The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

  She laughed. “If I get lost, I'll ask a policeman.”

  “I'm going to take one more look around here, then I'll head home.”

  “Bien. Oh, Hugo. Feed him, will you?”

  “Who?”

  “The cat. Feed him before you go. Just in case.”

  At seven that evening Claudia appeared with a shopping bag in each hand and a peck on both cheeks for Hugo. He took the bags and she followed him into the kitchen where they started to unpack.

  “You like snails?” she asked.

  “Mais oui,” he said. “As long as the garlic is pressed not diced and is just as fresh as the bread.”

  “Then you're in luck. Open some wine and watch me cook.”

  She must have gone home to change before coming over, Hugo thought, because her tight jeans were not made for field work, even for a journalist. Her top was simple, black and silky, dipping low down her back. As he watched her glide about the kitchen his appetite increased, but it was her that he wanted, not the food. He moved behind her and closed his arms around her waist. She laughed. “I see it's not just the bread and garlic that are fresh.”

  “They can wait a few minutes.”

  She dropped the butter and snails into the already-hot frying pan, turned the heat to low, then swiveled in his arms and put her lips against his ear. “I'm hungry too,” she whispered.

  He carried her into the bedroom as they kissed, and they left the snails to simmer for longer than any real chef would.

  When they finally ate, they did so in the kitchen, both half-dressed and ravenous. They spoke little but smiled a lot, comparing snails for size and then devouring them, tearing each other hunks of bread from the rapidly shrinking baguette.

  As Hugo got up to open a second bottle of wine, Claudia let out a small burp. “Pardon.” She held out her glass. “Before we finish this one, we should talk about your friend Max.”

  Max. Hugo hadn't mentioned him, but the old man had been with him all evening, a gnawing in his gut and a hollow echo in his mind. He'd wanted to ask what she knew the moment she stepped through the door but didn't want her to think he was using her, a childish thought and maybe an excuse for being overtaken by her presence. But now he was all ears.

  “You found something?”

  “No, that's just it. Nothing. I checked hospitals, morgues, and even the jails.” She shrugged. “No Max Koche. Can you please tell me what's going on?”

  He poured the wine and started with Max's kidnapping, with the bizarre response from the police on scene. She sat wide-eyed and unmoving as he filled her in on the old man's history, and how they'd become friends.

  “The whole thing is…crazy. And what do you think is going on?” Claudia said. “That someone kidnapped him because of his past?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What about that book, the Rimbaud? You said you'd only just bought it from him.”

  “Yes, not even an hour—” Hugo stopped talking as his mind went into overdrive. No. It couldn't be. The book?

  “I don't know everything you know,” Claudia said. “But is it possible the book has something to do with it?”

  “It crossed my mind originally, but it didn't make any sense. No one gets kidnapped over a book, and if that was what the man wanted Max didn't even have it. I did. All Max had to do was tell me to hand it over, no?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he thought if he played dumb the guy would leave him alone. Was there anything unusual about it, or him selling it to you?”

  “No, I don't think so.” Hugo shook his head, then looked up. “All I can think is that…he didn't know the book's true value.”

  “Maybe someone else does,” Claudia said. “Maybe that's what they want?”

  “A book?”

  “Sure, a valuable one. People have been killed for a lot less. But like you said, when he was kidnapped Max didn't have the book. You did.” She lowered her wine glass and put a hand on his. “That means whoever took him knows that he doesn't have it, especially now that they searched his apartment. But they might know he sold it to you.”

  “Yeah, that just occurred to me.”

  “Don't play the hero, Hugo, you might be in danger.”

  “Possibly. Look, I don't have jurisdiction here, not officially. Do you think one of your cop buddies would open a missing person's file and go talk to that bouquiniste Chabot?”

  “I will ask tomorrow, sure,” she said. “But why would they shut down an investigation like that?”

  “They found people who said nothing happened. Two or three Parisians versus one American.” Hugo shook his head. “I don't know, maybe they thought I was drunk?”

  “Were you?”

  He shot her a look.

  “Sorry,” she said. “About the book. If it has something to do with his disappearance, you might want to think about getting it back. Can you?”

  “The book, shit. Yes, I hope so.” He slapped the table, annoyed at himself for not thinking of it. “If someone has Max and all they want is the book, then it's an easy swap.”

  “And if someone comes after you and you can give it to them, it's better than having a gun under your armpit.”

  “No reason I can't have both, is there?” Hugo stood and kissed her forehead. He felt better now that they had a plan. “I'm pretty sure I saw you sneak a mille-feuille into the fridge,” he said. “Are you ready for some dessert?”

  “Always. I'll get it while you call the bookseller.”

  She left in the night again, this time whispering into and kissing his ear, apparently not caring if she woke him. It was two in the morning when the door closed behind her and Hugo lay on his back, something tugging at his mind, something he was supposed to do.

  The book. He'd not been able to reach Kendall, the business card having just the shop's number. He'd left a message and tried to put it out of his mind. He couldn't see how the book could really be behind Max's kidnapping, but he'd follow up in the morning and call off the sale anyway, just to be sure.

  He tossed and turned until five, then gave up and rolled out of bed. He started a pot of coffee and then padded into his study. Hugo dialed the number for Kendall's store again, hoping that the Englishman was also an early bird. On the sixth ring, the store's voicemail kicked in. Hugo left another message telling Kendall to pull the book from auction and hang on to it for him. Then he looked up numbers for Christie's and left it on the screen as he went to the kitchen and poured the coffee. He'd have to wait for the auction house to open; he didn't trust voicemail to get the job done there.

  He called Christie's at eight and, after explaining his needs to the receptionist, was put through to a junior auctioneer who specialized in French literature.

  “Paul Goodson, how may I be of service?”

  “My name is Hugo Marston, and your receptionist tells me that a book I own is being auctioned there this morning.”

  “I see. And what can we do for you?”

  “I need you to pull it from auction.”

  “Pull it—”

  “Yes,” Hugo said. “Immediately.”

  “Very well, sir. I can try.” The man sighed, clearly intending to let Hugo know how busy he was. Too busy for book owners who couldn't make their minds up about selling. “The auction starts in an hour, so I'll need you to send in a written authorization, signed and notarized, describing the item and your relationship to it.”

  “Jesus, man. The item is a book, and we aren't having a relationship. I own the damn thing.” Hugo took a deep breath. “Look, I'm the head of security at the US Embassy and I need you to pull that book from auction.”

  “This is State Department business?” The little ass was less sure of himself now.

  “As far as you know, it is. I'll wait on the line, you go do your thing.”

  “Tell me your name again, I'll check.”

  Hugo gave him his name and the name of the book, and waited. It was a good five minutes before he heard the phone being picked up.

&
nbsp; “Sir, I'm back.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Meaning?” Hugo said through clenched teeth.

  “Well, the book is up for auction here.” Hugo could hear the tension in the young man's voice. “Thing is, Mr. Marston, you are not listed as the seller.”

  Of course not, he'd authorized Kendall to handle it.

  “Look, Peter Kendall is the man who put it up for sale for me. He's a bookseller here in Paris, you should know that. Just ask him. In fact, if he's there, bring him to the phone.”

  “Sir, no one is here yet. And I do know Mr. Kendall, which is why I can't pull the book without his permission. We do a lot of business with him.”

  “When does the auction start?”

  “In less than an hour. And you should hurry if you're trying to contact him because we do the expensive pieces early. Our wealthy clients don't like to be made to wait.”

  Of course they don't. “I'll get back to you.” Hugo hung up and tried Kendall again, leaving another message and then sending an e-mail. Too much to hope the guy carried a Blackberry.

  He spent the next hour and a half hovering by his computer and the telephone, drinking coffee and crunching on a toasted, stale baguette made palatable by globs of black cherry jam. Every time he walked into his study he willed the phone to ring, and it did just before ten. He gave Kendall no reasons, just asked him to call and take the book off the auction block. Kendall apologized for not getting back to him before, he'd called Hugo's office by mistake. Kendall rang off with a promise to call back as soon as he'd canceled the sale.

  It took another fifteen minutes, and when the bookseller called his voice was apologetic.

  “I'm really sorry, Mr. Marston. The book sold already.”

  “Shit.” Hugo's teeth clenched tighter. “Who bought it?”

  “I asked but they wouldn't tell me. The buyer wanted to remain anonymous, and they have that right. Especially when they paid so much for it.”

  Dammit. Hugo thought quickly. “Look, is the buyer still there, do you know? If they'd just let me talk to him…”

  “Oh no,” said Kendall, “sorry, I should have said. He attended the auction by telephone. The wealthier clients tend to do that.”

  “And I don't suppose they'd give me his phone number, would they?”

  “No, I don't think so.” Kendall sighed. “I'm sorry Mr. Marston, I really am. Maybe if there is some compelling reason, I could ask someone there to make contact?”

  Hugo didn't see his reasoning being too persuasive, and he didn't like going through intermediaries. He asked Kendall to fax a letter to Christies explaining that he'd put the book up for auction on Hugo's behalf. Kendall apologized again and said he'd send the letter immediately.

  Hugo waited fifteen minutes before he called and asked for Paul Goodson.

  “Hugo Marston again,” he said. “You got the letter from Peter Kendall?”

  “Yes, I have it in front of me.”

  “Good. He explained to me about the anonymous buyer.”

  “Yes, sir. As I'm sure Mr. Kendall explained, we can't give out any information about the buyer.”

  “So I gather,” Hugo said. “So assuming that's your position, if you'd be kind enough to put me through to your boss. No offense, it's just that I need that privacy policy bent a little out of shape, and I'm guessing he's the one to do it.”

  “I can get him,” Goodson said. “The thing is, it's not a policy. Assuring this buyer's privacy is the only way we can get him to bid, so it's always in our contract of sale. Which, as you know, is signed already. I'm sorry Mr. Marston, but God himself couldn't persuade us to give up this client. Could you get a court order, maybe? We would have to release the name then.”

  Hugo thought of the paperwork required to get an order from a judge. An American asking to make an international corporation give up confidential information and, possibly, make a wealthy French citizen give up an item he'd bought legally. And all for a crime that, even if it existed, had nothing to do with Hugo Marston or the American Embassy. No chance. “I'll look into that,” he said. “Do me a favor in the meantime, would you?”

  “I'll try, Mr. Marston.”

  “Get a message to your esteemed client. Tell him that if I don't get that book back, a man may die.”

  “Are you serious, sir? I don't—”

  “Yes, I'm serious. And truthfully, I'm not sure how or why. That's why I need the book. Tell him he'll get his money back, every penny.”

  “That reminds me, sir. Do you want to know how much it sold for?”

  Hugo realized he'd not even thought about the sale price. “Sure.”

  “Five hundred and thirty thousand Euros. That's almost three-quarters of a million US dollars.”

  “Yes,” said Hugo, his voice a whisper, “it is.”

  “Several bidders pushed the price up. We honestly didn't think it'd go for more than three hundred thousand Euros. Good news, wouldn't you say?”

  When Eric Ambler wrote that Paris had “the macabre formality of a steel engraving,” he could have been sitting at the window of Hugo's apartment those early hours of Wednesday morning. A steel engraving because the buildings and streets had a uniform grayness, dulled further by an endless low cloud that hung above the rooftops, flattened the light, and drew the color right out of the city. And macabre because Hugo had just seen a significant clue, and possibly a lifeline, disappear into the hands of a remote and anonymous buyer. He was furious with himself for selling the book in the first place. Would he ever, ever, have been so careless with potential evidence in the past?

  After he'd calmed himself he refocused and wondered, just for a moment, whether the buyer was somehow connected with all this. But the idea was impossible to explore in any rational sense, and so not worth thinking about. For now, anyway.

  He called Claudia but hung up before she answered. Two minutes later, the phone rang and he smiled. Of course, her cell phone had registered his call. It was hard to change your mind in the modern world.

  “Miss me?” she said.

  “Mais oui. I miss Max, too.”

  “I didn't know you felt that way about him.”

  “Hush.” Hugo couldn't help but smile. “You're not too big to go over my knee, you know.”

  “Oh, Hugo.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I think I'd fit rather nicely.”

  “Tell me, my crime reporter, what's the word on our new bouquiniste?”

  “Nothing yet. I called a detective friend and persuaded him to send over a couple of uniformed men.”

  “Thanks.” He'd never been good at asking for favors. “Any idea when they might report back yet?”

  “Non. But it's only just eleven.”

  “Oh right. I've been up too long.” He told her that the book had sold already, heard the sharp intake of breath when she heard how much it went for.

  “Maybe this is about the book,” she said. “Did you ever look inside it?”

  “You mean for something hidden?” He thought for a moment. There was the card in the Agatha Christie but the only time he'd seen the Rimbaud open was at Kendall's store. “No. But it's not a big book, it would have to be something small.”

  “Like invisible ink or something?”

  “Silly, if it was invisible ink I would never have seen it. I meant like a piece of paper, or words underlined.”

  “Whoever bought it at auction, would he have known beforehand whether there was something inside?” she asked.

  “I don't see how, he bought over the telephone.”

  “Maybe someone looked it over for him before the sale.”

  “Maybe,” Hugo said. “That's a lot of money for something you haven't seen.”

  “Although you bought it without inspecting it.”

  “I didn't pay half a million Euros.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Look, can you get away for lunch? Or dinner? I don't mean to sound needy but I do like yo
ur cooking.”

  “Oh, I can't.” Her voice was suddenly distant. “I have plans already. Let me call you this afternoon when my gendarmes return. And I will see you tomorrow, I promise.”

  Hugo hung up, feeling like a foolish teenager. He'd not imagined he would feel disappointment at such a slight rejection, yet he did. They barely knew each other, why wouldn't she have other plans, even other lovers? Because he didn't? Hugo almost laughed at himself. If the world's inhabitants matched their sex lives to his, it would be a world with few children.

  He looked at his watch. Nothing he could do about finding Max right now, but he had to do something. Not work, he didn't want to go to the embassy and have Emma read in his face…what, disappointment? Frustration? Whichever emotion he was feeling, he'd never get to his desk without Emma spotting it, without her seeing through him. He didn't feel like dealing with that today. Plus, he was on vacation.

  Lunch would be a good start, a catalyst for what Hercule Poirot called “the little gray cells.” He could still taste the garlic from last night's snails and thought that a salad might be just the thing to cleanse the palate. He set off down Rue Jacob, glancing up at the solid gray sky and expecting to feel the spit of rain. He didn't mind, content that a hat, a coat, and the occasional doorway would offer enough shelter.

  He meandered through the Sixth Arrondissement, never tired of the tight streets and small, cozy boutiques. Overhead, window boxes spilled red geraniums, brightening the stone façades of the two-star hotels that catered to the not-so-wealthy Americans and weekend visitors from Britain, tourists who wanted to be in the center of Paris and didn't mind tiny rooms, or didn't know they were getting one.

  By the time he reached the Seine, he'd forgotten about eating. Across the Quai de Conti lay Max's stall. Hugo stood by the crossing light, impervious to the mass of cars rushing by just feet away. He fixed his eyes on the slight man moving back and forth in front of the open green box, adjusting his wares and occasionally looking up to spot potential customers. Something about the way Chabot moved galled Hugo, as if he'd been there for years, as if this was and always had been his territory.

  Except it wasn't. It belonged to Max.