The Bookseller (20 page)

 

 

Hugo pressed his head against the cool stone of the wall and closed his eyes. “Where exactly, Claudia?”

“Some tourists found him at the tip of Ile Saint-Germain this afternoon. He'd been in the water for some time. The cops are not sure how long, or how far he was carried downstream, so they can't say where he went in. Or how. I'm sorry.”

“It's definitely him?” A question other people used to ask him, and he heard the same desperation in his own voice.

“Yes. There's no doubt.”

“OK. Thanks for finding me.” He shouldn't have been surprised, and really he wasn't. A man isn't taken like that only to pop back up, all happy and well. But, dammit, he'd hoped. Really hoped. “Tell me they're not treating this as an accident,” he said.

“No. They have the tip of the island cordoned off, but no one expects to find anything there, as it almost certainly wasn't the murder scene. If it was murder. They'll do an autopsy in the morning, we'll know more after that.”

“Of course. Do you know who's going to handle the case?”

“No, but I can find out and let you know. Want me to call you there tomorrow?”

“No. I'm coming back.” He glanced at Tom, who stood watching him, trying to read his face. “I have someone to help me here, my friend Tom, so I'll just head back to Paris tomorrow.”

“OK. Call me when you get in, will you?”

“Sure.” Hugo hesitated. He had two questions he wanted to ask her, but the one about Durand could wait. “Claudia, did you know
your father bought Max's book? The Rimbaud he sold to me?”

A sharp intake of breath told him she didn't know. Or was an exceptional liar, which was possible. “No. He didn't tell me.”

“Is there any reason why he would?”

“No, I suppose not. He buys and sells books all the time and doesn't usually mention it unless he's found something he's wanted for a long time. But he didn't say anything about this.”

“OK.”

“Hugo, you don't still think this is about the book, do you? This may be a murder investigation now and I need to know what you know, what you are thinking.” They were both thinking the same thing, but she said it first. “Do you think my father could be involved?”

“I honestly don't know, Claudia. There are a lot of coincidences, an awful lot, but some of them have explanations.” He thought of Roussillon buying the Rimbaud. A gay book collector had every reason in the world to cherish an almost priceless copy of
Une Saison En Enfer
, especially one inscribed by the author. “Look, I'll call you tomorrow. And Claudia?”

“Yes?”

“Again, I appreciate you getting this news to me, I really do.”

“But of course I would, Hugo.” She sounded almost taken aback, but her voice softened. “I am sorry he's gone, truly.”

“Thank you. Now, get some sleep, and we'll talk when I get to Paris.”

He rang off and handed the phone back to Ceci. Like Tom, she'd been listening to his every word and her eyes were glistening.

“Max is dead,
oui
?” she whispered.

“
Oui
,” Hugo said, “
il est mort
.”

She clutched the phone to her chest and closed her eyes. “What is happening up there? Is it Gravois?”

“I don't know,” said Hugo, “I really don't.”

“Let me at him,” Tom growled, “we'll find out soon enough.”

Ceci gave him a sad smile and shook her head. “If I understand you, I think we've had enough violence.” She walked to the desk and put the
phone down, then turned to her guests. “Good night,
mes amis
. Sleep as late or early as you want. I always wake before dawn to let Sydney out, so I'll make breakfast whenever you get up.”

The two men bade her good night then stayed for a moment, standing on either side of the fireplace.

“I'm sorry about your friend, Hugo.”

“Thanks. At least they aren't assuming it was an accident.”

“That's a start,” Tom nodded. “Of course, you've got a whole new set of problems now, you know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your boss already told you to keep a low profile. If you keep poking around and asking questions while there's an official police investigation, word'll get back to him pretty damn quick.”

“Good point,” said Hugo. He looked up at Tom and smiled. “If only I knew someone who was used to operating without anyone knowing.”

“Well shit,” Tom said, “if you're really expecting me to do my thing, I need to hit the sack. Wake me when you get up. And be sure the coffee's made, else I'll kick your ass.”

The next morning, Hugo called the train station in Pau. He'd forgotten it was Sunday, and when he asked about train times he was told that the first one left for Bordeaux at two that afternoon. He wouldn't be back in Paris until the evening.

He used the morning to sketch out a plan of action with Tom. Ceci wanted to help, but they explained that it was best, safest, that she stay out of it. When that didn't work, they promised her that if they could use her help, they would. That didn't wash either, so they put her on the phone, making calls to as many bouquinistes as possible to find out where they were now. “I'm not sure I understand why,” she said, even while agreeing to do it.

“And Tom, when we get back to Paris I'm thinking we make a visit to Roussillon's place and look at that book.”

“Sounds good,” Tom said. “Assuming he lets you see it.”

“He's got no reason to deny me. And if he does, well, you can put on your ninja suit and fly down the chimney.”

“Not sure I'd fit into the suit, let alone the chimney.”

Hugo smiled. “And there's this other book I should tell you about, it may have something to do with all this.”

“Oh, great, another mysterious book. Who's it by, Agatha fucking Christie?”

“Good guess, but no,” Hugo said. “It's by a guy called Clausewitz.”

“The military man? So did you sell this one, too?”

“That's the thing. I have no idea where it is.” But he couldn't help thinking that Max's copy of
On War
, wherever it was, might just give them some answers.

 

 

The train drew into the station at Montparnasse just before eight o'clock that evening. The journey had been frustrating, Hugo unable to reach Claudia or get any news about Max's autopsy, and Tom complaining about the food from the dining car.

They did talk seriously about
On War
but came to no conclusions. Assuming it was of value, Hugo wondered whether whoever took Max also had the book. Hugo cast his mind back to the kidnapping, trying to picture the book at the stall or even in Max's hand in those final moments, but he couldn't see it in that much detail, couldn't resolve the question one way or the other. Even if he could have, though, neither he nor Tom were able to come up with a reason the book had warranted kidnapping or killing Francois and maybe Max, let alone parting bouquinistes from their stalls. And that meant whoever searched Max's place was probably looking for something else.

“So
On War
is irrelevant?” Tom had asked.

“Could be. Seems like it, don't you think?”

“I do. But let me know if you change your mind on that.”

“I will.” They sat quietly for a moment, and Hugo let himself think about a conversation they'd started earlier, one they needed to finish. “About Durand.”

“You mean about Claudia.”

“Fine. What else can you tell me?”

Tom frowned. “How about you do the telling.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means there's some shit that looked linked, but I don't get how.” When Hugo didn't respond, Tom continued. “You've got books that
turn out to be extra pricey, a bookseller who gets kidnapped, an old geezer who collects books, and now you're banging the old geezer's daughter.”

“You don't like the coincidences.”

“I got no problem with them as long as you're not so blinded by finally getting laid that you chalk stuff up to coincidence when it isn't.”

“You think maybe Claudia followed me into the café and put her hooks into me?”

Tom grinned. “No fucking idea. But the mere fact the thought has occurred to you makes me happy.”

“Don't worry, I'm rethinking everything that's happened. Now tell me more about her meeting with Durand.”

“Nothing more to it, man, I told you everything. They had coffee, she was making goo-goo eyes. Look, she may be clean or she may be dirty but what I saw her doing is what reporters do, so don't sweat it. I didn't see them passing money or dope or hand grenades under the table. Not even playing footsie. I'm sure she's fine.”

“So am I. But let me know if you change your mind on that.”

“I will, trust me.”

Hugo sat back and watched as Tom squeezed his bulk out of the compartment and plodded off toward the dining car in search of beer and more rubbery sandwiches.

The taxi pulled up in front of Hugo's building, gliding into a space between a motorcycle and a poorly parked Renault, half of which hung out into the street. This fell under Tom's bad-driving rubric, one of his pet hates, and Hugo talked him out of exacting street justice. He pointed out the two men smoking nearby and how they'd probably call the cops. Tom snorted, insulted at the suggestion he was incapable of slashing tires without anyone noticing, but he followed Hugo into the black-and-white tiled foyer without protest. Dimitrios was missing from behind his desk—no great surprise on a Sunday evening.

They trudged slowly up the stairs, Tom laden with his overnight bag and Hugo carrying his full duffel bag.

“Get a fucking elevator put in, will you?” Tom panted. He stopped to catch his breath on the first landing. “Stairs, Jesus, it's like the fucking Stone Age.”

Hugo smiled and kept going. By the time he reached his apartment on the fifth floor, Tom was sitting on a suitcase on the third-floor landing, huffing and swearing. Hugo put his hand on the door knob and stopped as a shot of adrenaline fizzed through him.

It was unlocked.

Did I forget? No chance
. He put his ear to the door and held his breath, then moved to the banister and waved at Tom. He held a finger to his lips and pointed at his door.

Tom stood and mouthed the question:
Gun?
Hugo shook his head. He'd followed the ambassador's request and locked it away before heading to Bielle. Tom, it turned out, did have one. He gestured for Hugo to stay put as he slipped off his shoes. Abandoning his bag on the landing, Tom lumbered silently up the stairs. Hugo gave him a moment to catch his breath, and when Tom nodded that he was ready, Hugo counted them down in a whisper.

Hugo turned the handle and Tom slipped into the apartment first, his gun sweeping the short hallway and what they could see of the living room. They inched forward until they could see the whole room. Empty. A thud from Hugo's study, off to the right. They edged through the living room, backs to the wall, Hugo walking sideways so he'd see if someone appeared from his bedroom behind them.

They paused either side of the study door and Hugo peered through the inch-wide opening. He shook his head and pointed to his ear.
I can't see anyone, but I can hear them
. Tom nodded and moved first. He kicked the door open, spinning to locate the intruder. Hugo stepped in behind him, feeling naked without a weapon.

The moment he was through the door he saw Tom fall. Hugo moved toward him but felt a sudden, searing pain across his shoulders, knocking him to his knees. Tom lay on his back by the bed, clutching
his shin. A foot swept past his head, kicking his gun to the far side of the room. Hugo tried to recover, to push himself up, but pain slashed across his back again.
What the hell was that
? He collapsed beside Tom and looked up.

Two men stood over them, one carrying a short length of wood, a club, the other holding a longer, thinner rod. The man with the club stepped away and picked up Tom's gun.

“Who are you?” Hugo demanded. An image of the man who'd harassed Francoise Benoit flitted across his mind.
Could be him
, Hugo thought.
Could be
.

“Shut up.” The man was built like a rugby player, a solid mass of muscle under a layer of fat that gave him an extra forty pounds of fighting weight. His jaw was covered with stubble and he had the close, round eyes of a man with a temper. “Which one of you is Hugo Marston?”

“Fucking amateurs,” Tom gasped, “cocksucker hit me in the shin, he must have been kneeling on the fucking floor waiting for us. Jesus.” He rubbed at his leg but Hugo knew Tom's tibia was intact. If the man had broken it, even Tom would still be screaming.

“I said shut up.” The burly man turned the gun on Tom. “You're Marston?”

The second man moved to the bedroom doorway, presumably checking to see if anyone else had come in. He was shorter, stocky, and very black, with a wide, flat nose that had dented many a fist. Wary eyes held a cunning that was absent from the raw anger of the rugby player. Hugo looked at his weapon. No more than two feet long, it had a pair of small, blunt prongs at the end of it. A cattle prod.

“This one is,” the black man said, pointing to Hugo.

“How do you know?”

“The photos in the other room.”

As the man moved closer to Hugo, Tom rolled onto his side. “I think I'm going to throw up,” he said. He pushed himself onto all fours and started retching, causing the man with the gun to back away.
He should be getting him closer
, Hugo thought,
not further away
.
What the hell? Fine, then I'll start it.

Hugo shifted his weight onto his arms, waiting for the black man to look at Tom. As soon as he did, Hugo slid forward and slammed his heel into the inside of the black man's knee, making him cry out as his leg crumpled. The man crashed to the floor and Hugo drove his boot into his face, then twisted to see how Tom was faring.

And froze.

The rugby player stood with the gun pointed at Tom's chest. Five feet separated them, as good as a mile. Yet Tom just stood there, a smile on his face. He looked over his shoulder at Hugo. “I told you they were fucking amateurs.” He started toward the man.

“Stop, asshole. One more step and you die.”

Tom paused. “Or maybe I take four more steps and you die.”

“Try it,” the man smiled, “if you think you can walk faster than I can shoot.”

“Tom,” Hugo spoke in English. “Just wait. We don't know what they want. Maybe we can talk to them.”

“Fuck that,” Tom said. He turned back to the man with the gun and spoke in French. “You gonna hand that over now, ugly motherfucker?”

Tom took a step forward and Hugo's heart sank. He watched as the man's finger crept tighter around the trigger.

“Tom. No!”

Tom ignored him. He took another step toward the thug, the barrel of his own gun two feet away from his chest. Hugo watched in slow motion as Tom took the final steps toward the intruder, who hesitated barely a second before he squeezed the trigger, once, twice.

No sound.

Tom reached out and wrapped his hand around the gun, twisting it up and out, wrenching it from the man's grasp. In less than a second, Tom had the barrel pressed to the stubble of the man's chin.

“You just met the latest in CIA smart technology, fuckhead,” Tom said. He kneed the man between the legs. “Don't you just love having your own set of fingerprints?” He kicked the groaning man once more for good measure, then looked at Hugo. “Told you they were fucking amateurs.”

But the black man wasn't. Hugo had expected his friend to be shot in the chest at point blank, more than enough to distract him from his own assailant, who had retrieved his weapon. As Hugo looked back to check on him, the man jabbed it into Hugo's thigh. His leg contracted of its own accord and he collapsed backward into Tom, knocking them both off balance. The black man swiped at them once more, then turned and headed for the door.

“Shit,” Tom said.

Hugo tried to push off, to chase him, but his leg wouldn't move and he fell sideways onto the desk. Tom hesitated, Hugo could see he didn't want to leave him alone with the doubled-over man. “I'm fine,” Hugo said. “Go get him.”

Tom kicked the burly man once and then leapt over him. He winced from his bruised shin as he landed but kept going. Hugo could hear him cursing as he moved as fast as he could through the apartment. Hugo tested his own leg, flexing it as he leaned against the desk. Feeling returned and he pushed himself up slowly, able to put weight on it.

“Fuck.” Tom appeared in the doorway. “He got away. Sorry man, I'm not much for chasing these days.”

“That's OK, we have this one.”

The burly man looked up at them, hate written all over his face.
The guy would charge a cattle prod or a wooden club
, Hugo thought. Probably both. Not so happy, though, to charge Tom's gun.

“What do you want to do?” Tom asked.

“Call the police.”

“Dammit, Hugo.” Tom never took his eyes from the man on the floor. “Let's just ask him a few questions.”

“No.”

“I promise it won't take long.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” Hugo said. “I can't do things that way, Tom, I'm sorry.”

“Why don't you just run out and buy some bread or something?”

“I'm not hungry.” Hugo shook his head. “Sorry Tom, we've gotta do this by the book. You call the cops, tell them to look for the other guy on their way over.” He opened the window and looked up and down the street. “That Renault is gone.” He looked at their captive. “You get here in a blue Renault?”

The man spat on the floor and growled.

Tom walked to the desk and dialed 17, the emergency number. As he spoke to the dispatcher, he perched on the edge of the desk, his gun angled toward the man's groin. Hugo went into the living room and dialed Claudia on his cell phone. When she answered, he told her what had happened. She listened without interrupting, and he noticed she quickly switched into journalist mode, dispensing with the “Are you OK?” formalities in favor of learning what had happened.

“Did they take anything?” she asked.