by Mark Pryor
ALSO BY MARK PRYOR
The Bookseller
The Crypt Thief
The Blood Promise
The Button Man
The Reluctant Matador
Hollow Man
Published 2016 by Seventh Street Books®, an imprint of Prometheus Books
The Paris Librarian. Copyright © 2016 by Mark Pryor. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover image © Media Bakery
Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht
Cover design © Prometheus Books
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Prometheus Books recognizes all registered trademarks, trademarks, and service marks mentioned in the text.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Pryor, Mark, 1967- author.
Title: The Paris librarian : a Hugo Marston novel / Mark Pryor.
Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, 2016. |
Series: Hugo Marston ; 6
Identifiers: LCCN 2016009757 (print) | LCCN 2016016012 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781633881778 (softcover) | ISBN 9781633881785 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Americans—France—Paris—Fiction. | Motion picture actors and actresses—Fiction. | Cold cases (Criminal investigation)—Fiction. | Murder—
Investigation—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. |
GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3616.R976 P37 2016 (print) | LCC PS3616.R976 (ebook) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016009757
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to my beautiful sister,
Catherine Eleanor, aka “Caci/Cat.”
I know we’re too far away from each other, but remember
we share so much more than just a birthday.
Your unwavering support for and delight in my writing career
mean more than you can know. I love you, super sis.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As ever, I have tried to be faithful to the geography, traditions, and cuisine of the beautiful city of Paris, and any distortions or failings are my own, as are any exaggerations. However, to those who fear I’ve been too fanciful with my fictional American Library in Paris I feel compelled to point out that the real one does, indeed, have a secret door as well as a small, basement room that staff call the atelier. More than that, I cannot say . . .
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The note sat beside his coffeemaker, the elegant handwriting unmistakable.
Café Laruns at 8:30 this morning.
Come alone and unarmed. Tell no one.
Hugo Marston read the note twice and sighed. Despite Tom Green’s rough demeanor, hard-drinking ways, and sailor’s vocabulary, his friend and current roommate had an artistic side that very occasionally revealed itself in his appreciation of classical music, several styles of painting, and, less occasionally, in his own handwriting.
The clock on the kitchen wall read eight, and Hugo considered the possibilities. Either Tom was back working for the CIA and needed his help with an undercover operation, or his friend was screwing with him. Given the tone of the note, Hugo was prepared to put his money on the latter. Even so, a trip to Café Laruns was welcome enough on a lazy Sunday morning, especially since the coffeemaker propping up Tom’s note turned out either sludge or drain water depending on its mood. The decision was made easier when a quick check of the fridge showed that someone had eaten the last of the eggs and bread.
The only thing that gave Hugo pause was the time of the requested rendezvous. Rare enough for Tom to be out of bed by nine, let alone eight, on a weekend—or any day come to that—and also be in decent-enough shape to leave the apartment for a meeting.
Hugo opened the window to check on the temperature, the cool of the early morning already giving way to a mugginess that had clogged Paris for most of August. Half a dozen times that month the city had been battered by afternoon thunderstorms, rain pounding the pavements and the streets, turning them into little rivers as the sky crackled and snapped with lightning, thunder rolling angrily above. August was vacation month in France, and traditionally Hugo, along with many other employees at the US Embassy, was given the chance to work from home when he was able. Several afternoons he’d watched from his fifth-floor apartment as the tourists on Rue Jacob scurried for cover, filling the nearby cafés and bistros. The stores selling cheap umbrellas and plastic ponchos filled their coffers, too, opening their doors wide every time the sky darkened or a few heavy raindrops hit the sidewalk.
Hugo showered and dressed quickly. He ran a comb through his hair and frowned when he spotted a few more grays. Time to stop looking too closely, he thought.
He trotted down the stairs and waved at Dimitrios, the concierge for the apartment building. The Greek wasn’t supposed to work weekends, but he lived three streets away in a tiny apartment with his wife and four children, and his comfy chair and sturdy desk were the perfect place to find peace and quiet, and to read a good book. He looked up and spoke as Hugo passed.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Marston, did the young lady find you?”
Hugo stopped. “‘Young lady’?”
“She was here yesterday. You were at work. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her anything about you, not where you work or your schedule or anything.”
“I appreciate the discretion, Dimitrios, but I don’t know who you’re talking about. Not Claudia?”
“Non, non, of course not. She was younger, this one.” His eyes brightened at the memory and he gave Hugo a mischievous wink. “Very pretty, though. I won’t mention her to Mademoiselle Claudia, I promise.”
Hugo shrugged. “I still don’t know who you’re talking about, I’m afraid. Claudia’s the only woman I’ve dated in a long time. Perhaps one of Monsieur Green’s friends?”
“Non, certainement pas.”Dimitrios sho
ok his head. Definitely not. “This one was . . . she was dressed a little strangely, all in black but she seemed sweet, a nice girl. Not his type.”
Hugo laughed. “You are an observant man. If she comes back, ask for her name and phone number. I’m curious now.”
“Oui, monsieur, I will.” The conspiratorial wink again. “And not a word to Mademoiselle Claudia.”
Hugo chuckled and stepped out onto Rue Jacob, turning right and starting a slow stroll toward Café Laruns. He had no plans for the day other than a desire to peruse the stalls along the River Seine that offered mostly tourist items but also the occasional collectible book, which is where Hugo’s interest lay. Since the disappearance of his bouquiniste friend Max, Hugo had subconsciously put a hold on his slow but regular book buying, stalling the gradual trickle of first and rare editions that he’d gathered for years. He owned almost a hundred, some in his bedroom but most in a locked glass cabinet in the main room of his apartment. Their colorful spines were a special display to Hugo, a touchable and re-arrangeable work of art more permanent than flowers but just as beautiful. And they were more than just trophies to admire. Hugo had read every single one, convinced that even rare and delicate books deserved the fulfilment of their purpose before being transformed into collectors’ items, treasures that were no longer cherished for the words between the covers but for the covers themselves and the name printed on the front.
As he neared the end of Rue Jacob, his phone rang and the name Paul Rogers showed up on the screen. Rogers was the director of the American Library in Paris, on Rue du Général Camou, in the Seventh Arrondissment. Hugo had worked several functions there for the ambassador, and Rogers was his point of contact. He was in his late fifties, balding, and quiet but always ready with a smile—and ruthlessly efficient.
Hugo also knew that there was a little more to the man than his gentle demeanor suggested. As a matter of course Hugo was required to look into Rogers’s background, and in doing so had unearthed a past that, in days gone by, would have been labeled “colorful.” The librarian’s interest in books was preceded by a career in film, making short movies that catered to a small but enthusiastic group of adults whose nocturnal activities were harmless, other than being potential fodder for the tabloids should a politician or movie star be found in their midst. Hugo and Ambassador Taylor had enjoyed a chuckle over some of the imaginative titles, but they quickly decided that his lack of criminal record, his bachelor’s in English literature and master’s degree in library science, and the trust of his young but highly cultured fiancée, Sarah Gregory, were better ways to judge the man.
Without hesitation they’d agreed that Paul Rogers was no security concern, and over their dozen or so interactions he’d proved himself devoted to his books, his girlfriend, and helping the diplomats and other guests of the American embassy enjoy the delights of the largest English-language lending library on the European continent. The library sold books, too, twice a month, and Hugo had asked Rogers to call him when he noticed something special up for grabs.
“Paul, how are you?” Hugo said, slowing his walk.
“Great. Just wanted to let you know about a little sale we’re having.”
“Oh yes?”
“Not just the usual fundraising thing. We have some older books we don’t really have space for any more, and some others we don’t want to spend the money restoring. Two or three hundred books—I’m sure you could find something.”
“Any particular theme?”
“No, we have a little of everything. The big moneymaker will likely be a six-volume set of Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”
“Surely not a first-edition set?” asked Hugo.
“It most certainly is.” A note of humor entered Rogers’s voice. “Care to guess how much we’re selling it for?”
Hugo stopped and leaned against the stone wall of a boutique clothing store. He could picture the books in his mind but couldn’t even imagine owning a set like that. Or reading it. “Well out of my league, I’m sure. Twenty grand?”
“Thirty-five, in US dollars.”
“That’ll pay your salary for a couple of years.”
“I wish you were joking,” Rogers said lightly.
“You’re worth every penny. Any stocking stuffers I might be able to afford?”
“You like the literature side of things, if I recall. As opposed to photography, religion, and philosophy, I mean. Couple of good travel books, too, if that’s your thing.”
“It is in theory, but I have to focus my collection. Until you mistakenly sell me a first-edition Jack London or H. G. Wells for a couple hundred bucks.”
“Lord, I’d lose my job for that.” Rogers laughed. “Let me think. We have a first-edition of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road for a few hundred dollars.”
“I prefer something a little older. Signed, too, if possible,” Hugo added. “Almost all the ones in my tiny collection are signed.”
“Nothing springs to mind, I’d have to look and see which ones are,” Rogers said. “Oh, wait. How about a Truman Capote? In Cold Blood. I know it’s a first edition and I think it has his autograph in it, too.”
“How much?”
“Three thousand, I think. Let me pull it up on my computer.”
“For that price, it better be signed.”
“Here we go. Yep, three-and-a-half thousand, and it’s signed. Want me to put it aside?”
“Let me think about it. That’s still pretty expensive—I’m just a lowly government employee, you know.”
Rogers laughed. “I know, Hugo, I know. The sale starts tomorrow, so I’ll hold it for you until you get here, does that work?”
“Perfect. I’ll take the morning off and be there by ten.”
“Do me a favor. Bring your buddy Tom, he’s a blast. And I like the way he spends your money.”
“I’ll think about it.”
As soon as Hugo hung up, his phone rang again.
“You coming or not?” Tom asked.
“I’m on my way, five minutes at the most. What’s going on?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Yes, one that I’ll find out in five minutes. Why can’t you just tell me now?” Hugo waited for a response. “Tom. Hello?” The screen on his phone was dark. “Typical,” Hugo muttered to himself, and resumed his walk.
It took him ten minutes, and he breathed in deeply as he pushed open the door to Café Laruns, the aromas of coffee and freshly baked bread welcoming him into the large, cool room. He saw Tom at the back of the café, sitting with two people, a young lady he didn’t recognize and another slight figure who was sitting with her back to him. He started toward them and waved when Tom looked up.
He was ten yards from their table when the young lady with her back to him turned around. Hugo stopped in his tracks, a smile of surprise and delight spreading across his face. She smiled, too, then sprang up and ran over, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight.
“Well, now, what are you doing here?” he asked, hugging her back.
She looked up and grinned. “I’m pretty sure you said I could visit anytime I liked.”
“I’m sure I did,” Hugo said. “But we have phones here; you’re allowed to call in advance.”
“Ha!” She released him, tucking her arm through his and leading him to the table. “Don’t you remember our trip to the cemetery? The party we went to?”
“How could I forget?” Hugo grimaced playfully. “Ah yes, that’s right. You’re one for surprises, no doubt about that.”
She squeezed his arm. “Especially where you’re concerned.”
They stopped beside her empty chair and Hugo looked into those clear, almond-shaped eyes. “It’s good to see you again, Merlyn, it really is.”
CHAPTER TWO
They sat around the table and Merlyn introduced Hugo to “my partner,” Mikaela Harrison. She was, like Merlyn, a beautiful young woman. Her dark hair fell either side of an oval face, but
where Merlyn’s skin was café au lait, Mikaela’s was just the lait, classic English pale, the perfect canvas for her striking blue eyes and cherry-red lips. She was slender, but not in the same way as the waiflike Merlyn, more athletic.
“Call me Miki,” she said, shaking Hugo’s hand. She smiled and held his eye for a shade longer than he expected. Confident girl, Hugo thought.
A waitress appeared and Hugo ordered coffee for himself and croissants for everyone. When the waitress left, Hugo turned to Merlyn.
“How did you get hooked up with this guy?” He thumbed toward Tom, who was looking smug. “And are you in Paris for fun or work?” He paused. “Or one of your . . . parties?”
Merlyn laughed. “Same old Hugo, full of questions. Someone I did some genealogy work for gave me access to his apartment as partial payment. We can even use his Smart car, though I can’t imagine driving around Paris is a lot of fun. Anyway, we got in yesterday and we went to your apartment and then the embassy to find you. Tom was talking to the security people and heard me asking. He said we should surprise you here this morning.”
“He’s like you in that way,” Hugo said. “Always a bundle of fun.”
“Hey, be grateful I’ve included you at all.” Tom winked but didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to—sitting at a café with two pretty girls was about the only thing in the world likely to get him out of bed in the morning.
Miki rummaged in her bag and then stood. “I don’t smoke much, but something about being here . . .” She gave an embarrassed smile, and Tom stood to let her out.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” he said, ignoring Hugo’s So you smoke now, too? look.
When they’d gone, Merlyn reached over and squeezed Hugo’s hand. “It’s really good to see you again, you look good.”
“So do you.” Hugo smiled.
It had been several years but she looked the same, that hint of Asia around her eyes, the smooth olive skin. Her black bob was now streaked with a line of blue, but otherwise she looked the same as when she’d stumbled into the first investigation he’d conducted as an RSO, when he was heading up security at the US Embassy in London. Merlyn had been friends with a movie star Hugo was supposed to babysit, one who disappeared moments after they’d met. Without Merlyn he’d have had no idea where to look for the man. With her, he found himself chasing through the English countryside and, to his chagrin, wearing leather pants and a matching vest at a secret party at an English mansion. She’d opened his eyes to a different way of living, and loving, testing the unjudgmental part of himself that he so valued. In her world, anyone could be anything, and sexual exploration was to be encouraged, no matter how out-there it seemed. Hugo had gone along, mostly out of necessity, and had gained a valued friend in the process. They’d swapped a few e-mails after that case but, as often happens with hurriedly formed friendships, the lines of communication had thinned out and they’d not corresponded in almost a year.
