo's jacket, pulling out his embassy credentials. When he saw the crest and metal badge, the cop's face clouded with uncertainty and he took the wallet to one of the detectives, who turned his back on them both and opened his phone. A minute later Hugo was out of handcuffs and pointing to the barge that chugged against the westbound current, fighting its way alongside the Ile de la Cité.

“Call Commissaire Delacroix, right now. Tell him you're watching Gravois escape.”

“
Comment
?” The detective hesitated.

“Delacroix. Call him
now
.”

He watched as the officer connected to the prefecture and was put through to Delacroix. The detective talked hurriedly, his eyes flicking from Hugo to the barge, then he went silent, nodding as he listened. The policeman hung up and looked away to their left. Hugo and the three other officers did the same, and a moment later they heard the snarl of engines and the slap-slap of two police launches that raced out of the dark and skimmed past them. Within seconds they had reached the barge, their engines throttling back as they circled it, a dark figure on the prow of one launch shouting orders through a loud hailer for the barge's pilot to make land.

Watching intently from the walkway, a sudden roar from behind made Hugo and the policemen crouch. They covered their ears as a helicopter swept overhead, its rotors buffeting them. The spotlight on its nose blanched the water below as it searched for its prey, then locked on to the barge and pinned its occupants with a beam that drenched the deck with light. A chorus of sirens grew louder and Hugo looked up as a line of flashing blue lights strung out across the Pont Ste. Michelle, the bridge in front of the barge. Dozens of black silhouettes swarmed down to the walkway to await the surrendering vessel while dozens more stayed on the bridge, leaning over the parapet to watch the spectacle, their flashlights dancing in the dark like candles on a cake.

 

 

Hugo trotted up the steps to his apartment, tired but exhilarated. Commissaire Delacroix had led the contingent of officers to the walkway, greeting Gravois and his men with an effective show of firepower and several sets of shackles. With the Romanians locked in separate police cars, Delacroix had told his men to hold Hugo until he got there. Without a word, the Frenchman had clasped Hugo's shoulders and given him a bear hug, apparently already aware of the American's tussle with the Romanian Nica. Delacroix released him and thanked him again before excusing himself. “I have a long interrogation ahead of me,” he said. “If you'd like to observe, you are welcome.”

“
Merci
. But I have a friend waiting for me.” It was his way of reassuring the policeman that he respected their earlier agreement, that this was a French capture, and that Hugo wanted neither headlines nor accolades.

Delacroix offered him an escort home, but Hugo declined. He had Tom for the immediate future, and he expected a mass exodus of Dobrescu followers heading east for the border. If they weren't already on their way, they would be as soon as they saw images of their leader clapped in irons all over the front page of
Le Monde
. They would know they were beaten; they'd been slaughtered once by the North African syndicate, tried a comeback, and been shot up all over again. Hugo guessed that staying in Paris, for revenge or any other reason, was the last thing on their minds.

When he walked into the apartment, he found Claudia sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, the fire snapping and fizzing. A full glass of wine was in front of her.

“Your second or third?” he asked.

“First, actually.” She smiled up at him. “I was waiting for you, though I wasn't going to wait much longer.”

“I got delayed.” Hugo dropped onto the sofa and worked his boots off with his feet. “Where's Tom? He'll want to hear about this.”

“He tried waiting, then went to take a shower.” She pulled herself up and wedged herself in the corner of the sofa, facing him. “Can we talk about something?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“Something's bothering me, and I need you to tell me whether I'm either insane or, well, whether I'm right.”

Hugo nodded.

“It's about my father, the way he died. Something seems not quite right, but I can't explain it. I'm not even sure about it.”

“Try me.”

“When I found my father like that, I—” her voice wavered, then strengthened again. “I stared at him, I couldn't believe it. But part of me, I guess the journalist part, noticed some things. One thing.”

“Which was?”

“Where he was shot. I mean, precisely there, the bullet hole. There was a kind of ring, red or brown, right around it.”

Hugo nodded. He'd noticed it too. And he knew why it was there, but it was a conclusion he was afraid Claudia would not like. “Go on.”

“You knew many things about my father, that he was rich, protective of me, and that he collected books. But there is something else. Did you also notice how trim he was, how fit?”

“Well, he certainly wasn't overweight, and now that I picture him, yes, I can see that.”

“Jean started teaching him judo, probably twenty years ago. He had what he called his sanctuary in a small turret at the back of the house where they would train.”

“Yes, he told me about that. He said he used it for meditation and exercise, I think.”

“Right. No one except them was allowed in.” She looked up,
a wistful smile on her face. “I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't like that. Jean was quite one for the ladies. He'd been a martial arts instructor in the army; he was some general's bodyguard. Then papa hired him. But I spent enough time with him to know he had an eye for a pretty girl.”

Hugo squeezed her hand. “I believe it, but either way I don't much care. Keep talking, though.”

“OK, so Jean always joked that my father was fast and aggressive. He said papa was not so strong and not so talented, he'd never win the Olympics, but he was fast and aggressive, those were his words.” Her large hazel eyes held his. “Hugo, that mark around the entrance wound, that means he was shot up close. That the gun was very close to his forehead, right?”

“I would say so. I'm not the expert, and neither are you, so someone else will check that out.”

“But you think I'm right.”

“I think you might be, yes.”

“Then here's what I don't understand. There's no way in the world papa would have let someone hold a gun to his head, not in his own house. When I was a teenager he would make me try and poke him with a letter opener, or a butter knife. He even did it with guests after he'd been drinking, it was embarrassing. But he took the knife away every time.”

“Fast and aggressive.”

“
Exactement
. Even if he wasn't fast enough, there would have been a struggle, the shot would not have been so clean. It just doesn't seem right, it doesn't add up for me.”

She sat back, and Hugo looked at her, not speaking.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you know, what you think.”

“When we spoke, your father reminded me that the truth can be painful, that revealing it sometimes does nothing but release the ghosts of the past into the present.”

She cocked her head. “What are you talking about? What are you hiding from me?”

“I don't know if it's the truth, Claudia. I am not sure of anything. But I don't think Gravois killed your father.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had no reason to. I thought at first that your father had confronted him about Max, maybe threatened to tell the police what he knew, go public somehow. But your father never called Gravois, he didn't call anyone between the time I left him and the time you found him. As far as I know, he never even left his library.”

“What are you saying, Hugo?”

“I spoke to Capitaine Garcia less than an hour ago. There was nothing on the security tapes, nothing at all. They'd been switched off.”

“Gravois did that.”

“No, it's a sophisticated system. He wouldn't have had time to figure that out. And it hadn't been smashed or obviously tampered with.”

“You're not suggesting Jean, are you?”

“Jean?” Hugo shook his head. “No, I'm not. Do you think he had reason to harm your father?”

“Of course not,” Claudia said. “They were like brothers.”

“Right. That's what I thought.”

Claudia grasped his wrist, her voice urgent. “What are you suggesting?”

“Your father was distraught when I told him about Max, very upset indeed. He knew that the call he'd placed to Gravois had likely sentenced the old man to death. It wasn't his fault, he couldn't have known at the time, but he associates so much death and misery with that book. I think by getting his hands on it your father thought he'd be putting a stop to all that, not starting it all over again. I think, too, that your father knew that Gravois wouldn't care what he said, since he was no real danger. Gravois could kill him, threaten to kill you, even ignore him, and your father couldn't do a damn thing because he had no proof of Gravois's involvement in Max's death.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“That Gravois didn't have a reason or opportunity to kill your father.”

“So who did?”

They looked at each other, Hugo waiting for Claudia to catch up to him, to be at the same point of understanding.

When she got there, she began to shake her head. “No, no, it's not possible.”

“It's possible Claudia, and I think quite likely.”

“You think he killed himself and wanted the police to blame Gravois? That's ridiculous.”

“No, it's not. If you'd seen his face when I told him about Max, you'd know. And then his illness, he told me about that.”

Claudia nodded. “He was terrified of that. He didn't want to lose his dignity or to have me or Jean have to cart him around like a vegetable. His words, not mine. But to kill himself ?”

“No one ever thinks their family members capable of it. And maybe I'm wrong, but it adds up. You yourself said he would have fought back.”

Claudia chewed her lip, shaking her head every few seconds. She looked up, triumph in her eyes. “But there was no gun. I didn't see one and the police didn't find one. He can't have killed himself.”

“And this is how we'll know the truth, if I'm right.”

“What do you mean?”

“You father was a huge Sherlock Holmes fan, yes?”

“
Oui
. So what?”

“Well, so am I. Or I used to be. I read them all when I was in high school and college. I think they fueled my desire to get into law enforcement, to solve mysterious crimes and catch ruthless bad guys. Anyway, as I remember it, one of his stories is about a man who is found dead on a bridge. The murder weapon, a gun, is found in the possession of his mortal enemy. Open and shut case of murder. Except that Holmes sees a bit of the bridge's stonework chipped off. He does some thinking and some measuring, and he realizes that the gun the police found was one of a pair. The other was missing. The police couldn't find it and didn't much care, and no one else knew where it had gone. So Holmes jumps into the stream beneath the bridge and fetches it out.”

“Hugo, I don't understand.”

“The dead man had shot himself. He'd tied the gun to a rock, which he'd dangled over the edge of the bridge. When he pulled the trigger and fell to the ground, the weight of the rock pulled the gun into the water, chipping the stonework of the bridge in the process. Suicide designed to look like murder.”

“The pond outside the library window.”

“Yes, you remember that the window was open. Not what you'd expect on a freezing winter day. If I'm right, the pond is where the gun will be.”

They sat in silence for a minute, and Hugo noticed Tom standing in the hallway near his room, listening. He walked in and sat down, saying nothing.

“But if you're right, why would he do that? My father was all about the truth, wasn't he?”

“Yes,” Hugo said, “he was. And maybe he knew that sooner or later we'd figure out the truth. And remember that he was also about justice, and he wanted to make sure Gravois saw justice for what he did to Max. He told me that himself.” Hugo smiled. “This time, maybe he was putting justice ahead of truth, just for a little while.”

Claudia sat quietly for a moment, staring into the fire, before looking up. “One thing. You said yourself that there was no evidence pointing to Gravois, not directly.”

“No, but once someone gets their interest, the police don't need direct evidence to investigate. He believed that once a spotlight fell on Gravois they would find some pretty ugly stuff.”

“And he was right,” said Tom. “That creepy fucker.”

“He was trying to do the right thing,” said Hugo, “and he was dealing with the guilt and the dementia at the same time. I'm sorry, Claudia, I really am.”

Claudia folded herself over and lay down in Hugo's lap. Tom stood and moved to the whisky bottle, pouring three generous servings, which he handed out. “So Sherlock,” he said, “now you just have to find the book and, if you're not too busy, Gravois. Together under a bridge somewhere?”

“No,” smiled Hugo. “Not the book, anyway. That's at my office.”

Claudia and Tom reacted at the same time. “What?”

“Max mailed it to me at the embassy. I didn't know until tonight because I've been on vacation and didn't check my mail. Emma only told me about the urgent stuff. She didn't know the book was important, so she didn't tell me.”

“Why would he do that?” Claudia asked. “Why mail it to you?”

“I'm not entirely sure.” Hugo frowned and shook his head. “Maybe because he knew it was valuable and would be safe with me.”

“He could have given it to you in person, no?”

“I think he looked at it between the time I first saw it and the time I went back with the money I owed him.”

“Why not just give it to you then?”

“Remember something about Max. He'd been dealing with Nazi hunters, collaborators, and then Gravois's men. He was probably pretty paranoid and he wouldn't have wanted to risk losing the book. And if he knew he was going to have to deal with Gravois, as your father said, he'd probably have known the bastard would take the book for his own ends and as soon as possible. Maybe he'd seen Nica lurking and was trying to protect me. There's a post office close to his stall, it would have been easy for him to run across the street and mail it off, make it good and safe immediately.”

“But why not tell you?” asked Tom.

“I'm afraid I don't know,” said Hugo, “but the unpleasant thought occurred to me that Max was going to play hardball with your father, to extort a significant amount of money for the book and for his silence. Retirement money. I'm just guessing, of course, but his mood did change in the hour between our meetings. And if I'm right about that, he wouldn't have wanted me to know about the contents of the book or his plans; he'd have wanted some time to think up a reason for mailing it to me. Maybe we'll never really know.”