The Sorbonne Affair

by Mark Pryor

  “We didn’t find any evidence of that on the computer. Just a bunch of downloads, no indication as to why he was doing it, or what he was after.”

  “Gamblers are often short of money,” Hugo said. “Maybe he just hadn’t got around to the blackmail request.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “What else was on the hard drive?”

  “Nothing,” Lerens said.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Well, I didn’t look very hard,” Lerens said. “When I saw that spy software, I gave it to Jameson to run over to our tech people. They’ll scrub it and let me know what else is on there if it’s at all relevant. I doubt there’ll be much, as it’s a fairly new computer, and it’s possible he bought it specifically for this.” She shook her head. “That’s a lot of drive space. Who knows how long he’d have gone on recording if . . .”

  “If someone hadn’t hit his stop button,” Hugo said.

  Lerens grimaced. “That’s one way to put it, if not the most delicate way.”

  “Well,” Hugo said, “in my experience, murder is rarely a delicate business. What’s your plan now?”

  “I think it’s time for a more formal interview of our celebrity guest, Helen Hancock.”

  “Agreed,” Hugo said. “She’s the only person who might have some clue why Baxter was recording her, and whether it’s related to his sudden demise.”

  “Apart from the murderer, of course,” Lerens said.

  “Right. If it weren’t for her cast-iron alibi, she’d be a decent suspect.”

  “I know. I asked Jameson to drop off the computer and then double-check that alibi, get a statement from her masseuse and whoever else saw her. We just took the receptionist’s word, but I suppose it’s possible Hancock excused herself to the restroom and . . .” Lerens shrugged. “Not very likely, but we need to be sure.”

  “Where are you interviewing Helen?”

  “At headquarters,” Lerens said. “We need this to be official, recorded and witnessed properly.”

  Hugo nodded. “Good. And as a representative of the United States, I should be present at the questioning of my fellow American.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Lerens said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hugo decided to sit next to Helen Hancock in the interview room. He caught Lerens’s eye as he pulled the chair out, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. The writer may know more than she was saying, but she certainly wasn’t a suspect in Baxter’s death—Paul Jameson had spoken to the two people who’d provided her spa treatments, and both were positive she’d been with one or other of them the whole time, four solid hours. No bathroom breaks at all.

  Hancock looked up at him as Hugo sat beside her, and he patted the back of her hand reassuringly.

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe here,” he said.

  “Am I in trouble for something?”

  “Not at all,” Hugo said. “The police just have a few questions. I assume you heard about what happened this morning?”

  “Just that someone died. Climbing the stairs or something. Was it a heart attack?”

  “No,” Hugo said and looked at Lerens. Her English was decent, but he knew she’d want to ask very specific questions, and in her own language. “Why don’t you do this in French and I’ll translate. Is that OK with both of you?” He looked back and forth between them, and both nodded. “Good. I’ll save any questions I have until the end and try not to interrupt.”

  “Bien,” Lerens began. “The man who died, I’m afraid he was murdered. Stabbed, to be precise.”

  Hugo translated and watched as Hancock’s eyes widened.

  “Murdered? Right there in the hotel? How awful! Why would someone do that? Who would do that?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Lerens said after Hugo had relayed her statement. She pulled out a picture of Andrew Baxter that she’d found in his wallet. She folded it in half, cutting out the young woman he’d been standing next to, and slid it across the table. “Do you know this man?”

  Hancock leaned over the picture and studied it. “He looks familiar. Does he work at the hotel?”

  “I’m asking you that,” Lerens said gently.

  “Then, yes. I think I’ve seen him at the hotel. In the picture, he’s dressed . . . differently, but I’m sure it’s the same man. Is this who . . . ?”

  “Who was killed, yes,” Lerens said.

  “Oh, how awful.” Hancock dragged her gaze away from the picture and up to Lerens. “But I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him. Maybe a bonjour here and there, but nothing more than that.”

  “Actually, he’s American.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

  “No reason why you should,” Lerens said. “Here’s why I’m asking, why you’re here. It seems that he was the one who put the spy camera in your room.”

  Hancock’s mouth opened and closed, and she sat back in her chair. “Him? But why?”

  “We’re not sure yet. We found a computer that has downloads from the camera, and the ID on the software matches what we took from behind the picture. So when I say it seems he put the camera there, we’re almost certain. At the very least, he was the one monitoring you.”

  “Do you mean someone else was involved, too?”

  “That we don’t know yet. Given that he’s dead and you have a solid alibi, I’m betting so.” Lerens held up a hand. “And before you ask me who, I don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  Hancock visibly paled. “Am I . . . in danger?”

  “We’d like you to change hotels,” Lerens said. “Just as a precaution, until we know more.”

  The writer sat quietly for a moment. “But I’ve tried other hotels. The Sorbonne is the only one where I can get any writing done. It’s quiet, the walls are thicker, and . . . just the atmosphere of the place, everything about it. I don’t think I can work anywhere else.”

  “It’ll just be for a few days. Maybe a week. Can you take some time off from writing for that long? Have a break for a week?”

  “I don’t know,” Hancock said weakly. “I have deadlines. Expectations from my publisher.”

  “I’m sure they’d understand under the circumstances; and, if not, I’d be happy to talk to them.” Lerens smiled. “Or get Hugo to.”

  Hancock nodded. “I’ll call them. I think it’ll be fine, but . . . I just want to think for an hour or two. It may seem silly to you, but this is my livelihood, it’s how I define myself. Switching hotels, it’s . . . a disruption. Do you really think I’m in danger?”

  Lerens and Hugo exchanged glances, and Hugo finally spoke.

  “Personally, I doubt it very much. From what we’ve gathered so far, it seems likely that whoever is involved in this wants something from you. It could be a copy of your work, maybe pictures of you undressed.”

  “Blackmail?” she asked.

  “It’s possible,” Hugo went on. “Like Camille said, we’re working on it. But I don’t see how anyone benefits from doing you harm. And it’s still possible that Baxter’s murder has nothing to do with the spy camera in your room. We just don’t know yet.”

  Hancock stared at the photo on the table. “I can’t decide whether to feel sorry for him or be angry at him.” She looked up at Hugo. “It’s all just so insane, I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Hugo said.

  “I know. At least, I hope you will,” she said. She looked at the watch on her wrist. “Do you need me anymore? I’m supposed to be meeting with my writing group this evening, in less than an hour. Not that I have the energy or motivation for that.”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “Why don’t you let me take you back to the Sorbonne, you can call your people and see about changing hotels. Then I’ll go with Lieutenant Lerens and talk to your students, let them know a little about what’s going on and why you can’t meet. We should talk to them anyway.”

  Le
rens understood and showed it with a nod. “A good idea. In the meantime, I’ll get with Jameson, see what’s he’s found and have him stationed at the hotel with Madame Hancock, for her peace of mind.”

  When Hugo translated for her, Hancock turned to Lerens. “Thank you.” Then her expression suddenly changed, from tiredness to worry. “You don’t think any of my students . . .” Her voice tailed off.

  “No reason in the world to think anything untoward about them,” Hugo said. “But before I drop you off, you can tell me about each of them. I should know who I’m meeting.”

  Hugo let the folks at the American Library know that he was sitting in for Helen Hancock and, because he knew the staff, gave them enough details to raise some eyebrows but not enough so they could gossip too much. He’d asked one of the employees, Michelle Juneau, to have the three students wait in the main library when they arrived, and he’d see them one by one in the conference room.

  The library had added several exhibits to the room since his last visit, or since he’d last paid attention, anyway. Instead of filling it with books, they’d put in a long, low, glass cabinet that contained a dozen or so artifacts related to books or writers. Hugo leaned forward to read the label under a pair of spectacles, which apparently had belonged to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Beside them was a handwritten note to the same author from his wife, Zelda, referencing a supper at the home of someone called Melissa Shearer, a name Hugo didn’t recognize.

  The next item in the case caught his eye, and he smiled as he read the printed card describing the object.

  This dagger was owned by the late great actress Isabelle Severin. In her later years she used it as a letter opener but, if the stories are true, in the 1940s she used her movie-star status to aid the French Resistance in WWII, and used this very dagger to kill an SS soldier and save a Resistance fighter. The dagger was left to the library by Madame Severin at her death. Please consult a librarian to see the rest of the Severin collection.

  He checked his watch, then inspected the other items in the cabinet, stopping at the last one, which he recognized as a .44 Magnum. It was accompanied by a scatter of bullets lying artistically around it, and the display card read: This gun belonged to Hunter Stockton Thompson, 1937–2005. Donated to the library by Lorne Kerlin, philanthropist and friend of Mr. Thompson.

  He turned when someone entered the room, expecting a nerdy writing student and immediately adjusting his expectations. Nerdy she was not. Wendy Pottgen looked like she would get along great with his kink-oriented friend, Merlyn. Pottgen had the bold lips and big eyes of a Marilyn Monroe and exuded a similar sexuality, but she packed her curves into tight white jeans and a shirt that looked like it was made of leather but probably wasn’t. She sported a studded leather collar around her neck, and when Hugo stood to greet her, she squeezed his hand like she was trying to hurt him.

  “Ms. Pottgen, I’m Hugo Marston,” he began. “I’m sorry to—”

  “Please, call me Buzzy. Everyone does.” Full red lips smiled broadly, and her accent was southern and soft, almost sensual. “I hope everything’s OK; you’re sounding very official. Are you a cop or something?”

  “No, I’m not. But there’s been an incident at the hotel where Ms. Hancock is staying. She’s fine and we’re keeping an eye on her, but she’s not able to attend.”

  She tilted her head. “You’re sure you’re not a cop?”

  They sat down at the large conference table. “No, I’m the RSO at the US Embassy. Regional Security Officer, that is. It’s my job to help Americans who need it and work with local law enforcement on cases involving Americans.”

  “Sounds important.”

  “Sometimes.” Hugo smiled. “There’s also a lot of babysitting involved.”

  Pottgen raised an eyebrow. “So is this important or babysitting?”

  Smart woman. “As far as Ms. Hancock goes, that’s undetermined as yet.”

  “You said she’s OK, though.”

  “She is, yes. But I need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fire away, I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Thanks.” Hugo pulled a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped the latter open. “How long have you known her?”

  “Helen? About a week. I applied for the tutorial online and was accepted.”

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Baton Rouge, born and raised. You can’t tell from my accent that I’m a Louisiana girl?”

  “I might have guessed,” Hugo said with a smile. “Tell me about the tutorial, what exactly that is.”

  “Sure. So it’s a new thing, but I think she plans to do it every year. It’s a two-week course, two hours a day with Helen. It’s pretty informal, but at the end of every session she gives us a writing exercise to complete for the next day.”

  “Do you find it helpful?”

  “The exercise or the tutorial?”

  “Both,” Hugo said.

  “Yes. I mean, look, I’m doing a masters in fine arts, creative writing, at New York University, but she’s not really teaching what they teach there. She gives a more . . . personal perspective. She talks about the publishing process, agents, and editors. It’s been very enlightening.”

  “And only three of you are taking this course?”

  “Supposed to be four but one guy dropped out, I heard. So, yeah, now just three of us.”

  “Tell me about the other two.”

  She tilted her head again. “Are you asking me to snitch on my fellow writers?”

  “Have they done anything wrong?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well then,” Hugo said with a smile. “It’s not snitching, is it?”

  “Did you used to be a cop?” she asked.

  “I used to be with the FBI, yes.”

  Pottgen sat back in her chair. “Wow. That’s pretty hot.”

  “Thanks.” Hugo cleared his throat. “Now then, your writing colleagues . . . ?”

  “Yeah, sorry. So, two dudes, both Americans. One is Ambrósio Silva. Super nice guy. I guess he used to play soccer, always going on about some team called Benfica. Anyway, we’ve become good friends. He’s a real charmer, not in a sleazy way; he’s just funny and cool to be around.”

  “He’s Portuguese?”

  Pottgen laughed. “Don’t say that to him; he’ll correct you real fast. His family is from the Azores.”

  “Good writer?”

  “As far as I can tell. A huge fan of Helen’s, which is a little odd to me, but when you go on a small course like this you hope desperately the other people will be cool. And fun. He is.”

  “Wait, why is it odd he’d be a fan of Helen’s?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess the type of books she writes. I mean, they’re heavy on romance, light on sex, and only her recent couple of books have moved toward what I’d peg as ‘guy material,’ like suspense and murder.”

  “You don’t think guys read romance?” Hugo pressed.

  “Do you read it?”

  “Fair point,” he conceded. “So he gets on well with Helen.”

  “I don’t think there’s anyone in the world he wouldn’t get on with. Like I said, a super nice guy.”

  “And the other person?”

  “He’s nice, too. Mike Rice. From Austin, Texas, I think.”

  “Really? That’s my hometown,” Hugo said.

  “What a coincidence,” she said. “Isn’t that the city famous for being weird? Didn’t have you pegged as a weirdo.”

  “You never can tell, can you?”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Anyway, Mike. Extremely not weird. Kinda quiet, has a dry sense of humor, and laps up everything Helen says. Takes notes nonstop, to the point where a couple of days ago she told him to put his pen down and actually listen. Engage in the discussion.”

  “He’s a romance writer?”

  “Unpublished, we all are. But yeah, he wants to be.” She thought for a moment. “He seems more
. . . business oriented than Ambrósio or me.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “So I approach writing as an art that has a large measure of craft to it. In other words, for me, I am learning all I can about the craft of writing so I can express the things I want to say, tell the stories I want to tell. The ability to write well, which is what I mean by craft, is really just a mechanism to allow me to get the words out in the best way possible. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “So, imagine a beautiful piece of music. If you give that to a man with a violin, he can make it sound good. But he’s limited in what he can achieve. Give that same piece of music to an orchestra and it really comes alive, captures the emotion and magic that the composer dreamed it would have. The mechanics of writing, that word craft again, is the addition of instruments. The more I learn, the better I can play out my stories.”

  “A nice image,” Hugo said. “I get what you’re saying.”

  “OK, good. So that’s why I’m here, why I’m doing my MFA. For Mike, it all seems a little less arts-oriented, more like he’s looking for a formula to make himself a bestseller.” She held up a hand. “And I don’t mean that in a bad way; it’s just a different approach. Businesslike, I guess.”

  “‘No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.’”

  “Well, Helen disagrees with Samuel Johnson on that issue. She said the opposite, that if you write purely to make a buck, you’re gonna be sorely disappointed, because most authors don’t make much at all.”

  “She seems to.”

  Pottgen shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You guess? She’s a bestseller all over the world.”

  “I know. I think she’s having a hard time with the business side of things now, is all. That’s why she’s so adamant that we write because we’re passionate about it, not because we want to get rich. Did you know that her first book was rejected by about thirty agents and almost all of the major publishing houses?”

  “I didn’t, no.”

  “Rejection is a big part of the game, she told us. Which is why we need to take refuge in the work itself.”