by Mark Pryor
“I got delayed.” Hugo dropped onto the sofa and worked his boots off with his feet. “Where's Tom? He'll want to hear about this.”
“He tried waiting, then went to take a shower.” She pulled herself up and wedged herself in the corner of the sofa, facing him. “Can we talk about something?”
“Sure. What's up?”
“Something's bothering me, and I need you to tell me whether I'm either insane or, well, whether I'm right.”
Hugo nodded.
“It's about my father, the way he died. Something seems not quite right, but I can't explain it. I'm not even sure about it.”
“Try me.”
“When I found my father like that, I—” her voice wavered, then strengthened again. “I stared at him, I couldn't believe it. But part of me, I guess the journalist part, noticed some things. One thing.”
“Which was?”
“Where he was shot. I mean, precisely there, the bullet hole. There was a kind of ring, red or brown, right around it.”
Hugo nodded. He'd noticed it too. And he knew why it was there, but it was a conclusion he was afraid Claudia would not like. “Go on.”
“You knew many things about my father, that he was rich, protective of me, and that he collected books. But there is something else. Did you also notice how trim he was, how fit?”
“Well, he certainly wasn't overweight, and now that I picture him, yes, I can see that.”
“Jean started teaching him judo, probably twenty years ago. He had what he called his sanctuary in a small turret at the back of the house where they would train.”
“Yes, he told me about that. He said he used it for meditation and exercise, I think.”
“Right. No one except them was allowed in.” She looked up, a wistful smile on her face. “I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't like that. Jean was quite one for the ladies. He'd been a martial arts instructor in the army; he was some general's bodyguard. Then papa hired him. But I spent enough time with him to know he had an eye for a pretty girl.”
Hugo squeezed her hand. “I believe it, but either way I don't much care. Keep talking, though.”
“OK, so Jean always joked that my father was fast and aggressive. He said papa was not so strong and not so talented, he'd never win the Olympics, but he was fast and aggressive, those were his words.” Her large hazel eyes held his. “Hugo, that mark around the entrance wound, that means he was shot up close. That the gun was very close to his forehead, right?”
“I would say so. I'm not the expert, and neither are you, so someone else will check that out.”
“But you think I'm right.”
“I think you might be, yes.”
“Then here's what I don't understand. There's no way in the world papa would have let someone hold a gun to his head, not in his own house. When I was a teenager he would make me try and poke him with a letter opener, or a butter knife. He even did it with guests after he'd been drinking, it was embarrassing. But he took the knife away every time.”
“Fast and aggressive.”
“Exactement. Even if he wasn't fast enough, there would have been a struggle, the shot would not have been so clean. It just doesn't seem right, it doesn't add up for me.”
She sat back, and Hugo looked at her, not speaking.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you know, what you think.”
“When we spoke, your father reminded me that the truth can be painful, that revealing it sometimes does nothing but release the ghosts of the past into the present.”
She cocked her head. “What are you talking about? What are you hiding from me?”
“I don't know if it's the truth, Claudia. I am not sure of anything. But I don't think Gravois killed your father.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had no reason to. I thought at first that your father had confronted him about Max, maybe threatened to tell the police what he knew, go public somehow. But your father never called Gravois, he didn't call anyone between the time I left him and the time you found him. As far as I know, he never even left his library.”
“What are you saying, Hugo?”
“I spoke to Capitaine Garcia less than an hour ago. There was nothing on the security tapes, nothing at all. They'd been switched off.”
“Gravois did that.”
“No, it's a sophisticated system. He wouldn't have had time to figure that out. And it hadn't been smashed or obviously tampered with.”
“You're not suggesting Jean, are you?”
“Jean?” Hugo shook his head. “No, I'm not. Do you think he had reason to harm your father?”
“Of course not,” Claudia said. “They were like brothers.”
“Right. That's what I thought.”
Claudia grasped his wrist, her voice urgent. “What are you suggesting?”
“Your father was distraught when I told him about Max, very upset indeed. He knew that the call he'd placed to Gravois had likely sentenced the old man to death. It wasn't his fault, he couldn't have known at the time, but he associates so much death and misery with that book. I think by getting his hands on it your father thought he'd be putting a stop to all that, not starting it all over again. I think, too, that your father knew that Gravois wouldn't care what he said, since he was no real danger. Gravois could kill him, threaten to kill you, even ignore him, and your father couldn't do a damn thing because he had no proof of Gravois's involvement in Max's death.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“That Gravois didn't have a reason or opportunity to kill your father.”
“So who did?”
They looked at each other, Hugo waiting for Claudia to catch up to him, to be at the same point of understanding.
When she got there, she began to shake her head. “No, no, it's not possible.”
“It's possible Claudia, and I think quite likely.”
“You think he killed himself and wanted the police to blame Gravois? That's ridiculous.”
“No, it's not. If you'd seen his face when I told him about Max, you'd know. And then his illness, he told me about that.”
Claudia nodded. “He was terrified of that. He didn't want to lose his dignity or to have me or Jean have to cart him around like a vegetable. His words, not mine. But to kill himself ?”
“No one ever thinks their family members capable of it. And maybe I'm wrong, but it adds up. You yourself said he would have fought back.”
Claudia chewed her lip, shaking her head every few seconds. She looked up, triumph in her eyes. “But there was no gun. I didn't see one and the police didn't find one. He can't have killed himself.”
“And this is how we'll know the truth, if I'm right.”
“What do you mean?”
“You father was a huge Sherlock Holmes fan, yes?”
“Oui. So what?”
“Well, so am I. Or I used to be. I read them all when I was in high school and college. I think they fueled my desire to get into law enforcement, to solve mysterious crimes and catch ruthless bad guys. Anyway, as I remember it, one of his stories is about a man who is found dead on a bridge. The murder weapon, a gun, is found in the possession of his mortal enemy. Open and shut case of murder. Except that Holmes sees a bit of the bridge's stonework chipped off. He does some thinking and some measuring, and he realizes that the gun the police found was one of a pair. The other was missing. The police couldn't find it and didn't much care, and no one else knew where it had gone. So Holmes jumps into the stream beneath the bridge and fetches it out.”
“Hugo, I don't understand.”
“The dead man had shot himself. He'd tied the gun to a rock, which he'd dangled over the edge of the bridge. When he pulled the trigger and fell to the ground, the weight of the rock pulled the gun into the water, chipping the stonework of the bridge in the process. Suicide designed to look like murder.”
“The pond outside the library window.”
“Yes, you remember that the w
indow was open. Not what you'd expect on a freezing winter day. If I'm right, the pond is where the gun will be.”
They sat in silence for a minute, and Hugo noticed Tom standing in the hallway near his room, listening. He walked in and sat down, saying nothing.
“But if you're right, why would he do that? My father was all about the truth, wasn't he?”
“Yes,” Hugo said, “he was. And maybe he knew that sooner or later we'd figure out the truth. And remember that he was also about justice, and he wanted to make sure Gravois saw justice for what he did to Max. He told me that himself.” Hugo smiled. “This time, maybe he was putting justice ahead of truth, just for a little while.”
Claudia sat quietly for a moment, staring into the fire, before looking up. “One thing. You said yourself that there was no evidence pointing to Gravois, not directly.”
“No, but once someone gets their interest, the police don't need direct evidence to investigate. He believed that once a spotlight fell on Gravois they would find some pretty ugly stuff.”
“And he was right,” said Tom. “That creepy fucker.”
“He was trying to do the right thing,” said Hugo, “and he was dealing with the guilt and the dementia at the same time. I'm sorry, Claudia, I really am.”
Claudia folded herself over and lay down in Hugo's lap. Tom stood and moved to the whisky bottle, pouring three generous servings, which he handed out. “So Sherlock,” he said, “now you just have to find the book and, if you're not too busy, Gravois. Together under a bridge somewhere?”
“No,” smiled Hugo. “Not the book, anyway. That's at my office.”
Claudia and Tom reacted at the same time. “What?”
“Max mailed it to me at the embassy. I didn't know until tonight because I've been on vacation and didn't check my mail. Emma only told me about the urgent stuff. She didn't know the book was important, so she didn't tell me.”
“Why would he do that?” Claudia asked. “Why mail it to you?”
“I'm not entirely sure.” Hugo frowned and shook his head. “Maybe because he knew it was valuable and would be safe with me.”
“He could have given it to you in person, no?”
“I think he looked at it between the time I first saw it and the time I went back with the money I owed him.”
“Why not just give it to you then?”
“Remember something about Max. He'd been dealing with Nazi hunters, collaborators, and then Gravois's men. He was probably pretty paranoid and he wouldn't have wanted to risk losing the book. And if he knew he was going to have to deal with Gravois, as your father said, he'd probably have known the bastard would take the book for his own ends and as soon as possible. Maybe he'd seen Nica lurking and was trying to protect me. There's a post office close to his stall, it would have been easy for him to run across the street and mail it off, make it good and safe immediately.”
“But why not tell you?” asked Tom.
“I'm afraid I don't know,” said Hugo, “but the unpleasant thought occurred to me that Max was going to play hardball with your father, to extort a significant amount of money for the book and for his silence. Retirement money. I'm just guessing, of course, but his mood did change in the hour between our meetings. And if I'm right about that, he wouldn't have wanted me to know about the contents of the book or his plans; he'd have wanted some time to think up a reason for mailing it to me. Maybe we'll never really know.”
They sat quietly, all eyes on the fire, the ballet of orange heat entertaining them for a full minute, the crack and hiss of burning wood and occasional sips of whisky the only sounds.
Claudia sighed and slid to the floor, her back against Hugo's shins. He began to gently rub her good shoulder. Then she looked back at him.
“So why did you take so long to get here? You said Tom would want to hear about it.”
“Yeah, and I'm next with the back rub,” Tom said. “Where the hell were you? If I'd known you were going to be gone two fucking hours, I'd have taken her to bed.”
“Somehow I don't think you'd last two hours with me,” Claudia said.
They laughed, grateful for some humor, and Hugo began to tell them about his trip home. As he talked, Claudia turned so she could see him. The news that Gravois was in custody, and that Hugo had been the one to grab him, set off a round of toasts and hearty, soon drunken, congratulations.
After the fifth or six toast, Tom pulled himself to his feet. “I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. But before you go to bed, please make sure I haven't choked in my own vomit.”
“Delightful,” Hugo said. He pulled Claudia up off the floor onto the couch beside him. She draped her legs over his and snuggled in close.
“You know I couldn't tell you about Durand, right?”
“Of course, please don't worry about it.” They sat quietly for a moment. “I'm sorry about your father, you know that.”
“I do.” She sighed. “He'd be pleased that I have my front-page story.”
“About Gravois? He sure would.”
“You know, I do have something else to write about now. I think that will be a whole book, though.”
“Really? What's that?”
She looked at him. “You're tired, we can wait until tomorrow to talk about it.”
“No, tell me now. What's the story?”
“It's about the Second World War,” she said. “About the Resistance and the men who betrayed our French heroes to the Nazis.”
“Ah, I see.” He played along as she nuzzled him, her eyes closing. Hugo spoke softly. “You sure you don't want to stick to the Gravois story? There are already so many Word War Two tales that have already been written.”
“No, this one has not been done yet.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she said. “This one has it all. Intrigue and secrecy, trickery and deception. It features one of the most powerful men in French society, a count from one of the noblest of French families. It's a tale of great bravery and great cowardice, the tale of a terrifying secret that lay hidden for decades in the pages of a very old book.”
“Wow,” he whispered. “That's quite a story.”
“If you're good, you might get a mention in the acknowledgments section.” She settled deeper on the couch and her eyelids drooped.
“And when it's published,” Hugo said, “I want a first edition signed by the author.”
This is my first novel, and it has taken the support and encouragement of many people for it to see the light of day. First, I need to thank my family and friends. My father, who passed away this year knowing I was going to be published but without getting to see the final product, was the inspiration behind my main character, Hugo Marston. Hugo gets his moral compass, his nonjudgmental nature, his humor, and his all-around decency from my dad. And beside my father, always, was my mother, who believed in my ability and never wavered in her support and encouragement, who read and critiqued my writing, and who may not have known that the best compliment ever was “this reads like a real book.” And much love and gratitude to my brother, Richard, and sister, Catherine, always happy as clams when their brother does well, who have been supportive and eager to share this long and bumpy journey to publication.
I am particularly grateful to two fellow writers, Jennifer Schubert and Elizabeth Silver, for their tireless help and support and for their honest and invaluable critiques. Knowing you are there whenever I need support or a critical eye has been a godsend; you are both irreplaceable. And I'm grateful, too, to other writer friends who took the time to give me feedback as I was creating Hugo: Meredith Hindley, Cheryl Etchison, Vanessa Absalom-Mueller, J. E. Seymour, Todd Bush, Ken Hoss, Elena Giorgi, Ann Simko, and David Kazzie. And many thanks to these established authors, people far more talented than me, who were never too busy to give advice to a fledgling: David Lindsey, Jennifer Hillier, Steven Sidor, Carol Carr, and Bill Landay.
My thanks also to Glenn, of the rare booksellers Peter Harrington in London, fo
r his help and advice on rare and used books.
Thanks, also, to my nonwriting friends who were as excited about this series as anyone and have been urging me on for, literally, years: Ryan Pierce, Conor Civins, Laura O'Rourke, Lisa Hobbs, Jessica Ghazal, Mark and Sheila Armitage, Todd and Allison Finch, Andy Baxter, Judge Mike Lynch, David Grassbaugh, Stephen Willott, Aaron Mueller, and two very gifted friends, the artist Donna Crosby and musical man Johnny Goudie.
Continuing thanks to Ann Collette, my agent, who has believed in me as a writer, in this novel, and in this series, from the very start. My small offerings of chocolate are in no way representative of my gratitude, they are but small tokens of my recognition of how hard you worked to knock Hugo into shape and then find a home for him. Merci beaucoup.
Likewise, to my editor Dan Mayer: thank you for plucking me from the pile and putting faith in me and in my writing. This is something of a new beginning for us both, a new journey, but long may it last.
To my three wonderful children, Natalie, Henry, and Nicola, who accompanied me on countless trips to the library or missed out on seeing me because I was there alone: I thank you for your patience and understanding. And, when you are old enough to read them, seeing one of my books in your hands will be a supreme delight, a reward in itself for all my work.
And, finally, my wife, Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. There has been no stronger champion of my writing, no greater believer in me. No one has worked harder to bring Hugo to life than you. Year after year you gave me unqualified support and encouragement and you labored willingly and uncomplainingly through extra chores so that I had time to write, vacuuming around me, and just smiling when I failed to hear your question about dinner because I was lost in Paris with my imaginary friends. And because you are so unselfish in all things, you probably don't even know how brilliant you've been. Thank you, my love.
Mark Pryor is a former journalist from Hertfordshire, England, who now lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife and three children.
