The Paris Librarian (6 page)

Allée chuckled, then looked up at her and asked: “I've photographed the books and dusted the open pages, but should I bag them as evidence?”

“Do they belong here, to the library?” Stuedemann asked.

Allée checked the spines for library markings and nodded. “They do.”

“Then just photograph them. As long as there's no blood spatter or other substance on them, I don't think there's any need. The detectives will know where to find them.”

“OK. What about his hands, bag those?”

“Might as well, for the practice,” Stuedemann said.

Hugo moved back into the hallway, leaving them to their work. “I think I'll go grab that surveillance,” he said to Lerens.

“Because watching hours of nothing is fun?”

“I assume you have an intern or lowly someone-or-other who can do that for us.”

“‘Us?'”

Hugo started down the hallway. “Yep. We're a team, remember?” He started back up the steps to the ground floor of the library, wandering to the front, where he found Nicole Anisse.

“Nicole, have you seen Michael Harmuth?”

“Someone called about the Severin collection. I think he's dealing with that.”

“
Merci bien.
”

“
Monsieur.
” Her eyes were wide and she looked suddenly fragile. “Is everything all right? I saw the police arriving and Monsieur Harmuth is upset. Did something happen?”

Hugo knew it wasn't his place to tell her, but she'd already seen enough to be worried. “I'm afraid someone has . . . Let me find Monsieur Harmuth. . . . Is he really your supervisor?”

“
Oui
, he is.” She hesitated. “Or Michelle Juneau, she's Paul's assistant, does all the human resources, payroll, that kind of thing. She's helping him with the collection so I'm guessing she's with Michael right now.”

“Where is the collection kept, do you know?”

“In the basement. They've put in a cabinet for it, to keep everything together. If anyone wants to see all or part of it, they'll bring it up to the conference room.” She pointed to a door behind the check-out desk. “That's the other stairway to the basement, the one we use most. They're probably down there.”

“OK if I use it?” Hugo asked.

“Sure. I'm needed up here but I'll show you the way.” She led him behind the desk, nodding to the three people manning it that all was fine, and held the door open for Hugo. As he passed her, he saw the worry in her eyes and tried giving her a reassuring smile. He wasn't sure it worked.

“It's just to your left downstairs,” she said.

He trotted down the stairs and at the bottom could hear the muffled voices of Lerens and the CSU team at the other end of the basement. But the packed rows of shelves between them might as well have been walls, they seemed so distant; and, not for the first time, Hugo noticed the chill and stale air, and felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

He moved to his left, into an open area littered with piles of books, carefully stacked to avoid collapse. A woman stood with her back to him as she studied the contents of a closed glass cabinet. As he watched, she rattled the cabinet's locked doors and put her hands on her hips in apparent frustration when they wouldn't open.

“Well, hello,” Hugo said. “I didn't expect to see you down here.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The woman stiffened, then turned slowly to look at Hugo, her eyes wide with surprise. “Hugo. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Michael Harmuth and Michelle Juneau. You?”

Miki Harrison grimaced. “Trying to avoid Michelle Juneau.”

“Why?”

“Let's just say I'm doing some unauthorized research.”

“And possibly some criminal trespassing.”

“Probably. But asking politely hasn't gotten me anywhere.”

“Maybe. But you still shouldn't be down here—the signs are clear this is employees-only. I wasn't kidding that you're trespassing.” Hugo softened his tone. “How did you get down here?”

She pointed toward the far side of the basement. “Followed someone down and then wandered this way.”

“Didn't you see the police activity?”

“I saw some people, didn't know they were police. I was quiet and trying not to be seen. What's going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” The library was like that, Hugo was beginning to see. Full of narrow spaces and twists and turns, plenty of ways to sneak around and keep from being seen. A hide-and-seeker's delight. He pointed at the glass cabinet. “The Severin collection, I presume?”

“It looks like it. Some of it, at least,” Miki said. “I didn't see any of her stuff elsewhere, so presumably whatever I want is in there.”

“Ah, the secret papers. Although I don't see a dagger. Did you ever talk to Paul Rogers about those?”

“Not yet. I was told he's busy, so I thought I'd have a look for myself,” Miki said.

“You've been at the library all morning?”

“For an hour. Getting the lay of the land, you might say.”

He nodded and said, “Look, I'm afraid I have some bad news about Paul. It's not public knowledge yet, so please don't say anything, but there's no harm in telling you.”

“Telling me what?”

“He passed away this morning. He was writing his novel and appears to have had a heart attack, right here in the library. Those people you snuck past were dealing with that.”

Miki's mouth opened slightly but she didn't speak at first, as if she were unsure whether to believe him or not. “Right down here?”

“Yes. He'd created a room for himself over there.” He indicated with a nod of his head.

“Oh no. And he's . . . he's dead?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Oh. That poor man. I'm really sorry.”

“Yeah, he was a good guy.”

“Does he have family?”

“A long-term girlfriend, yes. No kids as far as I know.”

“How old was he?”

“Not very,” Hugo said. “I understand he had heart trouble in recent years, though.”

Miki nodded, then looked around her. “I suppose I should leave. I know I shouldn't be down here, and now it seems . . . well, I should leave.”

“Probably a good idea.” He indicated the stairway leading up to the circulation desk. “This way is best.”

She gave Hugo a small smile and walked toward the staircase, stopping when she got there. She turned and said, “You're staying down here?”

“I may have to help out.”

She cocked her head. “How come?”

Smart woman
, Hugo thought. “The police were called just in case. A formality, just routine. But I was there when he was found and he's a dual citizen, so I may have to linger a little.”

“That's weird. I mean, that someone called the police for a heart attack.”

“That was me.”

“Oh. Look, I don't mean to be nosy or inappropriate,” Miki said. “But did something make you think it wasn't a heart attack? I mean, isn't that kind of your job?”

“It used to be my job, but not anymore,” Hugo said. “And I only called them because it was a body in a library, an at-least partly American citizen in a foreign place. Just seemed like the right thing to do.”

She gave him a little smile. “Sounds like a game of Clue.”

That might be amusing in a week or two
, Hugo thought.
But not today.
“I'll walk you upstairs,” he said. “The circulation desk is up here. If we bump into Madame Juneau, we'll say you were with me.”

“Can we tell her we were doing something exciting?”

“Not today.”
Again with the insensitive comments
, Hugo said to himself
. Everyone deals with the news of death differently, of course, but some people . . . 
They reached the top of the stairs and slipped past the librarians at the desk, moving into the area where the books were laid out for the sale. “Here we are, safe and sound.”

“Thanks, Hugo,” she said. “Maybe see you tonight?”

“I'm planning on it.”

He followed her to the main doors, and Hugo held one open for her. He watched as she walked away, still not sure what to make of her. He made a mental note to look her up online, see if she had a body of work as a journalist, something credible and professional that might justify her intrusion into the library basement, and perhaps even her insensitivity. Although that seemed more like a personality issue.

A voice behind Hugo made him turn. “
Monsieur?
You were looking for me?” She spoke in French.

“Madame Juneau?” He'd seen her at the library in previous visits, but they'd never been introduced.

“Michelle Juneau,
oui
.” She was an attractive woman, probably in her late thirties, with glossy, russet hair. Her green eyes and bright-red lipstick made Hugo think of Christmas. But there was a formality to her, one that Hugo thought hid either a fiery temper or an unusually gentle nature. Maybe both.

Hugo offered his hand. “I'm Hugo Marston, a friend of Paul Rogers.”

“I recognize the name; it's a pleasure to meet you. How can I help?”

Hugo was suddenly aware of people passing by, close to them, and the curious eyes of Nicole Anisse. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“We have a large book sale this morning, Monsieur Marston, so I hope we can be brief.” She gestured toward a nearby door. “We can use my office.”

She led him past the circulation desk, alongside the main stacks. A third of the way down, she turned into a short hallway and led him through a door into a large and open administration area. Tucked around a corner, out of sight from anyone in the main library, sat a large safe. It was chest height, was roughly four feet wide and deep, and looked a hundred years old. Hugo's first thought was how much it must weigh, but he was also interested to see it was accessed by a key, not a combination. Past it lay Michelle Juneau's office and a second one, with Paul Rogers's name on the door. Juneau stood behind her desk, waiting for him. He went into her office and closed the door.

“I'm afraid I have bad news,” he began. “I came here to meet with Paul this morning, for the sale. He was working on his book when I found him.”

“
Found him
?” she repeated. “Why do you say it that way?”

“Paul is dead, madame. He appears to have had a heart attack.”

A small hand fluttered to her mouth, but she never took her eyes from his. She squared her shoulders, composing herself. “Paul is . . . You are sure he's . . . he's really dead?”

“The police doctor is here, there's no doubt. I'm sorry.”

She reached for the back of her chair and slowly sat down. She was quiet for a moment then looked up. “Police? Someone called the police?”

“I did. I'm not familiar with the reporting process here after a death, and I wanted to be safe rather than sorry.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I can't believe this is happening.” A thought seemed to strike her. “Is he . . . his body . . .”

“The police are still here, with him.”

A pause. “You said a heart attack. Why are the police
still
here?”

He didn't want to tell her the truth, that they were using a man's death for training purposes. And he didn't want to tell her, either, that something didn't quite feel right to him, something he couldn't begin to put his finger on. Something about the body's position, or the odd way people were reacting. Maybe it was something about the little room itself . . . Hugo just didn't know. He smiled to himself. Or maybe it was just that pretty much every death he'd seen in the last twenty years had been a homicide, and he was just projecting his history onto the sad, but very natural, death of Paul Rogers.

“I'll go check,” Hugo said. “I'll try and make sure they don't disturb the people here for the sale.”

“
Merci bien
, I appreciate that.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Paul. And Sarah, oh my goodness, who will tell Sarah?”

“I hadn't thought that far ahead.”

“I do hope it's not the police—I know she's not,” she paused, clearly searching for the right words, “she's not very good with authority.”

“It may have to be them, but if so I'll go with them. I'll be there, I promise.”

Juneau frowned, but then nodded her approval. “That will be good, thank you.” She started for the door, then turned. “You said you came to see him about the sale. That is my project. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Paul was holding a book for me, but it doesn't seem important now.”

“Please, if it was important before, then it is now. Perhaps more so. Paul would want you to have the book, I'm sure. What was it? I will go look where we put special orders aside.”

“It's by Truman Capote, a signed copy.”

“The title? I'll go look now.”

“Thank you. The book is
In Cold Blood
.”