The Paris Librarian (10 page)

He shook his head and started walking again, barely registering the handsome face and athletic figure of Alain Benoît striding in the opposite direction, toward Sarah Gregory's apartment building. Hugo noticed his passing too late to say anything, only in time just to watch him walk away. And then, in a split-second, Hugo made up his mind.

He set off after the Frenchman, keeping a full thirty yards behind him and ready to duck into a store if the man stopped or turned.

Benoît didn't. He kept up his determined pace all the way to his destination, where he punched in the front-door code and disappeared inside.

The code that led to the apartment of a grieving woman.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, Hugo set off early for work. He bought two croissants to eat at his desk and was grateful that his secretary, Emma, was there to make coffee. Like everything else she did, her coffee was brewed with efficiency and to perfection.

“Why are you even here?” she asked when she brought his first cup.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“It doesn't make sense that we work in a country with so much vacation time, yet we get so little.”

Hugo smiled. “And you think complaining to me will change the vacation policy of the entire State Department.”

“Gotta start somewhere.”

“Then start with the ambassador, he's got more pull than I do.”

“I did. He said to complain to you.”

Hugo closed his eyes as he inhaled the rich coffee aroma. “If it wasn't for this nectar, I might give you extra time off regardless of what the State Department says.”

Emma raised a chiding eyebrow and went back to her desk. Half an hour later, Hugo was deleting e-mails and wondering where to eat lunch when his cell-phone rang. It was Merlyn.

“What're you doing?” she asked.

“Working hard, how about you?”

“I'm going to the Rodin Museum and gardens. Miki's headed to the library.” She paused. “Actually, she has a favor to ask.”

“Sure, fire away.”

“Here she is.”

Hugo heard the phone change hands, then, “Hi, Hugo, this is Miki.”

“Morning. How can I help?”

“I'm sorry to ask this of you, but Merlyn and I only have about ten days here, which isn't long for researching a project like this.”

“Go on.”

“Thing is, I don't mean to sound insensitive or . . . you know. But with Paul Rogers gone, I feel like my access to the Severin papers just closed off.”

“I'm sure someone there will help you, no? Michael Harmuth or Nicole Anisse. Have you talked to them?”

“I went by yesterday afternoon. Harmuth wasn't there and I get the feeling that Anisse chick doesn't like me.”

“How about Michelle Juneau?”

“She doesn't seem to like me, either.” She sighed. “Look, the thing is, it's more than just the letters and diaries and all that. I know you think it's silly and maybe there's not as much to it all as I'd like to think, but I'm absolutely certain there's a really great story here. And I don't get why they're covering it up, keeping it quiet. No one looks bad if it's true she helped the Resistance. Right?”

“I can't see a downside if that's the story, agreed.”

“So I was hoping to get a meeting with Isabelle Severin myself.”

“That sounds like a great idea.”

“Yeah, well, it's a great idea all right. But I have no clue how to contact her.”

“And that's where I come in.”

“Merlyn said you might be able to help. She said you could find anyone.”

“With the exception of Jimmy Hoffa and Bigfoot, she's probably right.”

“Jimmy who?”

“Look, I'll have to think about it. I know Ms. Severin is an icon, here and at home, so I'll need to run it by my boss.”

“Thanks, Hugo. How long will that take?”

“I'll call him right away and get back to you.”

He disconnected and dialed his boss, the former spook and always-affable Ambassador J. Bradford Taylor.

“Hugo, what's going on?”

“Nothing, a nice quiet summer. Next thing on my schedule is driving you to the airport on Friday.”

“Forget about it, I'll take the bus. So what can I do for you?”

“I'm calling about Isabelle Severin.”

“What about her?”

“Well, I have a friend who wants to meet her. I'm sure Severin has an agent or personal assistant or something, but I've no idea how to get in touch. I also wanted to make sure it was appropriate; I know she's a national treasure, so I didn't want to upset anyone by connecting my friend without due process.”

“Is this a social call your friend wants to make?”

Hugo chuckled. “Hardly. It's a friend of a friend and she's planning an article or book. She thinks Severin was some kind of spy during the war, wants access to her supposed secret papers.”

“I thought everything went to the American Library.”

“The nonsecret ones did, yes.”

“And do the secret ones even exist?” Taylor asked.

“No idea. That's what young Ms. Harrison is trying to find out. She wants to go directly to the horse's mouth, so to speak.”

“So she's a journalist.”

“Yes, freelance.”

Taylor snorted. “That's another word for
unemployed
.”

“Maybe. Which is probably why this is so important to her.”

“I suppose it'd be fine to ask for a meeting, as long as she doesn't harass Ms. Severin into it. Why don't you act as go-between?”

“I can do that. Do we have her contact information?”

“Check with Maureen, she should have it.”

Maureen Barcinski was the embassy's Cultural Affairs attaché, a ball of energy with a memory for names and faces that surpassed any Internet search engine for range, depth, and speed. One of seven kids, she was as good with people as anyone Hugo had ever met, and every Christmas she baked the most delicious chocolate cakes, one for every department at the embassy, which furthered her popularity. She answered her phone on the second ring, the familiar sing-song voice making Hugo smile.

“Maureen, it's Hugo. Question for you.”

“Hugo, it's been too long! You never come to the functions I organize, what's that about?”

“I never get your invitations, Emma must keep losing them.”

“Emma's never lost anything in her life, you lying toad. And here you are wanting my help.”

“Very thoughtless, I know. How about I come to the next one?”

“Oh, hush. What can I do for you?”

“Isabelle Severin. How do I get in contact with her? Or her assistant?”

“Oh, I know we have that information somewhere. We used to see or hear from her several times a year, but I don't think she's been in touch for quite some time. A year or two at least. Can I call you right back?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Hugo stared at his computer as he waited, looking up when Emma let herself into his office with more coffee. She frowned at the croissant crumbs on his desk but didn't offer to clean them up. Not her bailiwick, as Hugo well knew. When she'd gone, he gazed out of the window, fighting the urge to research someone in particular, but halfway through his coffee his eye fell on a book by Oscar Wilde. He took it as a sign.

He smiled to himself as he quoted the famous writer: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” He leaned forward and typed the name Alain Benoît into the computer, coming up with nearly five thousand results. He clicked on the Images button to see if he could spot his man, find out which Alain Benoît he was. He scrolled through several pages of results and then saw him, that distinctive handsome face. He was pictured with a Tour de France stage winner, each holding a glass of champagne and smiling. The caption to the photo indicated that Benoît was a journalist.

Another one
, Hugo thought. He added
journalist
to his search terms and came up with several articles the man had written, but very little personal information. Hugo read between the lines as best he could and put his feet on his desk to think. From what he'd seen, Benoît had tried early in his career to write more serious articles, then moved into sports.
A change of interest, or maybe an opportunist who goes where the money is?

A moment later, the intercom on his phone buzzed and Emma's voice came through.

“Green alert.”

“Thanks,” Hugo said. “I'm ready as I'll ever be.”

A moment later, Tom Green burst through the door, a frown on his face and his thumb jerking toward Emma.

“Does she warn you when I show up?”

“We have a special alert system. If you come in and I'm not here, it's because I disappear down the escape hatch.”

“Screw you, too.” His face brightened. “Hey, at least that means you wanted to see me this time.”

“Nope,” Hugo said. “Escape hatch is stuck.”

“Good, I'm bored. Buy you lunch?”

Hugo let his feet drop to the floor. “Wait. You're buying lunch. For me.”

“Miracles do happen.”

“Sure, but it's not even ten.”

“Oh, right. I can't buy you brunch, I never spring for brunch.”

“Shocker.” Hugo turned his computer screen toward Tom. “You ever seen this guy before?”

“Handsome devil.”

“That's a no?”

“Correct,” Tom said. “Who is he?”

“Alain Benoît, a friend of Paul Rogers. And of his fiancée.”

“I don't like the way you said that. All suspicious-like.”

“Nope,” Hugo said. “I was just curious about him.”

“Why would that be?”

“Not much to do here in the summertime.” Hugo shrugged. “He was at Paul's place the other day, when I went to tell Sarah the news. There was something odd about them, something . . . conspiratorial.”

“Nice to know someone's getting a little action.”

“He was there yesterday, too. He knows the code to the building.”

“Maybe he lives there.”

“I don't think so,” Hugo said. “His name's not on the list of residents.”

“So you resorted to a little Internet searching?”

“Just to pass the time.”

“And what did you find?”

“Not much, actually. He's a journalist, looks like a freelancer, mainly sports. But nothing much on him personally, he's not active on social media.”

Tom's eyes narrowed. “But you found something. Or made some Hugo-esque deductions.”

“The latter. If I had to guess, I'd say he comes from the north, Brittany or Normandy, and comes from money.”

“And pray tell,” Tom said, “how Sherlock comes to those conclusions.”

Hugo winked. “Elementary, my dear Tom. Those pictures of him online, he's wearing nice clothes, expensive ones. And three different watches, all more than I can afford. But for a journalist his work is sparse and not very high-profile, so he has disposable income but isn't married and isn't a big shot.”

“Hence, family money.”

“Right, but that's just a guess.”

“And he's from the north because . . . ?”

“His accent. That one was easy.”

“I'm still not clear on why we care?”

“Like I said, I was just curious and had time to kill. Hang on.” Hugo picked up his phone as it rang. “Hi, Maureen. Tom's here, I'm putting you on speakerphone.”

“Hi, Tom Green,” she said. “How's Mr. Handsome?”

“Dandy, my dear. You?”

“Fine. Got some info for your boyfriend.”

“Wouldn't touch him with a twenty-foot barge pole,” Tom said. “I know where he's been, and it's not pretty.”

“Hypocrite,” Maureen laughed. “Anyway, Hugo. I found Isabelle Severin's contact information, but it's not been updated for two years. So I checked and she's not living at that address anymore.”

“Is she still in Paris?” Hugo asked.

“No. I spoke to the concierge of her old building who said she moved into an incredibly high-priced retirement home. He didn't know the name but he said it's the kind that movie stars and former presidents live in when they don't have family.”

“When was that?”

“Over a year ago. She had to let her personal assistant go, which is a shame because they were together for fifteen years.”

“Did the concierge say why she moved to the home?” Hugo asked. “I mean, is she physically or mentally unable to live alone?”

“I have no idea, but possibly neither. My mom moved into one because she was bored living alone and wanted the company. And, you know, to get her spot at the home before she went cuckoo.”

“But in Severin's case, we don't know?”

“I have the name of her former assistant, I can give you that. Maybe you can track her down and ask.”

A simple favor was seeming like a lot of work suddenly, but Hugo conceded that he didn't have much else on his plate. “Sure, why not,” he said. “If she's easy to find, I can check and see what she knows.”

“Cool,” Maureen said. “Her name is Juneau. Michelle Juneau.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hugo headed back to the library by himself, as Tom claimed to have errands to run, and found Juneau in her office, frowning at a computer on her desk. She looked up when he let himself in without knocking.

“Monsieur Marston, you're back?”

“
Bonjour.
” He sat down, unasked, in the chair opposite her. “
Oui
, I'm back but on a more personal mission. Trying to do a favor for a friend. First, I assume you speak English.”

She looked surprised, then amused. “Of course. How would I get a job here if I didn't?”

Hugo smiled. “Fair enough. I suppose Madame Severin wouldn't have hired you if you spoke no English.”