The Sorbonne Affair

by Mark Pryor

  One possibility, a reach but hovering in his mind, was that Cofer had clocked him, knowing it’d bring Tom close, put them together. But if so, why hadn’t he done something right away? Maybe he didn’t realize how close they were to Hugo’s apartment, to safety? But if Cofer had traveled that far to search them out, he would have known where he and Tom both lived. Tom was right about how inattentive he’d been—a soft target indeed. He had no doubt Cofer could have followed him to the building on a previous occasion without Hugo noticing.

  Maybe he was planning to do something at whatever hospital they wanted to take me to? Hugo wondered. But Cofer didn’t fit the description—his attacker had been called short and stocky. Cofer was taller than most people, which an eyewitness should have spotted. Then again, he knew how unreliable eyewitnesses were, had seen horribly wrong descriptions more times than he could count. Even so, Hugo reasoned that most hit men struck in isolated places with as few people around as possible, which hardly described a Paris hospital. He returned to the bait idea, because if Cofer had been the assailant, he could have killed Hugo there and then. If not with the club, then with his own gun. But he didn’t.

  Why not? Because it wasn’t Cofer at all? . . . But why would Andrew Baxter’s or Ambrósio Silva’s killer attack me? And, again, not finish the job?

  Hugo reached over and took a sip of water. The only thing that made sense to him was that this was a warning. But from whom, and about what, he had no earthly idea. He put his glass down as Camille Lerens knocked softly and let herself back into his apartment.

  “Find anything?” Hugo asked.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure.” She held up the grocery bag. “You should take a look. And we should get Tom back in here to check this out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next morning, Hugo downed two aspirin and three glasses of water to try to relieve the throbbing of his head. Tom was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t feel like sitting around his apartment and feeling sorry for himself, so he decided to follow up on a few loose ends, starting with Buzzy Pottgen and Helen Hancock.

  Feeling a little bit steadier after a full night’s rest, Hugo took off his bandage and set off for a slow walk to the Sorbonne Hotel, dialing Helen Hancock’s number as his boots hit the sidewalk. He wanted to check in with her, press her on a few of her misdirections, and explain that even if they seemed irrelevant to her, he and the police ended up wasting time when they didn’t know the whole truth.

  “Yes, I’m still here,” she said. “I’m about to work with Buzzy and Mike; they’re on their way. Trying to get some sense of normalcy around here.” She lowered her voice. “And hopefully not get sued for taking these people’s money and giving them nothing in return.”

  “They wouldn’t do that, would they?” Hugo asked.

  Hancock sighed. “Who knows, these days. Good way to an easy buck, especially if someone famous is on the other end. Anyway, we’ll be in the conservatory. Go through the main lobby, past the restaurant, and it’s at the end of the hallway.”

  Outside the hotel, Hugo saw Buzzy Pottgen and got her attention with a wave as she was about to jog up the steps to the main doors. She paused, uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Oh, hey,” she said.

  “Got a moment?” He gestured for her to move to the side so they could talk without blocking the entrance. She went with him.

  “Look, I’ve talked to that lieutenant,” she began. “And I’m sorry I

  lied about the assault.”

  “Camille Lerens interviewed you?”

  “Yeah, at my apartment, yesterday. Recorded it and everything.”

  “And you told her the truth?”

  “I did.” She gave a small smile. “I like it when you’re stern.”

  “Buzzy, come on. This is incredibly serious.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I know. I think I’m in denial, mostly. It’s all so bizarre.”

  “So what did you tell Lieutenant Lerens?”

  “That I went to Ambrósio’s apartment to talk to him after I found out about him and Helen. That we argued. That I slapped him a couple of times and he stopped me by hitting me back.”

  “You argued about his affair with Helen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were jealous.”

  “I was a little, but I was more angry that he’d not told me. I wanted to know if I’d put my health at risk, if he’d been sleeping with us at the same time.”

  “And?”

  “Yes, there was overlap, but he said he’d used condoms.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Hugo said. “But I don’t get something. Why were you were so angry with him? You two had only been here a short while, no?”

  “Here, yes. But we’d chatted a lot online back in the States. One of the reasons I came here was to be with him, and he knew it. I spent every last penny to be here; I’m eating bread and water.” She looked away. “How did this all happen? None of it seems real.” She looked back at Hugo. “Why would someone kill him?”

  “I don’t know. Did you talk to Lerens about that?”

  “Yes, and she said it’s possible he killed himself, but no way.” She shook her head emphatically. “No way in the world.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “You met him; you saw how he was. Have you ever known anyone so full of life? Sure, he was a selfish jerk, but most guys are, in my experience. And what reason would he have for killing himself?”

  “I was going to ask if you knew of anything like that.”

  “No,” she said. “Like, he didn’t have depression or anything, either.”

  “Let me ask you this, and I’m sorry if it seems insensitive. Do you think his attraction to Helen was real or something a little more . . . career oriented?”

  That small smile again. “I accused him of that. I mean, seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it? All that time courting me, then suddenly he’s madly in love with Helen?”

  “Did he say he was in love?”

  “No, I guess not. In lust, or whatever it was.”

  “Had he ever hit you before?”

  “No. I wouldn’t have anything to do with someone who hit me. Once and you’re done,” Pottgen said. “And I meant it when I said he hit me to stop me from hitting him for real. I have quite the temper when the right buttons are pushed, and I guess he pushed them.”

  “Are you doing OK? With his death, I mean.”

  Pottgen hesitated. “Yes and no. I mean, we had an intense thing going for a short time, but after learning about his affair with Helen, I’m starting to feel like maybe I never really knew him, you know ?”

  “I do.”

  “And it all seems so unreal, unbelievable that this could be happening. I mean, just being here in Paris with Helen is unreal enough, but adding all this to it . . . I think I haven’t really processed it yet; I’m just carrying on as if nothing is happening. Is that weird?”

  “People process death and tragedy differently. In my experience, there’s no right or wrong way.” He gestured to the door. “We should go in; I think Helen’s waiting for you.” He followed her into the hotel. “Go ahead, I need to talk to someone first.”

  He crossed the lobby and stuck his head into Jill Maxick’s office, wanting to be courteous and let her know he was there. He was surprised to see Lionel Colbert sitting behind her desk.

  “Promotion or stealing stuff?” Hugo said lightly. From Colbert’s reaction, he didn’t like the joke.

  “Because everyone’s a criminal in your world, I get it,” Colbert said sourly.

  “Or they get promotions,” Hugo said, resisting the urge to sigh. “Jill around?”

  “Running late. Cut her hand in the kitchen yesterday, so she asked me to fill in this morning while she gets a tetanus shot.” He kept a straight face. “So call this a promotion, I guess.”

  “She’s not badly hurt, I hope?”

  “She’ll be in later. Typing with one hand, probably, but other than that sh
e’s OK.”

  “I just wanted to let her know I’m here.”

  “Poking around again,” Colbert added. He was back to being surly, Hugo noted.

  “Yeah, we do that when someone gets knifed in a stairwell.” Hugo’s patience was beginning to run out with this kid, and his head was still throbbing. “So what’s your problem with authority?”

  Colbert shrugged. “Not really your business, is it?”

  “Maybe not. But on the other hand, if you’re being uncooperative in a murder investigation, then maybe it is my business. And that of the police.”

  “Look, I’ve answered your questions, haven’t I? And I gave you that computer, too.” Colbert glared. “Look, I may not have the protection of the US Constitution here, but I’m pretty sure even in France I’m not obliged to have a good attitude while I’m cooperating.”

  “First time I met you, you stormed out of the room.”

  “That’s putting it a little dramatically, don’t you think?”

  “Murder brings out the dramatic in me.” Hugo leaned against the door jamb and studied Colbert. “Seems like, as Andy’s roommate and friend, you might be a little more affected yourself.”

  “People react to tragedy in different ways,” Colbert said. “You should know that, in your line of work. I don’t tend toward the melodramatic.”

  “Fair enough. But mind if I ask a few questions? Seeing as we’re here and you’re cooperating, and all.”

  Colbert sat back and spread his hands. “Captive audience.”

  “Did you know about Helen Hancock and Ambrósio Silva?”

  “Nope.”

  “And, as far as you know, there was nothing between her and Andy?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “What about Helen and anyone else?” Hugo asked.

  “Like who?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you. Anyone.”

  “Besmirching her reputation, are you?” Colbert’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward a little. “Or did you have someone specific in mind?” Hugo said nothing, not about to mention his boss’s name, and eventually Colbert sat back again. “I don’t know a damn thing about her love life,” he said. “But this is Paris, and if she was banging every guest and employee in the hotel, I’d be all for it.”

  Hugo wondered if that apparent lack of interest masked something else. What if Colbert was one of her lovers? Before all of this, Hugo would’ve doubted it, but Helen Hancock was proving to be more romantically active than he imagined. Why not Colbert, too? Hugo decided not to press the issue, instead letting it sit in the back of his mind in case a synapse or two might later connect the possibilities and come up with an answer.

  “When did you last see her?” Hugo asked.

  “Yesterday. I was here covering for Jill after her accident, and she stuck her head in just like you did.”

  Hugo smiled, unable to help himself. “I trust you were friendlier with her than you were with me.”

  “Of course,” Colbert said, returning the smile. “But then she wasn’t peppering me with questions.”

  “She’s nice like that. Well, thanks for your time, I’ll go find her.”

  The hotel’s conservatory was a picture of relaxation. The large space was a little warmer than the hallway leading to it, instantly making it feel cozy. Lazy fans kept the air moving, though, flapping slowly above plush wicker chairs and tables, and a couple of floral sofas. The perfect place to take tea, Hugo thought, or come up with romantic story lines.

  Helen Hancock saw him as he walked through the door, and waved him over. She sat with her charges at a low round table, and each had a computer and a few papers in front of them. Hugo took the one spare chair.

  “I hate to interrupt; looks like you’re all hard at work.”

  “We’re discussing the merits of plotting versus pantsing,” Hancock said with a smile. “Any opinion on that?”

  “Well, I don’t write, I just read,” Hugo said. “And, to me, pantsing is what you do to your annoying little brother to embarrass him in front of other people. But something tells me you don’t mean that.”

  Buzzy flashed those white teeth at him. “Silly. ‘Pantsing’ means writing by the seat of your pants. Making it up as you go along, as opposed to carefully plotting everything out.”

  “Ah, that makes more sense in this context,” Hugo said. “What do you all do?”

  “I like to pants,” Buzzy said, large eyes pouring over Hugo.

  “I’m a careful plotter,” Hancock said. “Things don’t always go as I plan in my books. Or in life, I guess.” She sighed and seemed to bring herself back to the moment, smiling at them. “Anyway, my being a plotter is a professional secret, so don’t tell anyone.”

  “How about you, Mike?” Hugo looked at Rice.

  “I plot the hell out of things,” he said. “That’s part of the fun for me. I enjoy mapping it all out—plus it takes the stress out of the actual writing.”

  “And the point I was just making,” Hancock interjected, “is that a lot of new writers come into this with a couple of misconceptions. First, that one is the ‘right’ way and the other wrong. It’s whatever works best for you. The other misconception is thinking that you have to do one or the other. You have to do what works for you, and even though I use notes and diagrams and charts, someone else may not be able to function that way.”

  “Makes sense,” Hugo said.

  Hancock took a breath and said, “Anyway, I could talk about this forever.” She rose to her feet. “Why don’t you guys look over my critiques of your first chapters? I need to talk to Hugo for a moment.”

  “Sure,” Rice said. He picked up a sheaf of papers. “Take your time; I see a lot of red ink on mine. Although I’m going for a run at four, so I’m hoping we’ll be done by then.”

  “Where do you run?” Hugo asked.

  “Around and through the Luxembourg Garden. I love that place.”

  “That’s where I run, too,” Hugo said. He patted his stomach. “Although not as often as I should. As for all the red ink, I’m sure it’s all complimentary, right, Ms. Hancock?”

  “Of course, as always,” Hancock said with a smile. “Now then, you all let me know if you have any questions; then I want to talk about research before exercise hour.” She picked up a folder that was stuffed with papers and tapped the top of it. “This is for my work in progress. I want you guys to understand the importance of getting certain things right.”

  She turned, and Hugo followed her to the far side of the conservatory, where two comfortable chairs sat facing each other, separated by another small round table. She put the folder on it and sat back.

  “Any news?” the writer asked once they were seated.

  “Not a lot,” Hugo said. “How about you? How are you doing?”

  “People keep telling me I need to turn this into a story, all this weirdness. But it’s just so personal. . . . I don’t want to plunder my emotional distress for a mere book.”

  “Books are supposed to capture and retell powerful events in people’s lives, no?”

  “I write fiction,” she said. “That would be way too close to nonfiction.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell with you,” Hugo said.

  Hancock eyed him for a moment. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve not been forthcoming.” He held up a hand to silence her. “Now, I get why, I really do, but I’m worried you don’t understand how serious this is. Andrew Baxter is dead. Murdered. So is Ambrósio Silva. We need to find out who did this and why, because right now there’s someone out there who has two deaths to his name, and we have no idea if more are on the way.”

  “You know that Ambrósio’s death was murder?”

  “Yes. Gunshot-residue tests were pretty conclusive. His hands were clean of it, which tells us that he didn’t handle the gun.”

  Hancock was quiet for a moment, then she looked up. “Do you really think there might be more deaths?”
r />   “I don’t know, Helen, I really don’t. I hope like hell the answer is no, but if the major players in this investigation are hiding information from me and the French police, then how can I be sure of everything ?”

  “Look, I know I—”

  “I’m not finished,” Hugo interrupted. “You’re about to tell me that your private relationships have nothing to do with these murders. My response to that is twofold. First, how can you possibly know that? When we don’t know who’s doing this or why, that’s not a statement you’re in a position to make. Second, I don’t care who you’re having sex with, and neither does Lieutenant Lerens. But we do care about your relationships. All of them. Friends, acquaintances, lovers, whatever. Most murders are about relationships, and if people are hiding theirs from us, we’ll be flapping about in the dark—and I don’t like that.”

  “OK, I get it,” Hancock said.

  “Do you?” Hugo countered. He maintained firm eye contact with Helen but rubbed his right temple to still the returned throbbing in his skull.

  “Yes, I do. And I’m sorry. I should have told you about Ambrósio, I know that.” She sighed. “How’s your head?”

  “I’m OK, thanks,” Hugo responded, distracted by the pounding. “But about Ambrósio . . . how are you coping? With his death, I mean.”

  “I think, like everyone else, I’m having a hard time accepting it, believing it. When you spend so much time in a fictional world, where all of that serious drama like breakups and death are all pretend, it’s somehow harder to really face what’s going on.” She smiled sadly. “If that makes any sense.”

  “It does. I can connect you with a counselor, if you think it’d help, someone confidential to talk to Paris, in English.”