Number 7, Rue Jacob

by Wendy Hornsby

  “Hello, Cho,” I said. He hung his head, defeated, chagrined. “Tell me those very valuable books aren’t as soaked in wine as you are.”

  He shook his head.

  “How did you get in?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “A key.”

  I started to challenge him, because we had changed the locks the day before. But then I got a look at him in the light. He was dirty, he reeked of wine and vomit. I asked, “How long have you been down here?”

  “Since Sunday night.”

  “You got locked in?”

  He nodded. “I don’t get it. The key worked before.”

  “Before the locksmith came,” I said. “You must be hungry.”

  The mention of food made him retch.

  Jean-Paul stifled a laugh. “How much did you drink, man?”

  “Too much. I thought I’d die locked in down here, so why not?”

  “You’re not going to die, but you might wish you had. Police are on the way.”

  I asked a question I was afraid I knew the answer to, but wished I didn’t. “Where did you get the keys?”

  “A guy I know.”

  “Philippe?”

  “Hey look, don’t blame Philippe. None of this was our idea.” He let out a breath as if he was deflating.

  “And yet,” I said, “here you are, caught with the goods. Want to explain how that came about?”

  “No, not really.”

  Jean-Paul said, “It’s better if we hear your version now, before you have to tell it to the police. If you help us understand how you got into the mess you’re in, we may be able to soften the consequences. Or we can throw you to the wolves and let them feast on you. Your choice.”

  Cho thought that over, and then launched his defense. “Over New Year’s, we were just goofing around.”

  “And drinking,” Jean-Paul said.

  He acknowledged that by retching again.

  “And?” I said.

  “Philippe got fed up with this other friend of ours—”

  “Val,” I said.

  “Yeah. Val has a big mouth. Kept bragging about his father and his father’s books, and all his money. Philippe just wanted to shut him up, so he told him that his grandmother had books that were more valuable than anything Val’s dad had. We didn’t believe him. So, he brought us down here and showed us this one bunch of books he said no one knew about except his grandmother, and she’s dead. Then he said that when his dad needed money, he just took one and sold it, and no one noticed. We didn’t believe him, so we posted some of the books on the Net, and fuck me, man. It was incredible. All the money people would pay for one stupid little book.”

  “And so you decided that you would go ahead and sell them,” I said.

  “No. Not exactly. Philippe took them down off the site. But, later, he found out that Val put them up again.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They had a big fight, and Philippe kicked us out.”

  “And?” I prodded.

  He shrugged. “And nothing. We just went back to school.”

  “Something must have happened, because here you are trussed up like a Christmas goose and some of the books are missing,” Jean-Paul said. “I figure you have maybe three, four more minutes before the concierge escorts the police through our front door.”

  “Okay, okay. Val came in one day at school and said that he had sold the books and we had to go get them, like now. He said that if we didn’t these really hard-asses were going to come after us. Philippe told him to screw himself. And maybe two days later, Val’s parents came and took him out of school. He told me that they were putting him in protective custody because of those guys that wanted the books, and that the guys were after us and our families unless we got the books. But a friend of ours saw him in London, just hanging out, so we knew he was lying.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Maybe two weeks ago. Val kept calling, so Philippe blocked his number. Wouldn’t talk to him.”

  “Two weeks ago?” I said, fitting what he said into what I already knew about the timeline of events. “Why did you break in Sunday?”

  “Philippe called me on, like, Saturday night.” He looked up at each of us, checking our reactions, I thought, before continuing. “He told me that he heard his aunt and her boyfriend talking to the police. Someone had hurt the boyfriend really bad; broke his bones, cut him up. And the same guys were chasing his aunt, this American movie star he talks about a lot. He was really scared. So he called Val, and Val told him that, yeah, the same guys had beaten up his father and that they’d go after Philippe’s dad and mine next. Unless we got the books to him. Philippe called me and said I had to come and help him.”

  “And that’s why you’re here,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you get into the apartment?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Philippe had keys.”

  I remembered the table in the salon where Philippe had put his keys when he came in Sunday morning. They weren’t there any more. He must have pocketed them again before we left for lunch.

  “What time did you get here?” I asked.

  “Kinda late. Philippe said everyone went out, probably to dinner. You got back before we got out again.”

  “We?” I repeated.

  His eyes elided toward the wine cellar. Jean-Paul caught it, too. Someone pulled the door shut from inside; the key still dangled from the lock. We heard banging on the front door. Jean-Paul handed the tripod to Guido, who had been quiet during all this, listening intently, and said, “Police. I’ll let them in.”

  After a few minutes of explanation about what the kid was up to and who they should call—specifically, Thierry Dusaud, assistant to the Directeur Général—two of the four fit-looking officers who responded hauled Cho, still trussed like a goose, up the stairs. The two who stayed behind watched their colleagues get through the kitchen door before addressing Jean-Paul.

  “You think there’s another one inside?” the more senior of the two asked, nodding toward the wine cellar door.

  “Be careful,” I said. “I think it’s my nephew. He’s scared and he may have a very sharp knife.”

  They shooed us up the stairs, out of their way. We found Cho seated on the stone floor of the vestibule with plastic restraints on his hands as the officers unwound Guido’s film cable from his legs. Jean-Paul watched from the salon while he talked with Dusaud on the phone.

  I went into the kitchen to watch the activity below. I heard the wine cellar door open, I heard the officers shout, and the scratchy sound of a radio response, some swearing, and then feet pounding up the stairs. I backed up against the counter, out of their path as they laid Philippe, trailing dark red blood from his slashed wrists, onto the floor.

  One officer grabbed kitchen towels off the counter and used them to make tourniquets on my nephew’s wrists. Philippe was deathly pale.

  “Forgive me, Aunt,” he whispered as I dropped to the floor beside his head. I caressed his cheek and put my lips against his ear.

  “Shh,” I said. “Don’t talk.”

  “But—”

  “Philippe, don’t talk. Don’t talk in the ambulance, don’t talk to the doctors, don’t talk to anyone. Do you understand?”

  Clearly, he did not.

  “The next person you talk to will be your lawyer. Your avocat. Promise me.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. “You’re in danger.”

  “Not anymore. It’s over. I promise you. All of it. Finished.”

  “The books.”

  “Fuck the books, Philippe.” I smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek, tasting salt tears. “Val lied. No one is coming to hurt us.”

  10

  Freddy walked into Monsieur Gosselin’s office looking as if he were facing the executioner.

  “How is Philippe this morning?” I asked, taking his hand to guide him to the chair next to mine after introducing him to the notaire. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at
all since that dreadful Tuesday two weeks ago when yet another corner of his world collapsed.

  “Better.” He nodded at Jean-Paul, and took his hand when it was offered. “The wounds are healing, the spirit will take longer.”

  “And you?”

  “Numb. Grieved.”

  “I hope,” I said, “that after our conversation today, a few parts of your world will feel more secure.”

  “Secure?” He gave me a sardonic smile. “Secure as in locked behind bars?”

  “No,” Jean-Paul said. “No one is going behind bars, except maybe the kid, Val Barkoff. I have a feeling that’s where he belongs. The question is, whose jail wants him more?”

  He chuckled at that, a joyless chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless. “So, why are we here?”

  “Freddy,” I said, “Jean-Paul and I agree that some adjustments need to be made in the terms of Isabelle’s will. She screwed you, my brother. It’s natural that you resent her, and that you, and your boys, have resented me because of that. So, this is what we have in mind. If you think it’s still unfair, now is the time to speak up.”

  He eyed us both cautiously, still wary. The poor man was still in shock, granted, over his son’s desperate suicide attempt, and was ready to hear yet another shoe drop. All he said was, “Okay.”

  “Freddy, for reasons we don’t need to go into here, I am keeping number seven, rue Jacob. However, my daughter and I, and Uncle Gérard, are in the process of legally relinquishing all inheritance claims to Grand-mère’s Paris townhouse. One day, it will be yours alone. In the meantime, Grand-mère would be delighted for you and your boys to live there when you finish your building project in Normandy.”

  Finally, he smiled, a little. “I suspect Grand-mère comes with the house in the meantime.”

  “Probably. That’s between the two of you. Now, about the damn books in the basement.”

  He paled when the notaire pushed a printed list into the space in front of him.

  “The Louvre has agreed to find a new home for the convent library because it has become too dangerous for us to have them underfoot. With the publicity around what’s happened, we have been barraged by inquiries from book collectors, dealers, museums, and libraries. So, adios convent. That leaves the very valuable books from the collection of Tsarevna Sofia Alekseyevna.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you about that,” Freddy said.

  “No, I think you don’t. We know you sold at least two of those books to get your project underway. We have also learned that, from time to time, our mother sold off a few books without consulting the co-owner, Jean-Paul.”

  Freddy looked over at Jean-Paul. “You co-own the books?”

  There was a pause. A fairly long one, while we parsed that question. It was Jean-Paul who answered, but with another question. “Freddy, my friend, until you learned otherwise, what did you assume you had inherited at rue Jacob?”

  “Maman’s apartment.”

  Jean-Paul and I exchanged knowing looks. Where Isabelle was concerned, as I well knew by then, nothing was easy or straightforward. I said, “Freddy, Isabelle and Jean-Paul owned the whole building.”

  “Where would she get the money for something like that? I understand that she used money from the tontine to buy an apartment, and that’s why I had no claim. But I never thought the tontine is so rich she could own the entire building.”

  “It isn’t,” I said. “She had partners. And when she ran a little short of cash, she tapped the building’s assets she only co-owned.”

  Freddy’s a bright guy. He figured it out, and finally he laughed. “The books. The damn books.”

  “Yes. So, in front of you is the best list we could come up with of the books that have been sold out of the Russian collection. When we add up what they fetched, someone owes Jean-Paul a great deal of money.”

  Freddy’s smile faded again. “I’m sorry, I can’t come up with cash right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jean-Paul said. “My partner, Maggie, and I have worked it all out between us. As our part in squaring things with you, we have agreed that your mother also stiffed your sons. We have put a beautiful little psalter in the hands of a reputable auction house. The proceeds from the sale will set up a nice trust income for Philippe and Robert. It will more than cover university costs if they choose to attend somewhere other than France. A second volume, a diary of prayer, is also on offer to cover Philippe’s legal defense and any expenses related to his recovery.”

  “That is more than generous,” Freddy said.

  “Not by half,” I answered. “The rest of the Russians are going into a vault, far away from rue Jacob, as a hedge against future rainy days, for any of us. All except these.”

  I pulled two volumes wrapped in a scrap of T-shirt out of my bag and handed them to him. “These are for you. Do whatever you want with them.”

  He looked at the bundle in front of him as if it were radioactive before opening it. “You’re giving us four books. The four books that started all this?”

  “Yes, Freddy. I am your sister. Your half sister, I grant you. But family just the same. I want to be able to come to you when I need a brother to lean on. Can you do the same favor for me?”

  Freddy wrapped his arms around me and wept.

  Jean-Paul joined the embrace. “I love a happy ending.”

  fin

  About the Author

  Edgar Award winner Wendy Hornsby is the author of twelve previous mysteries, ten of them featuring investigative filmmaker Maggie MacGowen. A retired professor of history, she lives in Northern California. She welcomes visitors and e-mail at www.wendyhornsby.com

  Mysteries by Wendy Hornsby

  The Maggie MacGowen Mystery Series

  Telling Lies

  Midnight Baby

  Bad Intent

  77th Street Requiem

  A Hard Light

  In the Guise of Mercy

  The Paramour’s Daughter

  The Hanging

  The Color of Light

  Disturbing the Dark

  Number 7, Rue Jacob

  Other Mysteries

  No Harm

  Half a Mind

  Nine Sons [stories & essays]