The Paris Librarian

by Mark Pryor

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Not really. When I told her we didn’t find anything like that at his apartment, she said he’d given it to her for safekeeping.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Come on, Hugo, seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. We know he was prepared to steal for this book, he broke into Paul’s apartment and helped himself to a dead man’s keys, so he could then break in somewhere else, the library at the dead of night. That enough criminal activity for you?”

  “Maybe someone was pulling his strings.”

  “She’s a criminal mastermind now?”

  “She may not look like one, but I do find it odd that Harrison claims not to have known about the theft of the keys and the library break-in, yet she’s the one who winds up in possession of the keys. Then she claims she didn’t know about Benoît stealing the dagger, yet she has that, too. And it’s not her who shows up floating in the Seine, is it? No, it’s Alain Benoît, and not only was she the last person to see him alive, but she has a pretty good motive to kill him.”

  “I can’t argue with any of that,” Hugo conceded. “But do you really think she did it? Why at that moment?”

  “Maybe he snagged some other piece of prize information and wouldn’t share it. She said she thought he was holding out on her over the book.”

  “Yeah, she told me that, too.”

  “There you go. She saw him about to disappear into the wind and take all the glory himself and decided not to let that happen.”

  “If that was his plan, why would he leave the dagger with her? That makes no sense.”

  “Maybe she took it in the first place. Or after she killed him.”

  “Possibly. What did she say about the last time she saw him?”

  “That she stayed with him after picking him up from the library, but left after midnight and got a call very early that morning to meet him at a café. He’d received a text from someone, he didn’t say who because he wanted to talk to her in person about it. Anyway, he didn’t show up, so she waited an hour and then went home.”

  “She have any guesses as to who texted?”

  “She says she doesn’t know.”

  “It might explain why his phone was missing,” Hugo said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If someone sent him a message, and maybe insisted on meeting him early on a Sunday morning before he saw Miki Harrison, that person might want to destroy that message, which likely would mean also destroying Benoît’s phone.”

  “And someone would lure Benoît that way because a phone call would be traceable, but a text isn’t.”

  “Right.”

  “My head’s spinning, Hugo. Are all these deaths related or is Benoît’s nothing to do with the other two? I mean, we can’t even be a hundred percent sure that Gregory and Rogers didn’t both commit suicide. Maybe there’s just one murder, and even that one might have an alternate explanation.” She spread her hands wide. “Maybe there are three suicides here, or two suicides and an accident.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t think so,” Hugo said grimly.

  They disconnected and Hugo sat quietly for a moment, thinking. His head was also swimming with the possibilities, although there were several things that especially bugged him, things that suggested he swim in a particular direction. Nothing concrete, but a few coincidences and inconsistencies had started to pile up along the way and, sitting there, Hugo decided that the pile was now large enough to warrant closer inspection.

  He opened the folder containing Paul Rogers’s book-checkout history, then picked up the phone and called the main number at the library.

  “Nicole Anisse, please,” he said.

  A moment later, she came on the line. “This is Nicole, can I help you?”

  “Hey, it’s Hugo Marston. Quick question for you.”

  “Oh, hi. Sure, whatever you need.”

  “I’m looking at Paul’s book history that you gave me. Is there any way to tell exactly who physically checked out a book, as opposed to whose card was used?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking. You have to have a library card.”

  “But people can borrow other people’s cards, right? Or you could sign out a book under another library employee’s name?”

  “I suppose so, yes. Sure.”

  “Good to know, thanks,” Hugo said. “Hey, would you put me through to Michelle Juneau?”

  “She just left the building, sorry. Anything else I can help with?”

  “I was just wondering about the funeral arrangements.”

  “Oh, then I can help you. Well, kind of. I think she got Michael to help with that. I heard them talking about it. Want me to see if he’s here?”

  “No, that’s OK. But I just thought of something else.”

  “Fire away.”

  “I need a peek at someone else’s checkout history, would that be OK?”

  “I don’t know,” Anisse said, her voice hesitant. “I could get in trouble for that, if it’s someone who works here or is a current patron. Paul’s was different because . . . well, obviously.”

  “I know, but it’d be our secret,” Hugo said, coaxing her. “No one would ever know, I promise.”

  She relented with a gentle laugh. “I suppose it’s OK to be naughty once in a while. For a good cause.”

  “It certainly is that.” Hugo gave her the name and Anisse promised to e-mail the information right away. She ended the call playfully, saying, “You owe me big time, Hugo. Big time.”

  Two minutes later, her e-mail arrived and Hugo opened the attachment. He scanned the list of books, and when he saw one in particular a shot of adrenaline made him sit up straight.

  “So why would you need that book?” he muttered to himself, and sat back in his chair as the pieces started to edge toward each other, not slotting into place as yet, but aligning themselves enough that he thought he could finally see a face.

  But he needed more. More evidence, more proof, and if there was one thing guaranteed to help him get a new, and hopefully clarifying, perspective, it was a trip out of town. But before he could make any arrangements, his phone rang.

  “Hugo, it’s Merlyn.” She sounded breathless, panicked. “What the hell is going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a frigging police car outside our apartment. Miki’s been told not to leave Paris. Jesus, Hugo, she was interrogated by your cop buddy this morning.”

  “Interviewed, not interrogated,” Hugo said calmly.

  “She’s a suspect?” Merlyn said, incredulity in her voice.

  “Not for me, no. But right now I’m not the one who matters.”

  “The police. Hugo, they’re staking us out. What the hell is that?”

  “Merlyn, calm down. Remember when we were charging around England looking for a murderer? We weren’t quite sure who or what or why, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. And you ended up in the trunk of his bloody car at one point.”

  Hugo laughed. “Yeah, I’m gonna try and avoid that situation again. But listen, I’m just saying you need to stay calm. I’m a few hours away from being sure what this is all about. Just be cool in the meantime, ignore the cops, and stay where you are. Watch some movies or something.”

  “They’re all in French.”

  “That happens when you go to Paris. So read a book.”

  “You have to clear her, Hugo,” Merlyn insisted. “Miki may be headstrong but, my God, she’s not a cold-blooded killer. That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know, but right now she’s the best suspect the police have. They’ve got motive and opportunity for Alain’s death, at least.”

  Merlyn was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What are you going to do?”

  “The less you know, the better.” That wasn’t true, not really, Hugo just didn’t want to explain, answer questions. And he didn’t even know if he was right. Not yet. When they disconnected, he called Lerens back. “Qui
ck favor.”

  “What is it?” she asked suspiciously. “Related to this case?”

  “No,” Hugo said. “At least, I can’t say it is right now. I need you to get me access to a very old file in another jurisdiction.”

  “Only if you promise to tell me what you’re up to.”

  “As soon as I know, I will. Call it a hunch for now, and I know how you hate acting on those instead of firm evidence.”

  “C’est vrai.” Lerens laughed gently. That’s true. “But I’m more than happy to let you act on one of yours. Tell me what you need.”

  She listened quietly as he explained, and she agreed to make some calls for him.

  “Are you still convinced Miki Harrison is responsible?” Hugo asked.

  “It doesn’t look good for her. I know she’s got an excuse and an explanation for everything, but she’s neck-deep in all of this. I forgot to tell you, during the interview I asked her where she was around the time Sarah Gregory was killed. She said she was with Alain Benoît.”

  “Not much of an alibi,” Hugo agreed.

  “That’s the thing. I can’t verify any of the stories she’s telling me. Of course, as yet I can’t disprove any of them, either.”

  “You have people watching her, I gather.”

  “How did you know?”

  “My friend Merlyn called, less than happy.”

  “We don’t have enough to arrest her, not yet. I’m getting a warrant for her computer to see if she has anything on there, but the magistrate kicked it back first time, said she wanted more.”

  “Well, you do your thing and I’ll do mine, maybe we’ll meet in the middle.”

  When he hung up, Hugo logged in to the SNCF website to book two tickets, first-class, on an afternoon train out of the Saint-Lazare train station. He then sent a short text, hoping for a quick response. Tom wandered into the room just as Hugo was starting to pack.

  “In the old days, you had a go bag ready in the closet. Where are we off to?”

  “Don’t you knock anymore?”

  “I never did,” Tom said. “I asked where we’re going.”

  “That depends.” Hugo checked his phone and smiled. “You’re going nowhere. I’m going up north with Claudia for a day or so.”

  “Odd time to take a vacation.”

  “You think so? Half of Paris is on vacation now.”

  “Half of Paris isn’t involved in a hunting a serial killer.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Three bodies in a week, seems like it’d qualify. I mean, you’re the expert but I’ve read enough fiction to get the gist.”

  “Funny.”

  “Where up north?”

  “So you can tag along?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’m just curious.” Tom smiled broadly, his attempt at looking innocent.

  “I thought some fresh sea air would be good. A quick trip to Dieppe.”

  “Dieppe?” Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. I told you that story, you should be taking me.”

  “Love your company, Tom, but you still come in second for overnight trips.”

  Tom grunted. “Guess I can’t blame you there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The train left just before three that afternoon, giving Hugo and Claudia a chance to eat at the station’s renowned brasserie, the aptly named Lazare. Hugo had expected to buy a sandwich for the train, but Claudia insisted they’d be able to get a table without a reservation. She had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing jeans and a loose, white shirt. Her skin seemed to glow, and every time he looked at her, she was smiling.

  “It’s a Tuesday, and it’ll be later than most people eat.” She hadn’t mentioned until they were seated that she knew the chef and his wife.

  “Always full of surprises,” Hugo said. He felt good in her company, he always did. She was one of a handful of people he’d ever met who made him feel utterly comfortable and himself. His first wife, Ellie, had been like that. And with Claudia, too, he had no desire to guess what she was thinking, analyze and parse her words, second-guess her intentions. It was, he knew, because she and Ellie were without guile or artifice; they said what they were feeling and meant it. He may not always like or agree with what Claudia had to say, but she would always tell him the truth.

  “Try the roast chicken,” she said.

  “Is that an order?”

  She winked. “If you want it to be.”

  They ate slowly, Hugo checking his watch every now and again to make sure the train’s departure time didn’t sneak up on them. They both had the roast chicken and followed up with cappuccinos, resisting the dessert list and cheese cart. At the end of the meal, Hugo let Claudia pay when she insisted it was only fair, since he’d booked the train tickets and the hotel room.

  “Thank you,” he said as they walked toward the train. “That chicken really was good.”

  “So was the company.” She put an arm around his waist and he put his around her shoulder, a closeness that felt natural, almost inevitable.

  As the train pulled out of the station, Hugo felt a surge of excitement. Traveling always made him feel this way, but this time he had Claudia with him, and he felt a growing certainty that the vague, almost spectral theory that was taking shape in his mind, might actually be real, even provable.

  The train gathered speed and he watched the city slip away, the grubby industrial yards and gray factories that always seemed to sit alongside city rail lines replaced by ever-larger patches of green and gold, the pastures and fields of wheat and barley unfurling across the train’s large windows. As they sped north, the land stayed flat and Hugo stared out at the stone villages that dotted the open farmland. Sometimes he and Claudia talked, but mostly they sat quietly next to each other, holding hands and looking at the world speeding by.

  The sun was low in the sky when they got to Dieppe, bright and warm still, and the air smelled fresh and just a little salty. When they walked out of the front of the station, an unmarked police car was waiting.

  “Camille really did pull out all the stops,” Claudia said. “Although an afternoon at the police station doesn’t sound like a huge amount of fun. Mind if I head to the hotel?”

  Hugo kissed her forehead. “Of course not. Maybe find somewhere for us to eat tonight, a restaurant with a view of the sea.”

  “Consider it done.”

  He waited as she climbed into a taxi, then walked over to the police car and shook hands with the uniformed driver, who introduced herself as Genevieve Hillier. She was pretty and probably in her early thirties, and, Hugo guessed, of Filipino descent.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Hugo said in French.

  “It’s not a problem,” she said. “But do you mind if I practice my English?”

  “Not at all.”

  She chattered on the way to the Dieppe police station, talking about the movies she watched and learned from, the books she was trying to read, and how she was determined her son would speak English like a native. Hugo appreciated her enthusiasm and her company; most police officers were more hesitant and taciturn when an investigation bled into their jurisdiction. But when they got to the station, he discovered that she was only his driver when she handed him over to an older detective. He was a burly man with a thick, silver mustache and curiosity in his eyes. His handshake was firm and his smile welcoming.

  “Georges Bazin,” he said. “I’m two weeks away from retiring and am dying to know why you’re interested in this old case.”

  “Hugo Marston, pleased to meet you,” Hugo replied. “I just wanted to check on a few things I’d been told about it, see whether they were all true.”

  “Of course. You know, it was my first month on the job and I was the first officer on scene, and this case always bugged me, something about it.” He led Hugo past the reception desk, down a long hallway to a small conference room. A small, round table dominated the windowless room, and four plastic chairs were tucked neatly under it. On the table was
a cardboard box. “Everything related to the case is in there,” Bazin said.

  “You said case, not accident.”

  “I did. Help yourself and take as long as you like. If you need to make copies of anything, just let me know.” He pointed down the hallway. “That’s my office at the end.”

  “Thanks, I may take some pictures with my phone if that’s OK,” Hugo said.

  “Whatever you want, that’s fine. This case has been closed for decades, so you can’t do any harm.” He hesitated. “If you find anything odd, let me know. Like I said, I never quite swallowed the official story, never quite believed it happened the way the final report concludes, but,” he shrugged, “I was a young officer and didn’t have the guts or the rank to do anything about it. Nor any evidence, I suppose. Just one of those things, you know?”

  Left alone, Hugo sat at the table and took the lid off the box. Inside, half a dozen bulging folders had been stacked on top of each other. He piled them on the table and sorted through them. The top one contained the initial report filed by young Officer Bazin, and some subsequent crime-scene reports from other officers. The next had photos of the accident site, and Hugo was eager to see the precise location for himself. The third folder had been labeled “Witness Statements,” but it contained only one, and Hugo read it carefully, then read it again. He took out his camera and photographed the single page, and then a few of the pictures from the scene.

  For the next hour, Hugo sifted through the reports one by one. As the pages passed under his fingertips, his conviction grew that the Severin collection was little more than a blinding flare, a clever distraction being exploited by a cunning and imaginative killer so that the Paris police would keep chasing their tails, and maybe run right into a brick wall. Not that people weren’t trying to uncover the true story behind Isabelle Severin’s role in the war, they were. But they weren’t the ones who’d committed murder.

  As he closed the last file, a deep sadness fell over him, a sorrow not just for the people who’d lost their lives, but for the person he had to unmask. He knew that people killed for many reasons, and very rarely for pleasure. Paul Rogers, Sarah Gregory, and Alain Benoît had all died not to amuse their murderer, not to assuage some sick fantasy that couldn’t be controlled. No, this was about survival, and about keeping a secret buried that if quite literally unearthed, would mean the end of the road for a person who’d spent far too long looking over both shoulders and living as a fraud.