The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

  Hugo grimaced. “I know of their reputation.”

  “Yes. Because they were so good, the Resistance had to think of ways of protecting the information that it gathered. To protect it even as it was being transferred.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, information was smuggled in different ways, so the carrier didn't know what it said. One of the ways was in books.”

  “How exactly?”

  “A variety of ways. Microdots, or notes pasted under the endpapers were common. Sometimes words or letters were highlighted in invisible ink. Those were probably the methods used most often by the Resistance.”

  “And the kinds of information they passed, you're not just talking about munitions dumps and German troop movements, but information about collaborators.”

  “Exactly. I think—no, I know, Max believed he could locate more collaborators if he could just search enough books. That's why he became a bouquiniste; he thought it was the best way to search as many old books as possible.”

  Hugo pictured Max clinging to the copy of On War by Carl von Clausewitz on that cold, cloudy afternoon. Now he knew why. “Poor Max,” Hugo said. “I had no idea.” He sat back and shook his head. No idea at all.

  “Don't feel bad, it did not make him an unhappy man. You know him, so you know that's true. It's almost as if it gives him purpose.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, then Hugo looked up. “And you knew Francoise? They are calling her death an accident.”

  “Yes, I knew poor Francoise. Frankly, her death could have been an accident. She used to leave her stall and go down by the river to drink. She thought no one would know that way. Perhaps it was inevitable that one day she would fall in.” She smiled sadly. “C'est dommage.” A great shame.

  A knock at the door interrupted them and she excused herself. Hugo turned to stare into the fire. He'd not asked about Gravois yet, she needed to process this shock first. And so far she didn't look like being much help. But then why would she? A nice house, a safe business, and hundreds of miles from Paris. No reason in the world to get involved in whatever nasty stuff was happening in and around the Seine.

  A man's voice spoke beside him. “Mind if I join you?”

  Hugo twisted in his seat, looked up at Tom, and grinned. “Be my guest.”

  “Thanks.” Tom flopped into the vacant armchair. “I got your message and was in the neighborhood.”

  “Marseille is in the neighborhood?”

  Tom grinned. “What a good memory you have.”

  Madame Roget arrived with a large glass of water, which she handed to Tom. “I'm going to take Sydney out, I'll be back in an hour. Please, make yourselves at home. Would you care to eat here tonight, or will you be going out? I'm happy to cook, if you don't mind peasant cuisine.”

  “Let's eat here, if you don't mind,” said Tom. “Just be sure and add it to his bill.”

  “Bien. You like pork?”

  They told her they did and watched her leave. Tom looked around the room, then back at Hugo. “So did I miss the interrogation?”

  “Most of it. She doesn't seem to know much, I'm afraid.”

  “The picture's the same, then?”

  “Sadly, no. One other bouquiniste is dead for sure.” Hugo filled him in on his encounter with Benoit on the Seine's walkway and on the details of her death. He also told Tom about his being followed and about Roussillon's interference. Then he asked. “Tell me you have good news.”

  “I have news.” Tom watched him for a moment, in a way that made Hugo uncomfortable.

  “Spit it out.”

  “I looked into your unhelpful cop, David Durand. Word I got, he was passing the scene and offered to check it out.”

  “OK. And?”

  “And, sheesh.” Tom sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Here comes the real news. Your new girlfriend has been hanging out with him.”

  “What?” Hugo sat forward, his eyes fixed on Tom.

  “They met at a café, played kissy-face like the French do, and were still there when I strolled past twenty minutes later.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It was a café, what do you think?”

  “I don't understand. Were you following Durand or Claudia?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Fine. Claudia.”

  “Tom, what the hell?”

  “You're welcome.” He threw up a sheepish smile. “You have to admit, it's interesting information.”

  It was, though Hugo wasn't happy about admitting it. “So they were having coffee. No idea why?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you find out who bought the book?”

  “I did, actually. Can you guess?”

  They locked eyes for a moment, then Hugo spoke. “Roussillon bought it, didn't he?”

  “He sure did. Well, not him, but a little girl he has working for him, I forget her name.”

  So did Hugo, but no matter. Roussillon again. Did Claudia know about this? “I assume you didn't approach him yet?” Hugo asked.

  “Not yet. Did a little digging and saw he was a big shot and figured you might want to handle with care. Glad I did, sounds like he's a thorn.”

  “Good assessment.”

  “So what's the plan?”

  Hugo stretched his feet toward the fire, pushing away thoughts of Claudia meeting with a detective he didn't trust. “Let's ask madame about Gravois when she gets back,” he said. “We'll see if she has any more insight into that guy. And then we'll have a nice peasant dinner.”

  She cooked supper in the pot, a shank and several thick cuts of roast boar that had baked in its own juices and red wine for a good two hours—time that Hugo and Tom spent by the fire. They talked about Max and the book, but found themselves coming up with more questions than answers so they turned to old times and frequently just stared into the flames. Ceci moved back and forth from the kitchen, bringing fresh drinks and slices of local brebis cheese, and dropping new logs on the fire when the two men forgot to do it themselves.

  Once, as she was cooking at around six o'clock, Hugo wandered back to the kitchen to see if he could help, and when she declined with thanks, he stood and watched approvingly as she added onions, potatoes, and handfuls of whole garlic to the pot. When he went back to his chair by the fire, he carried the rich aroma with him.

  The meal was served at a battered oak table in the kitchen and Ceci ate with them, a small wood stove pumping heat into the room. She'd put a bottle of wine and three glass tumblers on the table, and the men decided it would be impolite not to partake. A second bottle, with Ceci keeping pace, saw them through to a circle of pastry covered in crème patisserie and layered with strawberries. Night closed in around them but they didn't notice, and if they had, they would have welcomed it. No reason to go out and every reason in the world to stay in.

  After they'd eaten, they moved back into the living room. Ceci offered to open another bottle of wine, but Hugo had turned pensive and his mood seemed to color theirs. He knew they had more talking to do. Or, he hoped, Ceci did. He asked what she knew about Gravois.

  She frowned and thought for a moment, then told them that the man had come out of nowhere. After twelve years heading the SBP, she'd thought about retiring but didn't have enough saved and so settled in for an unopposed election and another four-year term as the union's leader. But as the election drew near, she began to hear rumblings. Not so much of discontent, she said, but of concern. And then Bruno Gravois paid her a visit.

  “He was nice enough,” she said. “Polite but in that way some people have, the way that lets you know they are not always so gentlemanly. He told me that some of the bouquinistes had asked him to throw his hat into the ring.”

  “Wait, was he a bouquiniste himself ?” Hugo asked.

  “No. That's what was odd. That was always the tradition. I'd only run a stall for a few years, then gotten myself a part interest in a bookshop in the Third Arrondis
sement. But I had been a bouquiniste.”

  “Interesting,” said Tom. “Did you ask him about his background? Why he of all people should be any good at the job? Or want it?”

  “Of course. He told me that he was well-connected, that he could give the bouquinistes a louder voice. No, wait. ‘A bigger stick to wield,’ that's the way he put it.”

  “Nice image,” Hugo muttered. “Go on.”

  “I remember after that he did something odd. We'd been talking with my office door open, but he got up and closed it. He came to my desk and half-leaned over it. Have you seen him? Then you'll know what he looks like. To a woman, messieurs, he can be quite frightening.”

  “I can see that,” Hugo said. “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, I don't suppose I can say that he did.” She laughed gently. “That face, the look he had, that was threat enough. He didn't use any words that, when I repeat them now, sound threatening, but after he'd closed the door like that, walked so slowly to my desk…” She looked at Hugo and shuddered. “You've seen the limp? Then you know. Anyway, he offered me money. I remember his voice, so clear and cold. It's almost funny, he offered me money the way a robber demands it. You feel like you have no choice but to go along.” She waved a hand at the living room. “And this is what I did with it.”

  “And some gites,” said Hugo.

  “Yes. It was a lot of money.”

  “Didn't you wonder, though? Wonder why?” asked Tom. “Or go to the police, even?”

  “And say what? That a scary man had offered me lots of money? ‘Take it!’ they would have said, ‘take it, you foolish woman!’ So that's what I did.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Hugo spoke. “Did you know he offered other bouquinistes money to quit?”

  “No.” She looked up. “Why would he do that?”

  “I don't know,” Hugo said. “For the same reason he offered you money, whatever that is.”

  “You know, I have some files here,” she said. “They may be out of date, but you are welcome to them. They'd tell you who had stalls when I left Paris, maybe you could see who has left and find out why.”

  “I think that's exactly what we should do,” said Hugo.

  “I can take care of that pretty easily,” said Tom. “I'll get the names, find contact info, and start calling.”

  “I'll go get them,” Ceci said. She stood and went to a heavy desk at the far side of the living room. She opened a file drawer and spent a few minutes looking through it. She returned with a manila folder containing half a dozen sheets of paper and handed it to Tom. “Not much more than a list of the bouquinistes, but it's something.”

  “Merci,” Tom said. “I'll get started first thing tomorrow. Now, what do you say about just one more little bottle of vin de table?”

  Ceci smiled and headed into the kitchen. Hugo looked at his friend, sprawled out in his chair, disheveled and bleary-eyed. Good to be working with you again, Tom.

  When Ceci returned, Hugo was glad to see she carried a jug of water along with the bottle, and all three of them paid more attention to it than they did the wine. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed ten times. As Hugo stood to excuse himself for the night, the house phone rang. Ceci answered it, her eyes on Hugo. “Oui. Il est la.” Yes, he's here. “It's for you. A woman.”

  Tom stirred in his chair and mumbled, “At this time of night? Don't bother ordering one for me, I'm turning in.”

  Hugo took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hugo, it's me, Claudia.” Her voice was strained.

  “Claudia, are you OK?”

  “Yes, I'm fine. Been trying to get hold of you for hours.”

  “Sorry, no cell phone coverage here.”

  “So I gather. You didn't tell me where you were staying so I had to call the embassy, get your secretary's home number, and have her tell me where you were.”

  Poor Emma. “So what's going on?”

  “Hugo, I'm really sorry.” He could hear her take a breath, steadying herself. “I got a call from one of my contacts at the prefecture, they found another bouquiniste in the river. I'm so sorry, Hugo. It's Max—he's dead.”

  Hugo pressed his head against the cool stone of the wall and closed his eyes. “Where exactly, Claudia?”

  “Some tourists found him at the tip of Ile Saint-Germain this afternoon. He'd been in the water for some time. The cops are not sure how long, or how far he was carried downstream, so they can't say where he went in. Or how. I'm sorry.”

  “It's definitely him?” A question other people used to ask him, and he heard the same desperation in his own voice.

  “Yes. There's no doubt.”

  “OK. Thanks for finding me.” He shouldn't have been surprised, and really he wasn't. A man isn't taken like that only to pop back up, all happy and well. But, dammit, he'd hoped. Really hoped. “Tell me they're not treating this as an accident,” he said.

  “No. They have the tip of the island cordoned off, but no one expects to find anything there, as it almost certainly wasn't the murder scene. If it was murder. They'll do an autopsy in the morning, we'll know more after that.”

  “Of course. Do you know who's going to handle the case?”

  “No, but I can find out and let you know. Want me to call you there tomorrow?”

  “No. I'm coming back.” He glanced at Tom, who stood watching him, trying to read his face. “I have someone to help me here, my friend Tom, so I'll just head back to Paris tomorrow.”

  “OK. Call me when you get in, will you?”

  “Sure.” Hugo hesitated. He had two questions he wanted to ask her, but the one about Durand could wait. “Claudia, did you know your father bought Max's book? The Rimbaud he sold to me?”

  A sharp intake of breath told him she didn't know. Or was an exceptional liar, which was possible. “No. He didn't tell me.”

  “Is there any reason why he would?”

  “No, I suppose not. He buys and sells books all the time and doesn't usually mention it unless he's found something he's wanted for a long time. But he didn't say anything about this.”

  “OK.”

  “Hugo, you don't still think this is about the book, do you? This may be a murder investigation now and I need to know what you know, what you are thinking.” They were both thinking the same thing, but she said it first. “Do you think my father could be involved?”

  “I honestly don't know, Claudia. There are a lot of coincidences, an awful lot, but some of them have explanations.” He thought of Roussillon buying the Rimbaud. A gay book collector had every reason in the world to cherish an almost priceless copy of Une Saison En Enfer, especially one inscribed by the author. “Look, I'll call you tomorrow. And Claudia?”

  “Yes?”

  “Again, I appreciate you getting this news to me, I really do.”

  “But of course I would, Hugo.” She sounded almost taken aback, but her voice softened. “I am sorry he's gone, truly.”

  “Thank you. Now, get some sleep, and we'll talk when I get to Paris.”

  He rang off and handed the phone back to Ceci. Like Tom, she'd been listening to his every word and her eyes were glistening.

  “Max is dead, oui?” she whispered.

  “Oui,” Hugo said, “il est mort.”

  She clutched the phone to her chest and closed her eyes. “What is happening up there? Is it Gravois?”

  “I don't know,” said Hugo, “I really don't.”

  “Let me at him,” Tom growled, “we'll find out soon enough.”

  Ceci gave him a sad smile and shook her head. “If I understand you, I think we've had enough violence.” She walked to the desk and put the phone down, then turned to her guests. “Good night, mes amis. Sleep as late or early as you want. I always wake before dawn to let Sydney out, so I'll make breakfast whenever you get up.”

  The two men bade her good night then stayed for a moment, standing on either side of the fireplace.

  “I'm sorry about your friend, Hug
o.”

  “Thanks. At least they aren't assuming it was an accident.”

  “That's a start,” Tom nodded. “Of course, you've got a whole new set of problems now, you know that, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your boss already told you to keep a low profile. If you keep poking around and asking questions while there's an official police investigation, word'll get back to him pretty damn quick.”

  “Good point,” said Hugo. He looked up at Tom and smiled. “If only I knew someone who was used to operating without anyone knowing.”

  “Well shit,” Tom said, “if you're really expecting me to do my thing, I need to hit the sack. Wake me when you get up. And be sure the coffee's made, else I'll kick your ass.”

  The next morning, Hugo called the train station in Pau. He'd forgotten it was Sunday, and when he asked about train times he was told that the first one left for Bordeaux at two that afternoon. He wouldn't be back in Paris until the evening.

  He used the morning to sketch out a plan of action with Tom. Ceci wanted to help, but they explained that it was best, safest, that she stay out of it. When that didn't work, they promised her that if they could use her help, they would. That didn't wash either, so they put her on the phone, making calls to as many bouquinistes as possible to find out where they were now. “I'm not sure I understand why,” she said, even while agreeing to do it.

  “And Tom, when we get back to Paris I'm thinking we make a visit to Roussillon's place and look at that book.”

  “Sounds good,” Tom said. “Assuming he lets you see it.”

  “He's got no reason to deny me. And if he does, well, you can put on your ninja suit and fly down the chimney.”

  “Not sure I'd fit into the suit, let alone the chimney.”

  Hugo smiled. “And there's this other book I should tell you about, it may have something to do with all this.”