The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

  Hugo wanted to go over and shake the truth out of the man. He knew Chabot had lied about Max and he wanted to know why. But he also knew that there was a better way. Two decades of FBI training and experience had taught Hugo that rushing in before thinking could be the death knell for an investigation. Evidence could be missed, spoiled, or contaminated, witnesses scared off. And if it did become a police matter, maybe even get as far as a courtroom, he didn't want to be the one to screw it up. Not for his sake, and not for Max's.

  And yet he had to do something.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed his office. Emma picked up promptly.

  “Hi Emma, fancy doing some research?”

  “Sure. Fancy telling me what's going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know I don't like to pry. And you know that sometimes I can't help myself.”

  “It's OK Emma, curiosity is a sign of intelligence.”

  “It's also a sign of nosiness,” she said.

  Hugo gave a wry smile. “And?”

  “Well, obviously things didn't go well with Christine, but what's with the journalist here? The bookseller calling? Now the research? This is not like any vacation I've ever seen. And where are you? I can barely hear you for the traffic.”

  “Sorry, it is loud.” Hugo retreated down a small side street, pausing beside a post office he'd never noticed before, and the roar of midday was instantly muffled. “Better? Look,” he said, “I'm not up to anything, but if I am, I'll let you know.”

  “Thanks Hugo, that makes perfect sense.” Her grudging respect for his privacy and sharp tongue were two of her best assets.

  “I knew you'd understand. Now, I need a number, and contact name if possible, for the Syndicat Des Bouquinistes de Paris.”

  “Syndicat Des Bouquinistes? I never knew there was one.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Give me a few seconds here. Syndicat Des.…Here you go. Cecilia Roget seems to be its head. No, wait, Bruno Gravois. Took over a year ago.”

  “Thanks,” said Hugo. “Where are they based?”

  Emma gave him an address in the Seventeenth Arrondissement, on Rue Nollet. “Closest metro stop is Place de Clichy,” she said. “Hugo, are you going there now?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “No reason. Sometimes I have the urge to tell you to be careful and I don't always know why.”

  “Because in a former life you were my mother?”

  “If I'd been your mother, Hugo, I would have been reincarnated as a saint, not a secretary.”

  “But you are a saint, didn't you know?”

  “Oh hush. Anything else you need me to do?”

  “No,” he said. “No doubt I'll call you tomorrow for something.”

  “No doubt,” she said, and rang off.

  Hugo walked back onto the Quai de Conti. He looked toward Jean Chabot's stall and saw two gendarmes talking to him. Thank you, Claudia. He resisted the urge to trot across the street and eavesdrop, or butt in completely, and instead turned east and headed alongside the sluggish roll of the river, walking toward the metro stop at Les Invalides, which, if memory served, would take him directly to Place de Clichy station. And the thirty-minute walk would give him time to come up with some sort of plan.

  After exiting the metro station at Place de Clichy, Hugo walked northwest on Rue Biot against the traffic into the Seventeenth Arrondissement, which sat just to the west of the hopping Montmartre area. The Seventeenth was one of those truly French parts of Paris that rubbed shoulders with, but never quite got to know, the tourists who shuttled between the Place Pigalle, the Sacre Couer, and the arrondissements that sit either side of the Seine. A business hub since the 1970s, only the most avid historian would travel to this part of Paris and recognize the village of Batignolles, where in the 1870s painter Edouard Manet and his groupe des Batignolles captured the busy cafés and local parks on canvas.

  As he walked, he noticed the windshield wipers of a few cars ticking back and forth, but under hat and coat he felt no rain. He spotted a small park on his left, the direction he wanted to go, and crossed the street toward it.

  He pushed open a waist-high gate and heard it squeak as it swung shut behind him. The metal latch clattered, catching the attention of two Arab men playing chess on a nearby bench. They quickly returned to their game—he was of no interest to them. A gravel path led him between two rectangles of brown grass, each bordered by the entrails of lifeless plants, inert but preserved by the Paris winter.

  The grass soon gave way to a large square of gravel where half a dozen men played or watched petanque, some standing and some sitting. The eldest, a stooped little man with an impossibly red nose, stood just inside a small green shed and brewed coffee, a line of tin mugs on a table by the door. Another of the men, as French as a postcard in his blue beret and baggy canvas pants, turned his palms upward to gauge the rain. Unimpressed by the feeble spatter, he went back to the game. A row of players awaited their turn on one of the worn park benches, cooing and nodding their approval of the action like a row of pigeons on a tree branch. Wraiths of smoke greeted Hugo as he approached, the pungent, raw aroma of unfiltered tobacco so much more pleasing to him than the sharp, clinging smell of the thin cigarettes smoked in the bars and clubs of the Fifth Arrondissement.

  Hugo watched the game, too, for a moment, wondering if he could tell anything about these men from the way they spoke and what they wore. He gave up after a couple of minutes, amused by his own pretensions. All he could tell was that they were content and that they hoped that the sun might eventually come out.

  The park let him out at the corner of two streets, the larger one being Rue de Dames. Diagonally across from him, kitty-corner as his grandmother would say, was Rue Nollet. Like a thousand other streets in Paris, it was part residential and part business, apartments stacked three and four high on top of stores, and the occasional heavy wooden door leading to a courtyard surrounded by more numerous, and more expensive, apartments. There were few people on the street—lunch and the chill bluster of the afternoon had seen to that.

  He looked for number twenty-three and found it sandwiched between a bakery and a small store selling handmade linens from Provence. He stopped at the window of this store and looked in, trying not to think about Claudia and which design of napkins she might like. As if either of them were the napkin-buying type.

  The door Hugo wanted was dark red, and beside it was a brass plaque, screwed into the brick, announcing it to be the home of the Syndicat Des Bouquinistes De Paris. A piece of paper with neat, flowing handwriting let visitors know that the bell was broken and that they should let themselves in.

  Hugo did so.

  Inside, a long staircase led up to the offices of the SBP. He took his hat off and started up, the thick carpet on the stairs making his entrance a silent one. At the top was a landing where the carpet turned into creaking floorboards, old but polished and a little slick underfoot. An unmanned desk sat to his left, guarding the two closed doors of the SBP. He walked up to the desk, looking for a bell and listening for the sound of voices or typing. He heard a phone ring and the door on the left swung open. A dumpy, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo bustled out carrying a stack of letters. He thought she hadn't noticed him but, without looking up, she dumped the mail on the desk and said, “Oui monsieur?”

  Hugo gave his name and broke into his clumsiest French. “I am a journalist, American, and wanted to write an article about the bouquinistes.”

  It wasn't much of a plan but he couldn't play the policeman and, in his experience, the only people who could ask questions without raising suspicion were cops and journalists.

  “You should make an appointment and speak with Monsieur Gravois,” she said, still avoiding eye contact.

  “Monsieur Gravois, yes,” Hugo said. “The thing is, I'm only in Paris today and tomorrow, then I head to Belgium. Chocolates and beer.” He shrugged. Americans. What can you do?

  “U
n moment, s'il vous plait,” she said, apparently unimpressed by chocolates, beer, or Americans. She looked over her shoulder at the door she'd just come through, then at the phone on her desk, then at Hugo. She stood and walked back to the door, knocked tentatively, and listened for a response. Hugo didn't hear it but she did, and she slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, as if an unwelcome dog were trying to follow. Or an unwelcome visitor. A minute later she opened the door wide and stood holding it, bidding Hugo enter.

  When he did, Hugo got two surprises, only one of which he chided himself for. The first came when he saw the man behind the desk, the bald head and gaunt features, the large eyes staring at him and ready to take in everything about his visitor, but giving nothing in return. Bruno Gravois was the man who had slapped Chabot.

  The second surprise was the office itself. Three metal filing cabinets stood against the wall opposite the door, each drawer labeled in neat type, and to his left Gravois sat behind a desk that knew no clutter. Two sheets of paper lay on a blotter, and as Hugo moved closer Gravois laid his pen down between them, his movement as deliberate as that of a surgeon. No computer that Hugo could see, not even a telephone. Three prints hung on the wall, two placed precisely over the gaps between the filing cabinets and the third behind the desk, and as far as Hugo could tell, squarely in the middle. The book case to the right of the doorway was full but not stuffed, and even a brief glance told Hugo that every book had been placed according to its category.

  Gravois rose and narrowed his eyes just a touch, trying to remember where they'd seen each other before. Hugo pictured their sidewalk stand-off and scrolled his mind back over their encounter, remembering nothing that would directly contradict his journalist story. He decided to take the initiative, to make it a non event.

  “At the book stall by Pont Neuf,” Hugo said. He leaned across the desk and extended his hand. “I believe we saw each other there a few days ago. I'm Hugo Marston.”

  “Yes, I remember now.” Gravois nodded slowly. “You were asking questions.” Despite the warmth of the office, he wore gloves and, as if to explain, said, “I am undergoing treatment for cancer, I have to be careful about infections.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that,” Hugo said. That explained the baldness and lack of eyebrows. “As I told your assistant, I am a journalist. I'd been told that a bouquiniste called Max worked at the stall, that he'd give me an interview.”

  “Ah, oui? About what?” He spoke slowly, his voice deep and gravelly, his words as deliberate as his movements.

  “About the bookstalls. Their history, what it's like to work at one, what they think of tourists.”

  “Alors. Sit, Monsieur Marston, please.” Gravois directed his guest to one of two identical seats opposite him and sat down himself. “Tourists pay the bouquinistes' rent, what do you suppose they think of them?”

  “True,” said Hugo. “But they don't have to like them.”

  “And you think,” Gravois said, “that my bouquinistes are stupid enough to tell you they don't like Americans?”

  “No, no, you misunderstand. That's not the focus of my article at all.”

  “And who is your employer? Do you have credentials?”

  “I'm freelance. I hope to sell to one of the airlines, actually. They pay the best.”

  “And your credentials?”

  “Unfortunately,” Hugo shrugged, “you only get those when you work for a news organization. We freelancers have to rely on our charm.”

  “Indeed.” Gravois shifted in his seat. “What do you want from me?”

  Hugo pulled out the notepad and pen that he'd bought at a tabac en route. “I've always wondered how the bouquinistes get their stalls.”

  “Like Monsieur Chabot, for example?”

  “Monsieur…?” Hugo played dumb, as good at this routine as anyone. But Gravois was inscrutable. He would make a great interrogator, Hugo thought; you had no idea what he knew, but you suspected he knew a lot.

  “No matter.” Gravois waved a hand. “Bouquinistes have been around for many years, over a century. How the stalls are passed along varies, Monsieur Marston. Sometimes father to son, sometimes friends.”

  “Sometimes the SBP?”

  “Yes. We are a resource for our members in many ways. That is one of them.”

  “What else does the SBP do?”

  “Many things.” Gravois looked away from Hugo for the first time, checking the alignment of his pen. Almost perfect but not quite. Gravois straightened it, then looked up again. “We are a lobbying organization. If the government tries to oppress our members, we represent them. We provide supplemental health packages for those who do not want to rely on the current system.”

  “And for that your members pay a fee?”

  “Like any union, yes, of course.” Gravois smiled, but there was no change in the eyes. “Even journalists have unions, you know.”

  “So I've heard,” said Hugo. “Just not in America.”

  “No? America is an interesting country, I should visit one day.”

  “You should.” Hugo cleared his throat. He knew he would have to choose his words carefully, that for some reason suspicion was already aroused. That fact alone told Hugo plenty, about Gravois if not about what he was doing. Fastidious and suspicious, and either his temperament or some position of power allowed him to slap a man in public and fear no recrimination. It probably didn't matter if Hugo got thrown out as a fraud, but until he knew where Max was, he had no desire to antagonize anyone. “Are all bouquinistes members of the SBP?”

  “Yes. It is, as the English say, ‘a closed shop.’ Your French, by the way, is excellent. For an American.”

  “Thank you.” Hugo ignored the slight. “Let me ask you this, do you suppose Monsieur Chabot would give me an interview? Background on the SBP is of great interest but so too are the daily activities of your members.”

  “You did well to come to me first, monsieur. I think that few bouquinistes, none perhaps, would talk to you without my…our permission. You must understand that the police, government officials of several kinds, they go around looking for petty violations. Those spots are valuable real estate and I think some bureaucrats resent that we get them so cheaply. To them, money is more important than tradition. It's a shame.”

  “Yes, it is. But with your permission, I can interview Monsieur Chabot?”

  They locked eyes for a moment, each man trying to read the thoughts and intentions of the other. Gravois spoke first.

  “No. I think it is better that the bouquinistes retain a little mystery about them, don't you?” A thin smile. “You are free to write whatever pleases you, but I would prefer it if you did not bother my members, monsieur.”

  The interview was clearly over but Hugo made no attempt to get up. “Then one last question, Monsieur Gravois. How exactly did Monsieur Chabot come to be in possession of that stall?”

  Again the deliberate pause. “Why your interest in him?”

  Hugo shrugged. “When I spoke to him he didn't seem to know much about books. He seems young and I'm not sure he has the highest ranking in, or respect from, the SBP.” Yes, I saw you hit him. “And yet he suddenly comes into possession of what must surely be one of the best stalls in Paris.”

  “Suddenly?” Gravois stood. “What makes you say it was sudden?”

  “Just something Chabot said.” Hugo flipped his notebook closed, well aware that Gravois had been looking to see if he'd been taking notes. He had. “I don't remember what exactly, he just left me with that impression.”

  “I hide nothing from you, Monsieur Marston, when I tell you that he is a stupid man. But even stupid men need to make a living, no?”

  “Of course.” Hugo reached for his hat as Gravois limped around the desk, leaning on it for support.

  “I expect that with his limited intelligence and your good but imperfect language skills, there was a miscommunication.” Gravois picked up his cane and walked to the door. He opened it and waited. “That
is, of course, another reason why an interview is not a good idea. It would benefit no one for you to misrepresent their words in your article. Good day, Monsieur Marston. And bonne chance.”

  Hugo paused in the doorway and turned to face Gravois, close enough to smell stale tobacco on the man's breath. Funny, he hadn't noticed an ashtray in here. It was an intentional invasion of space and Hugo felt satisfaction when Gravois shifted his weight to his bad foot.

  “Do you know where Max Koche is, Monsieur Gravois?”

  “Max Koche?” His face was impassive. “I'm not familiar with the name. We have several hundred members, I do not know them all.”

  “Then maybe you can look him up. Jean Chabot is running his stall.”

  “Au revoir Monsieur Marston. And as they say in America, ‘take care.’”

  It wasn't much of a café, and wasn't one at all except for those who knew it was there. On a narrow street less than a block from the Seine, a weathered board spelled Chez Maman in peeling black letters and hung over an entrance that showed no particular sign of welcoming strangers. It was five o'clock, a good time to find a table and some peace, and maybe wash away the bitter taste that had settled in his mouth in Rue Nollet.

  Hugo put his shoulder to the door and stepped into a small room filled with trails of smoke that rose past the blank, tired faces of men who stared into cups of coffee, beer, and shot glasses of amber liquid. A scarred stone floor and the heavy elbows of the bar's patrons made every one of the dozen or so tables wobble, though no one was moving much. Above Hugo's head dark beams striped the low ceiling, the plaster stained yellow from a hundred years or more of cigarette and cigar smoke.

  Hugo closed the door behind him, then looked over and saw the owner behind the bar, the woman known simply as Maman. She was short and squat and unwilling to pour anything but beer, wine, and the occasional whisky—if you didn't mind being horribly overcharged. Sixty-something, maybe seventy, but always there, and no matter how crowded and smoky the place got she was visible, shuffling up and down behind the bar with her bright orange head of hair that was a slightly different shade every week. She laughed plenty but never for long—the bar's smoke had stained her lungs, too, and jocularity inevitably devolved into a rasping, hacking cough that her customers pretended not to hear. For those moments she kept a canister of fresh oxygen behind the bar, always within reach, and never far from the cigarette that burned in her fingers.