The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

“What do you mean?”

  “When you started showing interest in a nonexistent investigation of Durand's, people started wondering.”

  “They made that assumption before figuring out it was a real investigation that he'd shut down.”

  “Right.” She smiled. “Cops and their hunches.”

  Hugo nodded. “Let's head back to my place. Get a taxi, go home, light a fire, and open a bottle of wine.”

  “Am I included in this romantic evening?” Tom asked.

  “Sure.” Hugo frowned. “In fact, can you drop me at the embassy and take her home?”

  “You reporting in to the boss?”

  “Exactly. It'll sound better coming from me than the French police or, God forbid, the French news. I'll walk home afterward; it shouldn't take long.”

  After a five minute stroll along the busy Boulevard Clichy, they flagged down a taxi. They rode in silence, shuffling along in the rush-hour traffic as dusk began to close in around them. A few of the earliest Christmas lights flicked on in store windows as they passed. Hugo had forgotten that this was the festive season, when Paris was a place of enchantment, her boulevards and parks festooned with white lights and oversized red and green bows and ribbons, her store windows shimmering with baubles and tinsel. How festive would it be for him? Endless nights drinking with Tom? Polite embassy parties and then home to an empty apartment, most likely. He wondered if maybe Claudia would be around to share it, be willing to.

  He hopped out of the cab by the Hotel Crillon and walked up to the main embassy entrance. He checked his watch: five thirty. Ambassador Taylor should still be there.

  As before, the ambassador listened silently while Hugo talked. He again omitted reference to Tom, as much for the ambassador's sake as for his or his friend's. When he'd finished, Ambassador Taylor walked to the cart bearing drinks.

  “Hell of a day for you. What would you like?”

  “Actually, I'm fine,” Hugo said.

  “You know, most police forces put their men on paid administrative leave and send them to a shrink when they've shot someone.” He poured himself a brandy. “I know what you're going to say, Hugo, but if you need time off for any reason, if you feel like it'd help to talk to someone about this, just say the word.”

  “Thank you, ambassador, but I'm fine.”

  “I'm sure you are. So we leave this to the French now, yes?” Hugo nodded. “I'll talk to some of the people at the prefecture, make sure they are happy, and let them know to take all the credit.”

  Hugo smiled. “Ever the diplomat, ambassador.”

  “We do what we can.” Ambassador Taylor chuckled. “You shoot 'em, I make them happy about it. Quite a team.” He looked at Hugo for a moment. “So tell me to mind my own business if you want, but I'm curious about something.”

  “Fire away.”

  “You told me before about a little windfall from the Rimbaud book. What are you planning to do with the money? I ask because I'm hoping you won't say ‘retire.’”

  “Oh no, despite the trials of today I like being busy.” Hugo looked past his boss. The issue of the money had nagged at him, and for no particular reason, he now knew what he was going to do. “There are a couple of funerals I want to help pay for, if I'm allowed. And with the rest, well, I think maybe I'll buy myself a little apartment and some books to fill it with.”

  “You have one in mind, I assume?”

  “Of course. It's on Rue Condorcet.” Hugo smiled, mostly to himself. “I may even get a cat.”

  He stopped by his office before heading out into the cold and eyed a stack of mail waiting for his attention. He knew that Emma would get to it and that he could call tomorrow or the next day to see if anything important had come in. Urgent stuff came by e-mail or phone, so this pile could wait.

  He sat down at his desk, rereading the instructions from Garcia's lieutenant for checking cell phone records. There was just one thing he wanted to confirm, an event he needed to be sure had happened. And after he'd clicked through the right steps, when he'd checked every possible data entry and realized that he was wrong, he sat there in silence, utterly bemused. He picked up his phone, hesitant to bother an injured man. But then he called Garcia anyway.

  “Much better, merci,” the capitaine said. “I'll be out tomorrow. Then they'll probably make me go back to work.”

  “Good, they need you. I have a quick question about the Roussillon shooting. I wanted to ask about the surveillance footage, whether you'd had a chance to view it.”

  There was silence for a second, then Garcia's voice was serious. “Oui, that system is hooked into a law enforcement program, some high-tech stuff I don't understand. Anyway, normally we can play those tapes back almost immediately.”

  “Normally?”

  “Oui. Funny thing, there was nothing on his.”

  “Nothing on them? What do you mean?”

  “The system had been switched off.”

  As Hugo stood to leave, his eye fell on a yellow envelope in the middle of his stack of mail. It was a padded envelope that contained something thick and square, the dimensions of a video cassette.

  Or, Hugo thought, a book.

  He shoved away the mail that sat on top of it and peered at the writing on the envelope. No return address, just his name and the address of the embassy. I know where to find you, Max had said.

  Hugo's heart pounded as he ripped open the envelope. He knew all mail was screened before ever reaching his desk, so he didn't bother being gentle—it wasn't going to explode or poison him.

  In any case, he already knew what was inside.

  The walk home seemed long and cold, the evening breeze blowing up off the Seine, tugging at him as it tried to find a way through his coat. But it was cleansing, too, like a cold shower, blasting away the events of the day. It was rare for Hugo to leave a case unfinished, but he reassured himself that there was nothing more for him to do, that Gravois was the guilty man, and that if he were to be caught the police would do it. He now knew who'd killed Max and the other sellers, and he knew why.

  The only remaining question was about Roussillon's death, and those pieces were falling into place, though the picture wasn't ideal.

  On the plus side, though, he had two friends, one very pretty, waiting for him at home.

  At the end of the Tuileries, he turned right and crossed the river on Pont Royal. He paused at the end of the bridge, eager to get away from the cold but curious to see Max's stall. It was past six o'clock, so he didn't expect anyone to be there, but somehow he wanted to go by and let his old friend know that justice was being done, that the man responsible would soon be caught or, at least, would likely never return to Paris.

  Ten minutes later Hugo was within sight of the stall, the four metal boxes visible in a patch of light falling from a nearby streetlamp. He paused for a moment, then squinted, sure he'd seen movement. He had. Someone was there. He moved closer, and the man walked into the light.

  Hugo didn't recognize him, his body shrouded by the long, dark coat that swept the ground every time the man stooped, his head covered for warmth. The man bent over a box, packing up, and Hugo stared. Had Gravois sent someone to close Chabot's stall, fearing an open one might look suspicious? But why would he care anymore? More likely, Hugo thought, a fellow bouquiniste had taken pity on Chabot, not wanting to leave the stall open all night. Come morning, there would have been nothing left.

  As Hugo approached, the man bent over a box, trying to fill it with the stack of books in his hands. He lost his balance, just for a second, but long enough for the books to spill to the sidewalk. As the man grabbed at them his hat slipped from his head, revealing a shock of brown hair. He straightened and kicked the box in frustration, then started picking the books up. When he stood, the yellow light from a nearby lamp washed over the man's flat, comic-book face.

  Thirty yards away, Hugo's world closed in around him. The cold disappeared, the traffic blurred, and the only place in the whole of Paris with any ligh
t was the patch of sidewalk containing a thug who carried an ice pick and a silver pistol.

  “Nica,” Hugo whispered. He felt a rush of anger toward the man who'd all but committed murder in front of him, the man who'd rendered him impotent and who would have happily killed him, too. He started forward and then stopped. Ambassador Taylor's admonition rang in his head. “Leave it to the French,” he'd said.

  Hugo turned his back on the man as he dialed the emergency number for the police. He spoke quickly and quietly, giving the dispatcher enough information to propel her into high gear. He put the phone away, then crept forward.

  As he got within twenty yards, a boat's horn sounded from the river, a long, low moan that was repeated twice more. Nica stopped what he was doing and looked over the low parapet toward the sound. Hugo did the same. A barge had changed course, plowing its way from the center of the river toward the bank, its wake a silver curve in the black water below. Nica looked away from the boat and started to work faster, and Hugo saw that he was loading something along with the books, plastic-wrapped bricks that had to be drugs.

  Hugo clenched his teeth. This was Nica's escape route, the river. The same way his boss had planned to bring the drugs in to his bouquinistes. The damn river. Hugo shook his head in disgust. On their anonymous barge, Gravois, Nica, and whoever else remained could glide into central France among the industrial barges and pleasure boats and then go wherever the hell they liked. Hugo guessed that the books Nica was loading were expensive first editions, a currency as valuable as, and easier to trade than, the bricks of dope. All of them had been stashed at Chabot's stall, held in trust for just such an eventuality.

  Hugo didn't let the Romanian's impressive cunning slow him down. He put his hand inside his coat and cursed. Delacroix had his gun, and he hadn't picked up another from the embassy's armory because this was supposed to be over.

  He looked up and down the broad Quai de Conti for signs of the police but saw no flashing lights and heard no sirens. Nica was moving with more purpose now, and Hugo knew it was up to him to stop the bastard from escaping. He began to run, trying to close down the space between them as fast as possible, but he only got halfway before the man looked up. The flat face stared blankly for a second, then the mouth opened in surprise, eyes sparkling as he stood frozen over his box.

  But Nica didn't hesitate for long. He leapt to the open stall and scrabbled under a pile of magazines. Hugo was ten feet away when he saw the gun swing toward him, a silver flash under the street lamp, and he launched himself, arms outstretched. His fist connected with the man's forearm, knocking the gun away. A split second later they were on the sidewalk, Hugo's shoulder pressing into Nica's chest. Hugo fought for a solid grip, but Nica bucked and kicked under him, cursing as wildly as he struggled. With a howl of desperation, Nica won himself enough freedom to roll out from under Hugo and clamber to his knees.

  Hugo looked around desperately for the gun and saw it near his foot. Nica dove for it, and Hugo swung his leg as hard as he could. His toe connected with the barrel and the gun skittered along the sidewalk and disappeared over the stone steps leading down to the walkway beside the river.

  Hugo scrambled to his feet, ten yards behind Nica, who lurched toward the top step, winded. When he reached it he glanced back at Hugo and started down, two at a time. As Hugo crested the steps behind him, the Romanian was halfway down and stooped over the gun, the fingers of his right hand closing around the butt. Hugo leapt toward him, and just as Nica began to raise the weapon, Hugo lashed out with his right leg and connected with his wrist. Nica lost his grip on the pistol and his arms windmilled for a second before he lost his balance and crashed down the remaining dozen steps. The gun clattered down after him and Hugo charged down, three and four steps at a time. He dropped on top of the Romanian, planting his left knee on Nica's wrist, pinning it to the ground, and drove his fist into his chest, knocking the wind out of him again.

  From the street above, Hugo heard sirens approaching. He reached out and picked up the gun, then looked down at his captive. The dark eyes spewed hate, and his mouth twisted with pain and rage. “You had better kill me,” Nica hissed. “If you think you will live past tomorrow, you are wrong.”

  “I'd love to.” Hugo leaned in and they locked eyes. “Or maybe I'll arrange for you to share a cell with some Africans from the Seventeenth Arrondissement. That way you can slip out of jail piece by piece.”

  Nica let out a roar and bucked hard. Hugo steadied himself and drove the heel of his hand into the writhing man's throat. He stopped struggling and his face turned blue as he gasped for air.

  “Now lie still like a good boy,” Hugo growled.

  The sirens grew louder and Hugo turned to look toward the main road, hoping to see the blue lights of the police. Instead, a light from the river flashed over them. Hugo looked back toward the water and tightened his grip on the gun. The light came from the barge, now less than thirty yards from the bank. Two men, silhouettes to Hugo, stood on the prow, one operating the spotlight. The other stood a few inches taller, the light gleaming on his hairless skull, his body propped up by a cane. Hugo raised the gun so the men would see it, then put the barrel right between his captive's eyes.

  Five long seconds later, the silhouette with the cane shifted, Gravois moving away from the light. The sounds of a shouted order drifted over the water to Hugo and the barge's engine growled louder, its bow slowly swinging away, aiming back into the Seine. Still gasping for air, the man on the ground twisted to see what was happening.

  “There goes your ride,” Hugo said, and Nica cursed again.

  Behind them, up on the quai, the blue lights finally arrived. Within seconds, Hugo heard a clatter of feet and shouts to drop the weapon. Four policemen, two in uniform and two in plain clothes, hurtled down the steps, guns drawn. Slowly, deliberately, Hugo put the pistol down beside him and slid it toward the foot of the steps, then raised his arms high. The uniformed officers ran up and grabbed his arms, pulling him to his feet. As his prisoner sat up, Hugo gave in to an impulse and landed the heel of his cowboy boot on the Romanian's nose, hard.

  “That's for Max,” he said.

  Hugo didn't resist as the two cops wrestled him away, twisting his arms behind his back to snap on handcuffs. They deposited him on the bottom step, one standing over him while the other radioed for back up. He smiled as their plainclothes colleagues cuffed the bleeding and mumbling Nica. A uniformed policeman leaned over and put a hand inside Hugo's jacket, pulling out his embassy credentials. When he saw the crest and metal badge, the cop's face clouded with uncertainty and he took the wallet to one of the detectives, who turned his back on them both and opened his phone. A minute later Hugo was out of handcuffs and pointing to the barge that chugged against the westbound current, fighting its way alongside the Ile de la Cité.

  “Call Commissaire Delacroix, right now. Tell him you're watching Gravois escape.”

  “Comment?” The detective hesitated.

  “Delacroix. Call him now.”

  He watched as the officer connected to the prefecture and was put through to Delacroix. The detective talked hurriedly, his eyes flicking from Hugo to the barge, then he went silent, nodding as he listened. The policeman hung up and looked away to their left. Hugo and the three other officers did the same, and a moment later they heard the snarl of engines and the slap-slap of two police launches that raced out of the dark and skimmed past them. Within seconds they had reached the barge, their engines throttling back as they circled it, a dark figure on the prow of one launch shouting orders through a loud hailer for the barge's pilot to make land.

  Watching intently from the walkway, a sudden roar from behind made Hugo and the policemen crouch. They covered their ears as a helicopter swept overhead, its rotors buffeting them. The spotlight on its nose blanched the water below as it searched for its prey, then locked on to the barge and pinned its occupants with a beam that drenched the deck with light. A chorus of sirens grew louder and Hugo l
ooked up as a line of flashing blue lights strung out across the Pont Ste. Michelle, the bridge in front of the barge. Dozens of black silhouettes swarmed down to the walkway to await the surrendering vessel while dozens more stayed on the bridge, leaning over the parapet to watch the spectacle, their flashlights dancing in the dark like candles on a cake.

  Hugo trotted up the steps to his apartment, tired but exhilarated. Commissaire Delacroix had led the contingent of officers to the walkway, greeting Gravois and his men with an effective show of firepower and several sets of shackles. With the Romanians locked in separate police cars, Delacroix had told his men to hold Hugo until he got there. Without a word, the Frenchman had clasped Hugo's shoulders and given him a bear hug, apparently already aware of the American's tussle with the Romanian Nica. Delacroix released him and thanked him again before excusing himself. “I have a long interrogation ahead of me,” he said. “If you'd like to observe, you are welcome.”

  “Merci. But I have a friend waiting for me.” It was his way of reassuring the policeman that he respected their earlier agreement, that this was a French capture, and that Hugo wanted neither headlines nor accolades.

  Delacroix offered him an escort home, but Hugo declined. He had Tom for the immediate future, and he expected a mass exodus of Dobrescu followers heading east for the border. If they weren't already on their way, they would be as soon as they saw images of their leader clapped in irons all over the front page of Le Monde. They would know they were beaten; they'd been slaughtered once by the North African syndicate, tried a comeback, and been shot up all over again. Hugo guessed that staying in Paris, for revenge or any other reason, was the last thing on their minds.

  When he walked into the apartment, he found Claudia sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, the fire snapping and fizzing. A full glass of wine was in front of her.

  “Your second or third?” he asked.

  “First, actually.” She smiled up at him. “I was waiting for you, though I wasn't going to wait much longer.”