The Bookseller (21 page)

“I haven't checked yet, but I don't think so.”

“And no idea what they were after?”

“No. I'm guessing they were just nosing around and then were going to smash the place up. Warn me off.”

“What makes you say that?”

“First of all, they weren't armed to kill. Second, for the five seconds they were in charge, one of them wanted to know which one was me. I'm guessing to deliver a message.”

“Be interesting to know who from.”

“Yeah.” Hugo chuckled. “Tom's dying to ask him.”

“You should let him.” She sounded angry.

“No, I told him not to. Your cop buddies can interrogate him all they like. Hell, they can borrow Tom, if they want.”

“Maybe I'll tell them to,” she laughed. “
Merde
, Hugo. I'm sorry about all this. I just don't understand what's happening. And I'm glad you're OK.”

“That makes two of us.” Thank god for Tom and his visit. “Do you have any news on Max?”

“You want to talk about this now?” she asked. “I'd rather come over to tell you in person.”

“Honestly, Claudia, once the police take this sack of crap away, I'm getting drunk with Tom. You better tell me now.”

“Fine, yes, OK.” She paused. “They did the autopsy this morning. You're not going to believe this, but they are telling me that Max died of an overdose.”

“An overdose? Of what?”

“Cocaine.”

“That's ridiculous, Claudia. Max didn't use cocaine.”

“How do you know that, Hugo?” It was a sensible question. He didn't know it, not for sure, but it irritated him all the same.

“Look,” he said, “I've been around drug addicts all my working life. You've seen your share, I bet. We both recognize junkies quicker than we recognize our friends, and Max was no junkie.” He had a thought. “Do you know if the cops searched his flat today?”

“Yes, they must have.”

“Did they find any cocaine?”

“I don't know, Hugo. I have good contacts, but I'm still just a reporter.”

“But they would have told you if they'd found drugs there, no? They would have mentioned it, surely.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Probably only if they'd found a lot.”

“But you could ask some questions for me, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“OK.” Hugo could hear sirens coming down Rue Jacob. “I have to go, the cops are here.”

“You sure you don't want me to come over?”

“No, really Claudia, thanks. By the time we're done giving statements the only thing we'll be in the mood for is scotch.”

“
Bien
,” she said. “If you have any trouble with the cops, let me know straight away. In fact, I'll make a call, let them know who you are.”

“Thanks, I'd appreciate that.” His phone beeped. He didn't have call waiting, so it went straight to voicemail. He rang off and dialed his messages.

“
Salut
, Hugo, this is Ceci. I called thirty people today. Or tried, it's like they don't answer the phone on Sundays. I talked to a few bouquinistes I know, three. They all took money from Gravois and the SBP
to give up their stalls. But they don't know why he was paying them. They took the money without asking questions. And Hugo, I talked to the brother of another bouquiniste. Pierre is one of the old-timers, I've known him forever. This man said that Pierre has been missing for five days. He said that someone else is working Pierre's stall now. He reported him missing straight away, but the police weren't interested, he said. Then he saw the news about Max and he's terrified.

“Hugo, he wants to know if his brother is floating in the Seine, too.”

 

 

The police were at the apartment for an hour, taking photographs and statements, and drinking coffee. Hugo had left his front door open, waiting for them, but had been disappointed when he saw which detective was assigned to the incident. For his part, Capitaine Raul Garcia shook hands with Hugo and acted as if they'd never met. A different bow tie, Hugo noted. Red polka dots this time.

Garcia moved about the apartment taking in everything, not letting his crime scene technicians touch anything until he'd taken a mental photo. When he was done looking, he stepped out of their way and watched from a corner of the room with Hugo and Tom as his men dusted and snapped the evidence into place. He declined the scotch that the Americans were drinking but took a cup of coffee, black, one sugar.

Hugo watched a man in green scrubs dust the front door. Everything had happened so fast after Hugo had discovered it unlocked, he'd not had time to wonder how the men had got in.

“Tom, come with me.” He put his drink down and Tom followed suit. “Excuse us, capitaine.”

Garcia raised an eyebrow.

“I need to check on someone,” Hugo said.

“You need one of my men to come with you?” Garcia asked. It was very close to not being a question.

“No, thanks,” Hugo smiled, “they are all busy. This won't take a moment.”

They headed down the hallway and past the tech, careful not to touch anything.

“What's up?” asked Tom.

“I'm wondering how they got in.”

Tom stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down mournfully. “You gonna make me climbs stairs, after all I've been through?”

“Think about it.” Hugo was halfway down the first flight, but he stopped and turned. “They didn't kick it in and I didn't leave it unlocked.”

“You sure about that?”

They both knew the answer. Neither of them would leave an apartment unlocked when they were inside, let alone away for a few days. It was second nature. “They had to have used a key.”

Hugo watched as Tom understood. “You wouldn't have left one lying around, so they must have gotten it from someone else. The concierge.”

“Exactly. He wasn't here when we got in, so let's go find him.”

“The cops are pretty good at finding people, you know,” Tom grumbled as he started down the stairs.

“Good but slow,” Hugo said. He trotted down the four flights and paused in the foyer. It was almost eleven, so Hugo wouldn't have expected Dimitrios, or anyone else, to be there. He checked behind the concierge's desk and saw nothing out of place.

Behind the desk a door led to a storage room and the water heaters. Hugo rounded the desk and tried the handle. Unlocked. He waited as Tom caught up and then pushed the door open. They walked into the room together, Hugo feeling for the light switch. He clicked it on and they moved further in, shoes crunching lightly on the concrete floor. Around them were stacks of old furniture, broken armchairs and tables upside down, waiting to be fixed. A row of paint cans lined the wall to the right and a twelve-foot work bench laden with tools lay to their left. The room smelled of oil and dust and not enough ventilation.

No sign of Dimitrios.

Ahead of them was a second door, leading to the boilers. Hugo reached it first and went straight through, finding the light already on. Dimitrios lay bound and gagged on the floor between two boilers, his eyes at first terrified and then flooded with relief as the two men walked in. His cheeks were wet with tears.

They knelt by him, helping him sit up. Hugo pulled off the tape
that covered his mouth and Dimitrios spat out a piece of cloth that had been sealed in to prevent him screaming. He rolled his head and breathed deeply. Tom reached for his boot, drew out a knife and flicked it open. He sliced through the rope that pinned the old man's hands behind his back and wound around his legs. Dimitrios sat there for a moment, rubbing his wrists and arms, sobbing quietly.

“
Ça va
, Dimitrios?” Hugo asked gently.

“
Oui
.” The old man turned his wide and tear-filled eyes to Hugo. “I am sorry, Monsieur Marston, so very sorry. They made me give them the key, they made me. I am so glad they didn't hurt you. And so ashamed.”

“Don't be, Dimitrios, please. Everything is fine,” Hugo said. He and Tom helped the old man to his feet, draping his arms around their shoulders. “Let's get you to the hospital.”

“That's not necessary, monsieur.”

“I think it is,” said Hugo. “Do you remember what time those men arrived?”

“I think about eight; I was about to leave.”

They helped him to a sofa in the foyer where they found Capitaine Garcia, whose suspicious nature had caused him to follow the Americans downstairs. He radioed for an ambulance and pulled out a pen and notebook and began taking a statement from the concierge.

“Well, this appears to answer one question,” Hugo said.

“What do you mean?”

“We surprised them, right? Which means they weren't expecting us.”

“Right,” said Tom. “And that means they didn't follow us to Bielle and back.”

“No,” said Hugo, “it just means they didn't follow us back.”

“Good point. No great surprise, they've already shown how good they are at tailing you.” Tom grinned. “Nice work getting followed to the train station yesterday, though. Dumbass.”

“Yeah,” Hugo shook his head. “I'm out of practice.”

“Pretty good kick to the knee, though.”

“Thanks.” He looked at Tom, then steered him out of Garcia's earshot.
“About your gun. You know you're not supposed to have one, right?”

“Gun?” Tom raised his eyebrows dramatically, his face the picture of innocence. “What gun? No idea what you're talking about.”

“Excellent,” Hugo said, “thanks. I've got a feeling the ambassador is going to have enough to say without that added complication.”

“You may be out of practice, Hugo, but I'm not.”

“Yeah,” Hugo nodded. “You love this shit, don't you?”

“As I said, it's just like old times. Now, can we go up and finish those drinks?”

Capitaine Garcia joined them upstairs after Dimitrios had left for the hospital and as the crime scene techs were finishing up.

“No word on the other intruder,” he said. “We've got men looking but I don't expect to find him. Not tonight, anyway.”

“Is the guy talking?” Tom asked.

“No, he's still sitting in the car downstairs. I'll take him to the station when we're done. I like to process them myself, watch them every step of the way. Makes them feel important, which in turn makes them think they are in more trouble than they are.”

“I'd think this guy is already neck deep in the shit,” Tom said.

“He is. But by the time I sit down and talk to him, he'll think he's being charged with trying to assassinate our president. And yours.”

“Thanks, capitaine.” They moved toward the door but Hugo stopped. “We talked before about my friend Max, the bouquiniste who was kidnapped.”

“Of course, your suspicions about Monsieur Gravois.”

Hugo nodded. “What are the police doing?”

Garcia appraised him for a moment. “Everything we need to do, everything that we should be doing. That is all I can say right now.”

Unsatisfied, but recognizing a brick wall when he saw one, Hugo steered Garcia toward the door, double locking it behind him, then walked to his leather armchair in front of the fireplace and leaned on
the back of it. He was exhausted but somehow not ready for bed. For all the crimes he'd investigated, crimes much worse than burglary, he'd never been a victim before. As Tom recharged their whisky glasses, he walked through his apartment touching his furniture, checking the windows. When he went back into the living room he clicked the gas fire on and the men sank into their chairs.

“Helluva day,” Tom said.

“I'm too old for this.”

“Come on, this is the stuff that makes you feel young.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Hey.” Tom cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I was just thinking about your Claudia again,” Tom began.

“Yeah, me too.”

“I figured. I'm not saying she's in on anything, I just don't feel like I'm sure she's not.”

“I don't think so, Tom, I really don't. But my mind is open, if only a little.”

“OK. Did she know you were going to the Pyrénées?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's possible those mugs didn't follow you.”

“She told them?” Hugo shook his head, unable, or unwilling, to believe that. “She also knew we were coming back early. If she was in on this somehow, she'd have told them and we'd never have caught them here.”

“That's true, too. So tell me what the plan is for tomorrow.”

Hugo wiped a hand over his face. “Sleep late, for one thing. I'll have to call Ceci. And I'll have to talk to the embassy and play the victim.”

“How about a visit to Gravois?”

“Are you serious?” Hugo sat up. “No way, Tom. If that guy squeals to Roussillon, I'll get chewed out for real this time.” Hugo looked at Tom and recognized the amused glint in his eye. “No, Tom, I don't want you going all black ops on me. Not yet.”

“You'll be going into the embassy to report to the ambassador?”

“Yes, and you're coming with me.”

“I'll probably just hang out here.”

“The hell you will.”

Tom stood and walked his glass into the kitchen, then headed for the study. “Sleep well, gorgeous.”

Hugo couldn't help smiling. “Good night, Tom.”

Tom waved and went into the study, closing the door behind him. Hugo stared at the fire for another five minutes, then pulled himself upright and went to his bed and lay down.
I'll undress in a minute
, was his last thought before sleep rolled over him like a bank of fog.

When Hugo woke at eight the next morning, Tom was gone. He'd left a note on the coffee maker.

Souvenir shopping. I'll bring you back something.—T.

Something.

Looking at the scribbled note, Hugo had the sense that what he wanted most of all was a stronger connection with his mercurial friend. He thought back to their days at Quantico and then in LA. They'd had no secrets back then, Hugo was sure of that. It was Tom's tour with the CIA that had closed him off, not just from Hugo but from everyone else. From the carefree Tom of old. The way he was now, the jokes, the drinking, the attempts at womanizing, they felt forced, as if Tom was looking for his former self, hunting around for the personality that used to be as natural and fitting as his own skin. He was like a man whose memory had been wiped, a man who had to try on different coats to find the one that fits, the one that's his.

Hugo had no idea if his friend needed help or if he needed space. Hugo's expertise with the human mind lay in diagnosing the behaviors of strangers, not friends, and he felt guilty for that. He wanted to be there for Tom but, in truth, he wasn't sure where it was he needed to be. Right now, for example, Hugo had no idea whether Tom was working on finding Max's killer, doing something unspeakable for the CIA, or maybe, just perhaps, really and truly shopping in Paris for souvenirs.