The Paris Librarian (3 page)

“I think I already knew about the rumors but yes, she said you were looking into whether or not that was true.”

“I'm pretty sure it is, but she doesn't want anyone to know.”

“So shouldn't it stay a secret?”

Miki smiled. “Merlyn said you were kind of a Boy Scout.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, if one of the most famous actresses of the last century went up against, and defeated, the Gestapo, that should be public knowledge, especially seventy years later. What's the harm?”

“Maybe that's for her to decide.”

Miki's voice hardened. “I've never known a historian or journalist to ask permission from their subject, so I'd say no, it's not.”

“I'm with you on that,” Tom interjected. “But aren't there books about her already?”

“One or two, but nothing published recently.” Miki nodded. “But they barely touch on her travels, and whatever else she got up to in France. Since her papers have just been donated to the American Library here, I'm hoping there's something new and different I can share with the world about her role in the war.”

“You're sure she had a role?” Hugo asked.

“Yes. At least, I think so.” She flashed a smile. “If I get to see all her papers, I'll find out.”

“Seems like a tough story to dig up.”

“I like a challenge,” she said. “And once I get my teeth into something like this I don't give up until I get the truth, all of the truth. If there's a story there, I'll get it one way or another.”

“Very admirable. You know what, let me call my friend at the library right now.” Hugo stood. “A little noisy in here, I'll be right back.” He walked out of the café and found a shaded spot on the sidewalk. He dialed Paul Rogers, who answered quickly. “Paul, Hugo Marston again. Hope this is a good time.”

“Change your mind about the book?”

“Not at all. It's about a new collection you guys have. Isabelle Severin's papers.”

“Ah, yes, I'm in charge of those, as it happens. What do you want to know?”

“I have a friend here, she's planning to write a book about Severin. She seems to think the actress was involved in the war, some kind of spy or something.”

Rogers didn't reply immediately. “Well, I've not gone through everything yet, a lot of it still needs to be catalogued. But I haven't seen anything along those lines.”

“You don't sound terribly sure.”

“She was definitely an interesting woman, so it's not impossible. But like I said, I've not been through everything yet. There's a ton of stuff on the Internet which might interest you, and we have one or two books in the library about her life, too.”

“I may check those out.”

“Not anymore, if you meant that literally. We've moved them into the collection, keeping everything related to her together in one place. You're welcome to come by and look at it, just not check anything out.”

“Including the secret stuff?”

“Again, nice try. I'm just sorry I can't tell you more.”

“I understand. I wouldn't ask you to compromise yourself, don't worry. Although maybe we can talk more tomorrow morning, I'm quite curious now.”

Rogers chuckled. “Of course you are—that's your nature. I don't think I'll be able to tell you much more, but sure, we can talk. Oh, do me a favor and come around eleven will you?”

“Sure thing.”

“Another secret, but this one I can tell you. I'm writing a book.”

“You are? That's great, and seems appropriate for a librarian.”

“I've always wanted to, and I'm not getting any younger. I decided I just need to go for it, make myself do it. So every morning I shut myself in a spot in the basement that I've converted into a writing room, lock the door, and don't let myself out until I've written two thousand words.”

“How long does that take you?”

“Well, I do my research at home the evening before—the Wi-Fi reception in the little room where I write is worse than useless. But that way I'm primed and ready to go the next morning, so anywhere from one to three hours, depending on my mood, inspiration, and work distractions. I try to start around eight or nine, finish by eleven.”

“What are you writing?”

“It's kind of a science fiction crime thriller. Takes place in the future, and also the past. Time-travel stuff. Sounds silly, I know, but . . . there you have it.”

“I think it's fantastic, actually,” Hugo said. “I couldn't ever write a novel, so I admire anyone who can, regardless of subject matter.”

“It remains to be seen whether I can finish it.” Rogers laughed. “But so far so good.”

“Well, best of luck with it; I'm impressed.” Hugo turned as Tom, Merlyn, and Miki stepped out of the café. “I better get going. I'll see you tomorrow around eleven?”

“You bet.”

Tom and Hugo walked slowly behind Merlyn and Miki, who linked arms and took in everything around them.

“That your buddy at the library?” Tom asked. “Bald guy in his forties, with the super-hot American wife in her twenties?”

“Fiancée, I think, or just girlfriend. But yes, that'd be him. Paul Rogers.”

Tom wagged a finger. “He's one of those guys who's way more interesting than he appears. Like your buddy Max, the
bouquiniste
.”

“Oh, I know, I vetted him for embassy-related reasons.” Hugo thought of Max often, the gruff, grumpy, but painfully honest bookseller who'd been kidnapped from his stall beside the Seine. For a while, Hugo was the only one looking for Max, and in the process he had discovered the man's fascinating history as a Nazi hunter, something Hugo had no idea about. It was another lesson that you never really knew about people, only what they wanted you to see. Unless, like Hugo or Tom, you were very good at discovering people's pasts, digging up their secrets.

“Yeah, adopted by a rich but kooky French lady. She shipped him off to America to live with relatives, go to boarding schools on the East Coast. He grew up an American, only came here for the occasional vacation until about twenty years ago.”

“How do
you
know all this?”

Tom nudged him playfully. “Guess.”

Hugo thought for a moment. The two men had been best friends ever since they met at the FBI Academy in Quantico, living and working together over the years. Their paths had split when they left the FBI and Tom got recruited to work for the CIA, a move that suited his reckless side. But that last year at the bureau and the rigors and expectations of his new job had changed his friend. He drank too much and was prone to fighting in bars several times a year, a trait that was manageable except that Tom usually picked on people much larger than him. And, occasionally, cops. An interest in librarians like Paul Rogers was definitely not going to be recreational, even if the man had a beautiful girlfriend.

“I would say,” Hugo began, “that since he's a dual citizen and gets to live in either country . . . and has a wealthy, presumably high-society mother, he came across your radar at the CIA as either a potential asset or a possible target.”

Tom slapped Hugo on the back. “Smart man. Both, as it happens.”

“Both?”

“He was zipping back and forth a lot as a kid. Some people at the Company have this phobia about sleepers, children raised in the US and groomed to be spies. There have been a few, but there were also a few dinosaurs in the past, if you know what I mean. As with dinosaurs, TV and movies keep the threat alive, so when baldy Rogers attracted attention he, well, attracted attention. Although he wasn't bald back then.”

“How very interesting,” Hugo said. “You guys have your beaks everywhere, don't you?”

“Some places you wouldn't much like, my friend. Anyway, that's not all of it.”

“Keep going.”

“He had a brother, a few years older. He wouldn't even remember him, because Rogers was not even two when he was adopted, this other kid was seventeen. Real kid, the old woman's flesh and blood, not adopted.”

“This'll surprise you, Tom, but adopted kids are real kids, too.”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, this brother, Michel, or something. Quite the handful. Into drugs, women, not going to school. Angry little man whose fist put him in contact with the juvenile justice system here. To hear the mother tell it, he had this girlfriend and both sets of parents were against it. She was black, he was lily-white, and no one approved. One fine day he and this girlfriend eloped, drove up to the Normandy coast and . . . that was that.”

“They married and lived happily ever after?”

“Quite the opposite. Drove their car off a cliff into the ocean, holding hands all the way down.”

“Seriously? They found them like that?”

“No, silly, they only found part of one of her legs and deduced the rest from the carnage. And a motorist saw the car go over the edge. It might have been an accident, but given that his mother had threatened to cut him off, well, there was also talk of a double suicide.”

Hugo shook his head. “Crazy story. Does Paul know all this?”

“Dunno. You can ask him next time you see him.”

CHAPTER THREE

On Monday morning Hugo worked from the dining table in his living room so he could enjoy the sun streaming through the main windows, which he opened just enough to allow in the sounds of a waking Paris. He made three pots of coffee, all of which were awful, and resisted the temptation to grab a book and enjoy a quiet, and decent, café crème in one of the nearby cafés.

At ten thirty Tom emerged from the spare room, rubbing his head and grousing about the sludge in the coffee pot.

“You're a man of many talents, Hugo,” he said.

“Yeah, I know, making coffee isn't one of them.”

“You need a wife. What's going on with Claudia and you?”

“I think they call it casual dating,” Hugo said. “It's fine, we're both happy.”

“Sure you are. Has she met Merlyn yet?” An edge in Tom's voice suggested there was more to the question than just the words.

“You know she hasn't; Merlyn just got here. And Merlyn's my friend, Tom, nothing more. She's just a kid.”

“Almost thirty.”

“Friend. Kid. And you're my age, so . . . you know.”

“You don't have to worry—she seems like a nice girl, which means she might be a little vanilla for me.”

Hugo burst out laughing. “Oh, Tom. You're a man of many talents. But reading women isn't one of them.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom asked. “Go on.”

“I've got to go—an appointment at the library. But I'm having dinner with Merlyn and Miki tonight, if you want to join us.”

“What are they doing today?”

“Merlyn called about an hour ago to check in. She's going shopping and Miki's writing in some café somewhere. So unless you want to come to the library with me, you're on your own.”

“Hotbeds of action and excitement, libraries. In my experience, anyway.”

Hugo smiled and left Tom staring out of the apartment window, his elbows on the ledge as he watched the foot traffic on Rue Jacob below. Out on the sidewalk, Hugo looked up and gave him a wave before setting off toward the Eiffel Tower and the American Library, on Rue du Général Camou.

He walked slowly along Rue Saint-Dominique, sticking to the shaded side of the street, pausing to look into shop windows he'd not seen before and slowing to take in the smell of cooking as he passed the bistros. A tourist couple, given away by their sturdy shoes, backpacks, and camera, paused in front of him to stare at the wife's phone. As he reached them Hugo realized what they were doing, and that paper maps were obsolete now, little squares of glass giving the temporarily lost a precise and easy way to safety.

As he got closer to the Seventh Arrondissment the streets widened and became quieter, the shopping districts melting into residential neighborhoods, and the cafés became few and far between. But as he rounded the corner onto Avenue Rapp, he couldn't help but admire the view of the Eiffel Tower as it loomed over a narrow side street, visible between a pair of old stone buildings. The most iconic of Paris's tourist sites framed just for him.

The library sat a hundred yards off Avenue Rapp, a stone's throw from the Champ de Mars, the park that spread out like a grassy apron southeast of the Eiffel Tower, a perfect spot to picnic or just lie back and admire the tower.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the library, impressed with the number of people milling around. In front of him was the check-out desk, to his right the area set aside for the book sale, and to his left the reference-book area and a conference room that had glass walls that, Rogers had once told him, were virtually soundproof. He felt himself relax as he stepped inside, this place having the same effect all libraries had on him, with the quiet sounds of people leafing through books, the whispered conversations, and the almost-meditative state of the patrons as they devoted themselves to the written word. Hugo had often thought libraries were akin to places of worship, his version of church, where reverence and peace enveloped him like a blanket.

Hugo nodded to the two young men behind the check-out desk, then walked past them, his eyes peeled for Paul Rogers. It was almost 11:15, so his writing stint should have ended for the day. He kept going, entering the long, low room where the stacks of books began. This was the main part of the library, a deep, almost cavelike space whose second story meant a ceiling lower than in the entrance way, and also cut out all natural light. He walked slowly, looking down each row, but didn't see Rogers.

At the end of the room he glanced at the stairs that led down to the basement, a place closed to the public. To Hugo's left were the bathrooms, a spiral stairway up to the second floor, and the children's section. He could see through the glass door a dozen children sprawled on cushions and rugs in a semicircle, eyes glued to the young man reading a story from a picture book. He heard footsteps coming down the staircase from the floor above, and smiled when he recognized Nicole Anisse. They'd met on half a dozen occasions, and Hugo had always been impressed by the tall, attractive, and whip-smart brunette who was one of the library's two reference and collections librarians.