The Paris Librarian (17 page)

“Next to our library is the library of American University. It takes up the majority of the block we're on. It leads into that.”

“You're telling me you have a secret door into the American University's library?”

“You make it sounds so dramatic, Hugo. It's a locked door that we never use, and are not allowed to.”

“Do you have access to a key?”

“Well, sure, I guess we do.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“We keep a set of all the keys in the administration area. Specifically in a red box behind the photocopier.”

“Is the box itself locked?”

“No. There's no need. Only staff and volunteers are allowed back there.”

“All of whom would have access to those keys?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And how many staff and volunteers does the library have?”

“Well, we have eleven employees and a revolving number of volunteers. Over the course of a year, probably a hundred.” He cleared his throat. “Look, you're making it sound like we're being careless with those keys, but we've never had a problem.”

“Not one that you know about, anyway.”

“You think someone's been using those keys? To get into the university next door?”

“I think someone did at least once, yes.”

“Who?” Harmuth demanded.

“Now, that I don't know.”

“What happened, then, can you tell me that?”

“I really don't know if anything did happen. Anything illegal, that is. But if you'll forgive me, I need to let Lieutenant Lerens know about it, and I should be telling her before I tell anyone else, don't you think?”

“I guess,” Harmuth said grudgingly. “But I'm in charge of the place right now, so if there are nefarious goings-on, I'd like to be kept informed.”

“Absolutely.” Hugo tried a joke. “I promise, you'll be the second to know.”

Harmuth smiled. “Fair enough. Next left, if you didn't know.”

“I did, but thanks.” Hugo turned left, then eased the car to the curb in front of the library's main doors. “Thanks for your help today, much appreciated.”

“Sure thing. I feel so bad for the old lady.”

“You said you guys were handling the funeral arrangements. Any word?”

“Yes, actually. We have to wait for the police to release the bodies, but when they do we have a crematorium lined up to handle things.”

“Cremation?”

“Sure, of course. Paul and Sarah were both real hippies about recycling, being green and leaving a small footprint. They were starting to get into the alternative-medicine stuff, too, which Michelle and I were glad to see.”

“Michelle Juneau?”

“Yes. She's the one who steered me toward most of this stuff. Didn't I mention that before? Anyway, cremation's not ideal but it's better than the whole burial circus.”

“But aren't Paul and his mother Catholics?”

“I know, so what?”

“I was under the impression that Catholics were opposed to cremation. Did you run this by Claire Rogers?”

“Well, no. I mean, originally Michelle asked the old lady if she had any requests or requirements, but she told us to handle everything, have us at the library decide. If she was opposed to cremation, that would've been the time to say so.”

“Maybe she didn't consider that it was an option.”

“Hugo, I know you're not meaning to be difficult but, look. This has been a nightmare for everyone involved, Madame Rogers and everyone at the library who knew Paul and Sarah. I'm just trying to keep everything together right now, and I'm not going to second-guess Michelle's booking of the crematorium on the basis that a senile woman might object.”

“That senile woman is Paul's mother.” Hugo held up a pacifying hand. “I'm just saying someone might want to run it by her, that's all.”

Harmuth opened the door. “I'll do that next chance I get.” He gave a tight smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

Hugo watched as Harmuth pushed his way into the library, and he wondered whether he should park and check out that secret door. If Michelle Juneau really had heard someone else down there with Paul Rogers, that seemed the most likely avenue of retreat for the mysterious companion. His thought process was interrupted when his phone rang. It was Lerens.

“Camille, miss me already?” Hugo asked.

“
Absolument.
I thought you'd be interested to know that I had an analyst take a look at the two computers Paul Rogers used. His laptop and his desktop at the library.”

“They let you?”

“Yes, and it's a simple process nowadays. Our people can basically insert an external drive and mirror everything on the computer. Not download, but mirror.”

“Not my forte, but sounds impressive,” Hugo said. “What did you find?”

“Not much of interest on his home computer, but on the work one he'd been doing some research on poisons.”

“For his book, probably.”

“
Non
, I did a search of the manuscript. Nothing in it about poisons.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“He looked at one in particular. Curare.”

Hugo frowned. “Isn't that a South American root or something?”

“It's a plant extract, but yes. I'd heard of it but didn't know much about it, until now. Apparently Indians in South America use it on the tips of their arrows. It takes effect immediately and paralyzes the muscles so the animal, or person, suffocates. The effects don't last long, though, and if you get artificial respiration you can survive.”

“Fascinating stuff,” Hugo said, “but I assume you're not suggesting Paul was shot by a bow-and-arrow-wielding Colombian tribesman.”

“No. But it's possible to test for it, and I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't test his remains.”

“Well, you can, but I watched the video surveillance. No one went in or out, no one saw or touched him, or gave him anything to eat or drink. If the effects start immediately and wear off quickly, he wasn't poisoned before he went into the
atelier
.” He sighed. “What I'm trying to ask is, How do you see this as a possibility?”

“No idea,” she said lightly. “I'm just ordering the test, Hugo, not claiming it as a fact.”

“Test that water bottle for it, then, too.”

“
Merci bien.
No way I'd have thought of that,” she said.

“Sorry, I did it again, didn't I?” Hugo said. “I love the investigation process, but I do like to be in charge of it.”

“That's OK, I'll get over it,” Lerens said. “Doctor Sprengelmeyer is doing the preliminary test this evening; I'll call with any result. What's your plan?”

“I was thinking about paying a visit to our journalist friend, Alain Benoît. Do you need to come with me?”

“Yes, definitely. We've gone beyond the point of you poking casually around to see what you can turn up. With Sarah Gregory's bruising and now this poison twist, I need you to include me on everything. Preferably, I'll be the one deciding whether to include
you
.”

“They both qualify as American citizens, remember.”

“I know, but let's put it this way: If you interview a witness without me present, it'll need to be in accordance with our procedures. Which means it's recorded, and afterward you have to type up a report to go in the investigation file.”

“I'm not about to drown myself in paperwork, so I'll wait for you to be available. Shall we say seven tonight?”

“No. I have a date. I'll pick you up at your apartment at nine tomorrow morning.”

“A date? Who with?”

“I don't kiss and tell, Hugo. And if you send Tom to follow me, which I know he'd love to do, I'll shoot you both.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning, Hugo waited for Camille Lerens on the sidewalk, ignoring the curious eyes of the passers-by who watched as he climbed into the police car. Their plan was to drive out to Alain Benoît's house in Vincennes and ask him about his friendship with Sarah Gregory and Paul Rogers. They'd discussed doing the interview over the phone or asking Benoît to come to the police station, but Hugo had insisted that the element of surprise might be useful. If Sarah's death was indeed murder, Hugo pointed out that Benoît was about the only real suspect they had, and they'd need every advantage possible.

Hugo felt his stomach rumble as he buckled his seatbelt, cursing Tom for cleaning out the fridge, again, and not restocking it. He nodded to Lerens that he was ready but just as they were about to pull away, Merlyn turned the corner into Rue Jacob.

“Hold on,” Hugo said, and lowered the window. “Hey, you. Not looking for me, are you?”

“Yes, actually,” Merlyn said. She stopped, waved, and smiled at Lerens. “
Bonjour, je suis
Merlyn.”

“This is Lieutenant Lerens,” Hugo said. “I've told you all about each other, good bits and bad.”

“Uh-oh,” said Merlyn with a smile. “You guys coming or going?”

“We're just heading out, what's up?”

“Heading out where?” Merlyn demanded. “I've barely seen you. Don't tell me you work weekends, too.”

“Occasionally. How about we have dinner tonight, my treat.”

“In that case, I want to eat at Les Deux Magots, where Hemmingway used to drink and write.”

“That's a little touristy, isn't it?” Hugo said. Merlyn frowned, so he added, “But still fun, it's a neat place. Meet you there at seven?”

“Sure. Where are you guys going?” Merlyn asked.

“To see a man about a horse.” Hugo winked. “Or whatever the Parisian version might be. What about you, any plans?”

“Thought I'd wander around, maybe stumble into a museum.”

“Where's Miki?”

“I don't know. She was gone when I woke up this morning. She was on the phone with some guy last night, then went out to meet him and I didn't see her all evening. But she should be back by dinner.”

“Invite her, if you want. How's her story coming along?”

“Not well,” Merlyn said. “She's a little frustrated, I think. Or desperate, if you'd rather put it that way.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Well, no one's helping her. Not a criticism, don't take it that way. But with what's happened at the library, no one has the time or inclination to talk. I mean, they'll bring her the collection bit by bit, but it's the back story she wants.”

“Still assuming there is one.”

“She's sure of it. She found letters between Isabelle Severin and Josephine Baker.”

“Oh, yes? The singer?”

“Seriously, Hugo? She was more than a singer. She was a spy, too, or so Miki says. Traveled around Europe gathering information on German troop movements and stuff like that. She used to pin notes inside her underwear, and because she was famous, she wasn't searched.” Merlyn shrugged. “Miki thinks Severin did the same kind of thing, used her status to get access and information.”

“Plus stab Gestapo officers. Or was it SS?”

“Are you making fun of her, or of me?”

“Neither. So what was in the letter?” Beside him, Camille coughed unsubtly.

“She didn't say exactly, although I got the impression she was a little disappointed. There was some sheet music in there, too, but apart from that, I have no idea.”

“Original sheet music, eh?” Hugo said. “That's kind of cool. I'll let her tell me about it tonight. Need a ride anywhere?”

“In the back of a cop car? Been there, done that. Actually, I like this part of the city so I'm happy to walk.” She waved at Hugo and Camille Lerens, then turned back the way she'd come, a slow saunter in the direction of the flower sellers on Rue de Buci.

Lerens pulled away from the curb and drove them east across Paris toward Vincennes, the roads relatively quiet on a Saturday morning. As she drove, she talked.

“So I asked you before but didn't get much of an answer. What's going on with you and Claudia?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you two are good together. You're happy when you're with her.”

“Am I usually unhappy?”

“No, you're just Hugo. Slightly serious Hugo, who needs lightening up and a good woman to love.”

Hugo looked out of the window. “Yeah, you may have something there.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Yesterday, as it happens.”

“Yesterday?” Lerens punched him on the arm. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm not Tom, I'm more like you. I tend to keep my love life to myself. Such as it is.”

“Yeah, that's like Hugo Lloris not bragging about the goals he's scored for France.”

“What now?”

“He's a goalkeeper. They don't score, so he's got nothing to brag about.” She looked over her shoulder and changed lanes. “Like you.”

“You know, I've been following football for several years now, so no need to patronize me.” Hugo heard huffiness in his tone, so lightened it. “What about you, how was the date?”

“Don't change the subject.”

“You just told me I have nothing to talk about.” Hugo shook his head in mock disgust. His phone rang, and he answered, glad to dodge any more questions. “Hugo Marston.”

The voice on the other end snapped with anger. “Monsieur Marston, this is Janelle Cason. From Madame Severin's place of residence.”

“
Bonjour, madame
, how can I help you?”

“I told you to make an appointment. I was very clear about that indeed.”

Hugo kept his voice calm. “And that's what I did yesterday, I requested an appointment and left my contact details. I presume that's how you have my phone number.”

“Maybe you did, but I've called the police, and if they see you here you'll be arrested.”