The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

  “The cops are pretty good at finding people, you know,” Tom grumbled as he started down the stairs.

  “Good but slow,” Hugo said. He trotted down the four flights and paused in the foyer. It was almost eleven, so Hugo wouldn't have expected Dimitrios, or anyone else, to be there. He checked behind the concierge's desk and saw nothing out of place.

  Behind the desk a door led to a storage room and the water heaters. Hugo rounded the desk and tried the handle. Unlocked. He waited as Tom caught up and then pushed the door open. They walked into the room together, Hugo feeling for the light switch. He clicked it on and they moved further in, shoes crunching lightly on the concrete floor. Around them were stacks of old furniture, broken armchairs and tables upside down, waiting to be fixed. A row of paint cans lined the wall to the right and a twelve-foot work bench laden with tools lay to their left. The room smelled of oil and dust and not enough ventilation.

  No sign of Dimitrios.

  Ahead of them was a second door, leading to the boilers. Hugo reached it first and went straight through, finding the light already on. Dimitrios lay bound and gagged on the floor between two boilers, his eyes at first terrified and then flooded with relief as the two men walked in. His cheeks were wet with tears.

  They knelt by him, helping him sit up. Hugo pulled off the tape that covered his mouth and Dimitrios spat out a piece of cloth that had been sealed in to prevent him screaming. He rolled his head and breathed deeply. Tom reached for his boot, drew out a knife and flicked it open. He sliced through the rope that pinned the old man's hands behind his back and wound around his legs. Dimitrios sat there for a moment, rubbing his wrists and arms, sobbing quietly.

  “Ça va, Dimitrios?” Hugo asked gently.

  “Oui.” The old man turned his wide and tear-filled eyes to Hugo. “I am sorry, Monsieur Marston, so very sorry. They made me give them the key, they made me. I am so glad they didn't hurt you. And so ashamed.”

  “Don't be, Dimitrios, please. Everything is fine,” Hugo said. He and Tom helped the old man to his feet, draping his arms around their shoulders. “Let's get you to the hospital.”

  “That's not necessary, monsieur.”

  “I think it is,” said Hugo. “Do you remember what time those men arrived?”

  “I think about eight; I was about to leave.”

  They helped him to a sofa in the foyer where they found Capitaine Garcia, whose suspicious nature had caused him to follow the Americans downstairs. He radioed for an ambulance and pulled out a pen and notebook and began taking a statement from the concierge.

  “Well, this appears to answer one question,” Hugo said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We surprised them, right? Which means they weren't expecting us.”

  “Right,” said Tom. “And that means they didn't follow us to Bielle and back.”

  “No,” said Hugo, “it just means they didn't follow us back.”

  “Good point. No great surprise, they've already shown how good they are at tailing you.” Tom grinned. “Nice work getting followed to the train station yesterday, though. Dumbass.”

  “Yeah,” Hugo shook his head. “I'm out of practice.”

  “Pretty good kick to the knee, though.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at Tom, then steered him out of Garcia's earshot. “About your gun. You know you're not supposed to have one, right?”

  “Gun?” Tom raised his eyebrows dramatically, his face the picture of innocence. “What gun? No idea what you're talking about.”

  “Excellent,” Hugo said, “thanks. I've got a feeling the ambassador is going to have enough to say without that added complication.”

  “You may be out of practice, Hugo, but I'm not.”

  “Yeah,” Hugo nodded. “You love this shit, don't you?”

  “As I said, it's just like old times. Now, can we go up and finish those drinks?”

  Capitaine Garcia joined them upstairs after Dimitrios had left for the hospital and as the crime scene techs were finishing up.

  “No word on the other intruder,” he said. “We've got men looking but I don't expect to find him. Not tonight, anyway.”

  “Is the guy talking?” Tom asked.

  “No, he's still sitting in the car downstairs. I'll take him to the station when we're done. I like to process them myself, watch them every step of the way. Makes them feel important, which in turn makes them think they are in more trouble than they are.”

  “I'd think this guy is already neck deep in the shit,” Tom said.

  “He is. But by the time I sit down and talk to him, he'll think he's being charged with trying to assassinate our president. And yours.”

  “Thanks, capitaine.” They moved toward the door but Hugo stopped. “We talked before about my friend Max, the bouquiniste who was kidnapped.”

  “Of course, your suspicions about Monsieur Gravois.”

  Hugo nodded. “What are the police doing?”

  Garcia appraised him for a moment. “Everything we need to do, everything that we should be doing. That is all I can say right now.”

  Unsatisfied, but recognizing a brick wall when he saw one, Hugo steered Garcia toward the door, double locking it behind him, then walked to his leather armchair in front of the fireplace and leaned on the back of it. He was exhausted but somehow not ready for bed. For all the crimes he'd investigated, crimes much worse than burglary, he'd never been a victim before. As Tom recharged their whisky glasses, he walked through his apartment touching his furniture, checking the windows. When he went back into the living room he clicked the gas fire on and the men sank into their chairs.

  “Helluva day,” Tom said.

  “I'm too old for this.”

  “Come on, this is the stuff that makes you feel young.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Hey.” Tom cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was just thinking about your Claudia again,” Tom began.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “I figured. I'm not saying she's in on anything, I just don't feel like I'm sure she's not.”

  “I don't think so, Tom, I really don't. But my mind is open, if only a little.”

  “OK. Did she know you were going to the Pyrénées?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it's possible those mugs didn't follow you.”

  “She told them?” Hugo shook his head, unable, or unwilling, to believe that. “She also knew we were coming back early. If she was in on this somehow, she'd have told them and we'd never have caught them here.”

  “That's true, too. So tell me what the plan is for tomorrow.”

  Hugo wiped a hand over his face. “Sleep late, for one thing. I'll have to call Ceci. And I'll have to talk to the embassy and play the victim.”

  “How about a visit to Gravois?”

  “Are you serious?” Hugo sat up. “No way, Tom. If that guy squeals to Roussillon, I'll get chewed out for real this time.” Hugo looked at Tom and recognized the amused glint in his eye. “No, Tom, I don't want you going all black ops on me. Not yet.”

  “You'll be going into the embassy to report to the ambassador?”

  “Yes, and you're coming with me.”

  “I'll probably just hang out here.”

  “The hell you will.”

  Tom stood and walked his glass into the kitchen, then headed for the study. “Sleep well, gorgeous.”

  Hugo couldn't help smiling. “Good night, Tom.”

  Tom waved and went into the study, closing the door behind him. Hugo stared at the fire for another five minutes, then pulled himself upright and went to his bed and lay down. I'll undress in a minute, was his last thought before sleep rolled over him like a bank of fog.

  When Hugo woke at eight the next morning, Tom was gone. He'd left a note on the coffee maker.

  Souvenir shopping. I'll bring you back something.—T.

  Something.

  Looking at th
e scribbled note, Hugo had the sense that what he wanted most of all was a stronger connection with his mercurial friend. He thought back to their days at Quantico and then in LA. They'd had no secrets back then, Hugo was sure of that. It was Tom's tour with the CIA that had closed him off, not just from Hugo but from everyone else. From the carefree Tom of old. The way he was now, the jokes, the drinking, the attempts at womanizing, they felt forced, as if Tom was looking for his former self, hunting around for the personality that used to be as natural and fitting as his own skin. He was like a man whose memory had been wiped, a man who had to try on different coats to find the one that fits, the one that's his.

  Hugo had no idea if his friend needed help or if he needed space. Hugo's expertise with the human mind lay in diagnosing the behaviors of strangers, not friends, and he felt guilty for that. He wanted to be there for Tom but, in truth, he wasn't sure where it was he needed to be. Right now, for example, Hugo had no idea whether Tom was working on finding Max's killer, doing something unspeakable for the CIA, or maybe, just perhaps, really and truly shopping in Paris for souvenirs.

  Into his second cup of coffee and gathering the energy to walk to the embassy, Hugo tried Ceci's number. It rang and rang. Maybe out walking Sydney, he thought. He called Emma and was at least able to leave a message. He told her the basics, said he was fine, and asked her to warn the ambassador that he would be in to talk to him. Ten minutes later he was about to try Ceci again when his cell phone rang.

  “Capitaine Garcia here, Monsieur Marston.”

  “Good morning, capitaine. Any news?”

  “A little. Your ugly friend didn't want to talk to us, and he has that right. But we found out who he is. Or, more precisely, what he is. A small time drug dealer. He has spent some time in our jails, and will be going back there, of course.”

  “Do you know who he works for?”

  “Not exactly. We know who his associates are, who he's done work for in the past, but we have no idea who he's working for at the moment. If anyone, of course.”

  “You think it might have been just a burglary?”

  “Not really, no. I assume you don't either.”

  “No.”

  “That poetry book you told me about, do you think they might have been looking for it?”

  “It's possible,” said Hugo. If so, Roussillon hadn't sent them: he already had it. But maybe it wasn't that simple. There was still some question in his mind about the Clausewitz book. He'd already told himself that whoever took Max had taken the book, either from his person or from his flat. But maybe not.

  “By the way, the only thing he would tell us was that your friend had a gun. I've checked the manifests kept by the airlines and I see no record of him declaring a gun on the way in. Care to comment?”

  “Capitaine, that would be a very serious matter.”

  “Precisely. And, of course, I place very little stock in what a violent drug dealer tells me. I just thought I'd mention it.”

  “I'll speak to my friend, make sure we're all on the same page.”

  “I'd appreciate that.”

  Hugo remembered Ceci's call. “I may have another missing person for you, capitaine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got a call late last night, a message left on my phone from Cecilia Roget, the former head of the SBP. Apparently another bouquiniste is missing.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Just a first name. I'll find out more and get it to you as soon as I can.”

  “Merci. Tell me again, the name of the lady who gave you this information?”

  “Cecilia Roget.”

  “I see. Please, no offense Monsieur Marston, but tell her to call me next time she has something important to report.”

  “Of course.” Let the turf wars begin, Hugo thought. “As soon as I get hold of her, I'll tell her. Are you planning to talk to Monsieur Gravois, capitaine?”

  “Non, I don't think so. We have no reason to believe he's involved, no obvious connection between the deaths or to your burglary.”

  “Two bouquinistes in one week isn't a connection?”

  “Maybe they both used Microsoft computers, monsieur—should I go interview Bill Gates?”

  “That's your analogy? Come on, capitaine.”

  “Until you or someone else can show me how their deaths are related, I have no reason to think they are anything but very unfortunate coincidences.”

  “Coincidences?” Hugo bit his tongue. He knew they were more than that, and he knew that sooner or later he'd find something to convince this cop. “Fine, you're in charge, capitaine.”

  “Thank you. I need to make an appointment for you to come to the station with your friend to look at photos, to try and recognize the intruder. When are you available?”

  “How does this afternoon sound?”

  “Fine. The sooner the better, of course. If I'm not here, just tell them who you are. Everything will be ready.”

  Hugo tried Ceci one more time, the specter of worry moving across his mind when she didn't answer. Nothing he could do from Paris, though, so he set off for the embassy, keeping his head down despite the beauty of the day. He didn't want to see Chabot or whoever had taken Francoise Benoit's place. He paused only briefly on the narrow pedestrian bridge, Pont des Arts. The heavy roll of the murky water beneath his feet carried a new and unwelcome menace.

  “Hugo, come in,” Ambassador Taylor said. “I got your message, are you OK?”

  “I'm fine, thank you ambassador.”

  “So what the hell happened?”

  Hugo told him, leaving out any reference to Tom's gun. The ambassador sat there shaking his head.

  “You think it has to do with this Max Koche?”

  “I do. Even the capitaine doesn't think it was a random burglary, though he doesn't seem inclined to bother Bruno Gravois.”

  “Why not? I don't want you bugging him, but I sure as hell don't care if the cops do.”

  “I think it's for the same reason your friend Roussillon didn't want him bothered. Political reasons.”

  The ambassador stroked his chin. “This still isn't our jurisdiction, you know. I wish I could help, Hugo, suggest something to get you involved formally, but I just don't see how.”

  “There is one way,” Hugo said. “Most homicides in the United States are local matters, right? For the state or county police to deal with.”

  “Go on.”

  “But these days, when they need help they often call in the FBI.”

  Understanding dawned on the ambassador's face. “You mean when they have a serial killer and think a profile might help.”

  “Exactly. Now, the prefecture may have its own profilers, I don't know.”

  “They may, but you taught at the FBI academy and have a ton of experience. I like it, nice idea. You want me to pitch it as an offer of help, nothing more?”

  “If you would, ambassador, I'd be grateful.”

  “I'll do it. No promises, of course, and if they say no then you'll have to stay out of it. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Although if they come after me again, I won't be a passive victim.”

  “Understood.” The ambassador's eyes twinkled for a moment. “By the way, my sources tell me that although your robber didn't make any statement, he did ask for medical treatment for his, umm, manhood.”

  “It's called the castle doctrine,” Hugo grinned. “Break into my house and my soldiers get to crush yours.”

  On his way out, Hugo stopped in to see Emma. The relief in her face was evident, although she tried to mask all signs of worry. “Hugo, can you not stay out of trouble while you're on vacation?”

  “Not my fault,” he said. “People keep forgetting that those guys broke into my place, not the other way around.”

  “Even so, did you consider backing away and calling the cops?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said truthfully, “the thought never entered my mind.”

  “Figures.”


  Hugo's cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “Claudia,” he said, flipping his phone open. “What's up?”

  “Can you meet for a quick cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. Where are you?”

  “If you're at work, three blocks away. You know Café Bleu? On Saint-Honoré?”

  “The new place, sure.”

  “Meet me there.”

  “Claudia, is everything OK? You sound upset.”

  “I'm fine. Just tired.”

  “Give me ten minutes, I'll be there.”

  The Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, Hugo had often thought, would be the only street to get Christine to Paris and, maybe, keep her there. Narrow and nondescript by Paris's architectural standards, it was nevertheless one of the most famous shopping boulevards in the world. All of the famous fashion houses kept stores on the street, as did dozens more designers that Hugo had never heard of. The boutiques sold only the finest art, the jewelry stores were almost too intimidating to enter, and the few hotels on the road were subtle affairs of supreme elegance, small and intimate, with better service than you'd get at some of the more palatial hotels in Paris.

  Café Bleu fit right in. With just a single row of tables along the sidewalk, Hugo had walked past often and never seen one remain empty for more than thirty seconds. The waiters here were fast and efficient, they knew they were dealing with exacting customers who wouldn't hesitate to drop large amounts of cash at the boutiques nearby…or make a polite fuss if their coffee was cold or slow to arrive.

  Claudia had managed to snag a table and two chairs beside the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek and slid into the vacant seat, momentarily battling the outer limits of a puffy Italian woman who'd overflowed into it.

  “Nothing like privacy,” Hugo grimaced.

  Claudia smiled, but she looked tired. “Sorry to drag you away like that.”

  “No problem. What's up?”

  A waiter appeared and Hugo ordered a café crème. Claudia asked for the same.

  “I wanted to let you know a little of what is going on, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”

  “Tom?”

  “No, Hugo, not even him. Not yet.” She held his eye. “Promise?”