The Paris Librarian

by Mark Pryor

  “I may have to help out.”

  She cocked her head. “How come?”

  Smart woman, Hugo thought. “The police were called just in case. A formality, just routine. But I was there when he was found and he’s a dual citizen, so I may have to linger a little.”

  “That’s weird. I mean, that someone called the police for a heart attack.”

  “That was me.”

  “Oh. Look, I don’t mean to be nosy or inappropriate,” Miki said. “But did something make you think it wasn’t a heart attack? I mean, isn’t that kind of your job?”

  “It used to be my job, but not anymore,” Hugo said. “And I only called them because it was a body in a library, an at-least partly American citizen in a foreign place. Just seemed like the right thing to do.”

  She gave him a little smile. “Sounds like a game of Clue.”

  That might be amusing in a week or two, Hugo thought. But not today. “I’ll walk you upstairs,” he said. “The circulation desk is up here. If we bump into Madame Juneau, we’ll say you were with me.”

  “Can we tell her we were doing something exciting?”

  “Not today.” Again with the insensitive comments, Hugo said to himself. Everyone deals with the news of death differently, of course, but some people . . . They reached the top of the stairs and slipped past the librarians at the desk, moving into the area where the books were laid out for the sale. “Here we are, safe and sound.”

  “Thanks, Hugo,” she said. “Maybe see you tonight?”

  “I’m planning on it.”

  He followed her to the main doors, and Hugo held one open for her. He watched as she walked away, still not sure what to make of her. He made a mental note to look her up online, see if she had a body of work as a journalist, something credible and professional that might justify her intrusion into the library basement, and perhaps even her insensitivity. Although that seemed more like a personality issue.

  A voice behind Hugo made him turn. “Monsieur? You were looking for me?” She spoke in French.

  “Madame Juneau?” He’d seen her at the library in previous visits, but they’d never been introduced.

  “Michelle Juneau, oui.” She was an attractive woman, probably in her late thirties, with glossy, russet hair. Her green eyes and bright-red lipstick made Hugo think of Christmas. But there was a formality to her, one that Hugo thought hid either a fiery temper or an unusually gentle nature. Maybe both.

  Hugo offered his hand. “I’m Hugo Marston, a friend of Paul Rogers.”

  “I recognize the name; it’s a pleasure to meet you. How can I help?”

  Hugo was suddenly aware of people passing by, close to them, and the curious eyes of Nicole Anisse. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  “We have a large book sale this morning, Monsieur Marston, so I hope we can be brief.” She gestured toward a nearby door. “We can use my office.”

  She led him past the circulation desk, alongside the main stacks. A third of the way down, she turned into a short hallway and led him through a door into a large and open administration area. Tucked around a corner, out of sight from anyone in the main library, sat a large safe. It was chest height, was roughly four feet wide and deep, and looked a hundred years old. Hugo’s first thought was how much it must weigh, but he was also interested to see it was accessed by a key, not a combination. Past it lay Michelle Juneau’s office and a second one, with Paul Rogers’s name on the door. Juneau stood behind her desk, waiting for him. He went into her office and closed the door.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news,” he began. “I came here to meet with Paul this morning, for the sale. He was working on his book when I found him.”

  “Found him?” she repeated. “Why do you say it that way?”

  “Paul is dead, madame. He appears to have had a heart attack.”

  A small hand fluttered to her mouth, but she never took her eyes from his. She squared her shoulders, composing herself. “Paul is . . . You are sure he’s . . . he’s really dead?”

  “The police doctor is here, there’s no doubt. I’m sorry.”

  She reached for the back of her chair and slowly sat down. She was quiet for a moment then looked up. “Police? Someone called the police?”

  “I did. I’m not familiar with the reporting process here after a death, and I wanted to be safe rather than sorry.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I can’t believe this is happening.” A thought seemed to strike her. “Is he . . . his body . . .”

  “The police are still here, with him.”

  A pause. “You said a heart attack. Why are the police still here?”

  He didn’t want to tell her the truth, that they were using a man’s death for training purposes. And he didn’t want to tell her, either, that something didn’t quite feel right to him, something he couldn’t begin to put his finger on. Something about the body’s position, or the odd way people were reacting. Maybe it was something about the little room itself . . . Hugo just didn’t know. He smiled to himself. Or maybe it was just that pretty much every death he’d seen in the last twenty years had been a homicide, and he was just projecting his history onto the sad, but very natural, death of Paul Rogers.

  “I’ll go check,” Hugo said. “I’ll try and make sure they don’t disturb the people here for the sale.”

  “Merci bien, I appreciate that.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Paul. And Sarah, oh my goodness, who will tell Sarah?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  “I do hope it’s not the police—I know she’s not,” she paused, clearly searching for the right words, “she’s not very good with authority.”

  “It may have to be them, but if so I’ll go with them. I’ll be there, I promise.”

  Juneau frowned, but then nodded her approval. “That will be good, thank you.” She started for the door, then turned. “You said you came to see him about the sale. That is my project. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Paul was holding a book for me, but it doesn’t seem important now.”

  “Please, if it was important before, then it is now. Perhaps more so. Paul would want you to have the book, I’m sure. What was it? I will go look where we put special orders aside.”

  “It’s by Truman Capote, a signed copy.”

  “The title? I’ll go look now.”

  “Thank you. The book is In Cold Blood.”

  Hugo picked his way through the crowds on the Champ de Mars as he made his way toward where Paul Rogers lived with Sarah Gregory, less than a mile from the library and on the other side of the busy public green space. He’d offered to deliver the news, bearing Juneau’s warning in mind, and Camille Lerens had reluctantly agreed. It looked like natural causes, they agreed, so her superiors might wonder why she was making it a police matter by visiting with the surviving kin.

  As he walked, Hugo instinctively patted his pockets when the packs of tourists passed him, wary not of them but of the lone vendors tracking them like prey, their hungry eyes roaming over the groups, looking for a score. Their selfie sticks and shiny trinkets made them seem like fishermen trying to lure in willing customers, but in Hugo’s mind they were more like the predators you’d see circling the water holes of Africa, practiced at spotting the weak, those least wedded to their cash—the gullible and the gaudy-minded.

  The apartment was in a building on Avenue de Suffren, an apt name for today, Hugo couldn’t help thinking. He pressed the buzzer and after a moment a disembodied voice came out of the speaker.

  “Allô?”

  “Ms. Gregory, this is Hugo Marston. I work at the US Embassy and am a friend of Paul’s.”

  “Oh, yes, hi. He’s not here right now, he’s at work.”

  That moment, Hugo thought, that brief moment on the cusp of despair, when someone’s world has changed but they don’t know it yet, have no sense of the pain and sadness they’re about to suffer.

  “I ju
st came from there. Can I come in for a moment?”

  A moment’s hesitation. “Yes, of course. Take the stairs up one flight, then first door on your right.”

  A buzzer sounded and Hugo pushed open the door. He crossed the small marble foyer and trotted up the stairs to her apartment, and knocked. A moment later, the door was opened by a tall, slender woman with her blond hair in a ponytail.

  “Hugo, nice to see you again.”

  They exchanged bises awkwardly, Hugo still more accustomed to shaking hands with Americans than kissing them.

  “You, too, Sarah.” He gestured toward her apartment. “May I?”

  “Of course. Is everything OK?”

  The first tinges of worry. The start of the landslide.

  Hugo didn’t say anything, just stepped into the entryway as she moved back inside. He followed her through a doorway on the left, a large living space that opened into a modern kitchen.

  A man rose from the sofa to Hugo’s right. He was tall with coffee-colored skin and close-cropped hair, a good-looking man in his early thirties. He wore a white shirt tucked into blue jeans, an expensive watch on his wrist.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had company,” Hugo said.

  “This is Alain Benoît, a friend of mine and Paul’s,” Sarah said. “He was just on his way out.”

  The man moved toward them, his hand extended. “Enchanté,” Benoît said.

  “Hugo Marston.” Hugo looked hard at the man as they shook hands, looking for signs of . . . anything. It was odd that Sarah had emphasized that Benoît was a friend of them both, and given the age difference between Sarah Gregory and Paul Rogers . . . and this was Paris, the city of love. Or, perhaps, Hugo had been in law enforcement too long, suspicious of everything and everyone.

  Sarah gave Benoît a gentle smile as he walked over and kissed her on each cheek. “See you tonight,” he said in French. Sarah nodded and they waited for Benoît to let himself out.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Hugo said.

  “It’s fine, like I said, he was leaving anyway and we’ll see him this evening for dinner.”

  The weight of Hugo’s mission pressed on his chest at the word we. The moment shortened even more, Hugo already forming the words to snap another person’s world in two, change it indelibly and forever. Whoever Alain Benoît was, Paul Rogers was not going to have dinner with him tonight, or any other night.

  “Can we sit?” Hugo asked.

  “Sure.” She gestured to an armchair as she sat delicately on the sofa, worry now clear in her eyes. “Is something wrong? Is it Paul?”

  “Sarah, I’m so very sorry, but there’s no easy way to say this. Paul appears to have had a heart attack at the library. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Sarah gasped and a hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head slowly. “No, he can’t be. He was just here. He was fine.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah, I know how much of a shock this must be.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, could there be some kind of mistake?”

  “I saw him myself. I was there when he was found, and with the doctor who came.”

  “Oh my God.” She sat quietly for a moment, her eyes searching Hugo’s face as if for signs of hope. Then she whispered, “He’s really . . . gone?”

  “Yes,” said Hugo. “I’m afraid so.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes drifted away, tears leaking down her cheeks. “My Paulie. I don’t . . . I can’t believe it. How can he be gone, just like that?”

  “Sarah, is there someone I can call to be with you?”

  Her eyes swiveled back to him. “Oh, God. His mother. This will kill her.”

  “Would you like me to tell her?”

  “Yes.” Sarah nodded, then stared down at her hands. “Wait, no. I should be the one. She won’t be able to cope with it, though.” A sudden sob wracked her chest. “I don’t think I can cope with it. How is this happening?”

  “Is there anyone else who can be with you right now?”

  She raised her tear-filled eyes to him. “No. I don’t have anyone else. It’s just . . . it was just me and Paul. Just us.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following morning, Hugo walked back to the library, the usually bright sights and sounds of Paris dulled by the heaviness in his heart. He wanted to return to Sarah Gregory’s apartment to check on her but felt it wasn’t his place. He was also irritated with himself for doubting her, and yet wanted to go back, just a little bit, to see if Alain Benoît had returned. There’d been something about the interaction between the two that hadn’t seemed natural. None of his business, he knew that, but meddling was his job, had always been his job.

  And then, so was suspicion. Hugo was fighting the idea that Paul had died of natural causes. In a career filled with senseless and premature deaths, Hugo had learned that at least when a man or woman was murdered there was a bad guy to catch, a direction for the loved ones to look and a path for the world’s helpers, like Hugo, to take.

  Not so when there was no bad guy, though, when nature or chance was to blame. The last time he’d felt this way had been worse, of course, when his wife was killed by an old man who’d not spotted a red light. A death unavengeable, a death as senseless and premature as any, and one that devastated Hugo’s life for a long time, its cold tendrils reaching him still. He and Sarah Gregory had this in common now, a directionless grief to overcome, an empty space with no one to blame.

  The death of Paul Rogers had cast over Hugo’s life an all-too-familiar, and very unwelcome, shadow.

  He was a block away from the library when his phone rang. It was Camille Lerens.

  “Bonjour, Hugo,” she said. “Are you at work today?”

  “Quiet day, I’m heading back to the library.”

  “What for?”

  “I thought I’d take a peek at those video tapes.”

  “Again I ask: What for?”

  “To pass the time,” Hugo said. “Like I said, a quiet day.”

  “Hugo, what are you trying to do here?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Do you really think that Monsieur Rogers’s death was suspicious?”

  “No idea.”

  “See,” Lerens said. “That’s exactly my point.”

  “You haven’t made a point.”

  “I have. There is no reason whatsoever to think he had anything other than a heart attack.”

  “Maybe he was poisoned.”

  “I think aliens did it.”

  “Funny. When’s the autopsy?”

  “Right now, actually. I was expecting Doctor Sprengelmeyer to have finished by now.”

  “Will he run a tox panel?”

  “The same one he always does. But that’s not even the issue. You have no reason to go poking around there, upsetting people.”

  “Who have I upset, exactly?”

  Lerens paused. “I spoke with Michelle Juneau this morning. She’s concerned about the police activity yesterday, says it turned some people away from the book sale. The wrong kind of publicity, she said.”

  “I thought there was no such thing.”

  “Not my area of expertise. But I assured her that Monsieur Rogers died of natural causes, and that other than a routine autopsy there’d be no need for any kind of police investigation.”

  “Great,” Hugo said. “And me showing up to look at a video in a private room won’t be a police investigation.”

  “Ah, you think she’ll be happy to see you?”

  “Well, I’m a good customer and I have a book to pick up. So sure, why not?”

  “Eh bien,” Lerens chuckled. “And when you ask for the surveillance tapes, how will she feel about that?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Look, Hugo. I know he was a friend, and I know in this business we look at things differently. But sometimes that means we see things that aren’t there. Not everything surrounding a dead body has to be a clue, n
ot in the real world.”

  “Just in ours?”

  “Right. So do what you have to do to come to terms with his death, but remember that.”

  “I think you have this backward, Camille.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m sick of death, and I’m sick that Paul’s gone. But I’m not trying to prove this was murder, because I’m even sicker of that. I’m trying to prove to my suspicious self that this wasn’t . . . well, anything but natural. Simple as that.”

  “I’d like to believe you,” she said, and Hugo could hear the smile in her voice.

  “I’ll call you in an hour or so and report back, yes?”

  “You mean you’ll call to bug me about the autopsy.”

  “Bonne idée,” Hugo said. Good idea.

  Inside the library, Hugo saw Michelle Juneau walking from the circulation desk into the main stacks, toward the administration room and her office. He followed her and put a hand on her door as she was closing it. She turned and it was clear she’d been crying, but she stiffened her back and cleared her throat, a tissue still clutched in her hand.

  “Oh, Monsieur . . .”

  “Hugo. Call me Hugo.”

  “Je m’excuse. Hugo, I’m sorry, you startled me a little.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was hoping I could look at the surveillance video from the hallway outside the atelier.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That lieutenant told me there would be no more police, no more disruption. Why do you need to look at surveillance video?”

  “For my own peace of mind, I assure you.”

  “That’s not much of an answer.”

  Hugo flashed his most disarming smile. “It’s the best one I have.”

  “Bien. As long as we don’t have another horde of cops coming and going, we still have our sale going on.”

  “It’s just me, I promise.”

  She gestured for him to follow her into her office. She sat in front of her computer and logged in. Hugo moved behind her and watched as the mouse moved in her hand and she brought up the library’s surveillance software.