The Bookseller (25 page)

Except…Hugo sat back and looked again at the list of her possessions. It was divided into two groups, those found on her body, which included her clothing, and those items retrieved from her stall by police after she was found. It was the latter that interested him. According to the list, there had been a receipt in a canvas bag showing that she'd
bought two bottles of vodka at about noon. One was the regular, 750 cl bottle, the other much smaller, just a pint. In the canvas bag, buried at the bottom according to the notes, was the small bottle, three-quarters full. The larger one hadn't been found.

Hugo went to Garcia's desk, tore a piece of paper from a notepad, and borrowed a pen. He made a note of this finding and then turned to the information about Max. He knew that whatever he found would have to stand up to Capitaine Garcia's skepticism.

He found it quickly. The autopsy report noted severe bruising to his chest and back. He might have been hit by boats or driftwood, Hugo knew, assuming he'd fallen into the river alive. But he found what he was looking for in the toxicology report.

Hugo knew that the capitaine, like many cops, might skip over the numbers in the report, the micrograms of whichever substance was found in the blood, the digits showing oxygen levels and concentrations of the drug. But Hugo had done a stint in the lab. He was uncomfortable with relying on the technician's conclusions when he didn't understand the numbers themselves. What this report told him was that Max had ingested not only a large amount of cocaine, but cocaine of an extremely high grade. Not the kind you get on the street, even if you're a lawyer or stockbroker paying the big bucks. No, this was what you found at the wholesale end, not the retail end. And certainly not what you'd find in the hands of a hard-up bouquiniste.

Someone with access to pure cocaine, Hugo was sure, had held a gun to Max's head and made him ingest enough of the drug to kill him. Kill him unpleasantly, too. Such purity would have given him the briefest of highs before torturing his old body to death. First his muscles would be set on fire with tremors that quickly turned into convulsions, then his whole body would have started seizing, the old man wracked with pain before his system gave out entirely, the drug killing him suddenly with a massive heart attack or, if his heart was somehow strong enough to cope with the drug, shutting down his lungs, suffocating him to death.

Hugo calmed the anger rising inside him and turned to the third
file. He had less to work with in the case of Pierre Desmarais. Another drowning, supposedly, but a quick look at the photographs made Hugo frown.

Did Garcia even look at these?

A large bruise was evident on the man's forehead and his chin was bloodied. It was hard to tell from the angle of the picture, but his jaw may even have been dislocated. The autopsy report, when it came in, would confirm that.

Hugo picked up the crime scene report and walked out of Garcia's office. He looked around until he found a secretary willing to meet his eye. “Is Capitaine Garcia returning, do you know?”

“
Oui, monsieur
, he said he was getting himself a sandwich and would be back.”

Right
, thought Hugo,
a sandwich
. There's real police business for you. “Thanks,” he said, “I'll wait.”

He went back into Garcia's office, sat down, and dialed Ceci Roget. She picked up just as he was about to give up. They exchanged pleasantries, then Hugo took a deep breath. “Ceci, I have some bad news.”

“Oh no, is it Pierre?”

“
Oui
. I'm sorry, Ceci, he's dead.”

“Dead? You're sure?”

Hugo pictured the old man's bedraggled hair, his lifeless but open eyes. “I'm sure.”

“How?”

“That I don't know. The police are taking the position that he drowned but I'm hoping I can persuade them to look again, more closely.”

“Do you think it's Gravois?”

“I still don't know, Ceci, I wish I could answer that. The trouble is, other than their jobs, there's nothing tying him to these people, not directly.”

“I know. I know.” He heard the deep sigh. Then, “Oh, I talked to several more bouquinistes.”

“And?”

“More of the same. Offered money to give up their stalls. They got the same feeling I did, too, though none of them were threatened or hurt.”

“OK, thanks Ceci. Listen, you probably shouldn't call any more people. We don't want word to get back to Gravois.”

“Do you think I am in any danger?”

“Even if he is behind this,” Hugo said, “I wouldn't think so. You don't know anything and you did exactly what he wanted you to do. Keep your eyes open, though, and call the police if anything happens. But I think you should be safe if you stay in Bielle.”

They rang off, and fifteen minutes later Garcia arrived. He had two sandwiches, one of which he was most of the way through. The other he offered to Hugo. “
Je m'excuse
, Monsieur Marston. I was a little rude earlier. Too much to do and not enough help to do it. It's ham and brie. I hope you're not one of those vegetarian Americans.”

“No,” Hugo said. “I'm from Texas.”

Garcia grunted and sat behind his desk. He began to unwrap the remainder of his sandwich, and as he did so, he looked up at Hugo. “I should perhaps clarify my position on these deaths. I am far from convinced they were accidental, but I am equally unconvinced they are related. You must understand that to present a claim like that to my superiors would require a significant amount of proof, because they would then be obliged to devote many resources to solving the killings.” He looked at his sandwich, then back at Hugo. “So did you find anything?”

He's being careful to keep his voice neutral
, Hugo thought.
And he's not expecting me to find a damn thing
.

“Actually, yes.” Hugo turned to the file on Francoise Benoit and picked up the possessions log. He passed it to Garcia and explained about the small bottle being found in the bag, while the larger one was missing.

“
Oui
.” Garcia nodded. “She was drinking down by the river, we assumed that. She could have dropped the large bottle in the water, we'd never find it.” He took a bite of sandwich and sat back to listen.

“
Oui, c'est possible
,” Hugo said. “But think about it this way. She has two bottles, one large and one small. Why? I think it was because she doesn't want people to know she's an alcoholic, capitaine. That's why she bought a small bottle, so she could drink without people noticing. It's a pretty classic ploy for alcoholics, and when I talked to her, she was chewing breath mints.”

“To hide the smell of alcohol.”

“
Exactement
.” Hugo had to be careful not to oversell the theory. After all, she'd admitted being an alcoholic to him, maybe she had to others. And yet the way she told him seemed like a confidence being shared. “It's entirely reasonable that she'd try to hide her drinking, particularly from her customers.”

Garcia grunted again and kept chewing.

“My point,” Hugo went on, “is that if she'd been down by the river's edge for a drink, she would have taken the little bottle. That's why, I think, she bought it. You can see from the report that she'd been drinking from it. I'm guessing she was planning to take the big bottle home.”

Garcia swallowed. “So where is the big one?”

“I don't know. Maybe someone walking past the stall saw it and took it. I don't know, but I don't think it matters. What matters is that she was by the Seine for some reason, but that reason wasn't to drink.”

“OK,” Garcia nodded slowly. “Anything else?”

“On her, no. But Max Koche, yes.” He went through what he'd found, starting with the bruising. “That must have come right before he died, not after. Possibly boats, I grant you, but probably not. Look how it's just his chest and back, not his legs or his face.”

“You think he was beaten?”

“Sure looks that way to me.”

“Go on.”

Hugo pointed to the drug reports and explained that the high concentration of cocaine meant the substance had been pure, very pure. “And if you look at the rest of the autopsy report, you'll see it's consistent with him not being a drug user. No signs of damage to his nasal
cavities or any internal organs, including his brain. And,” he held up a finger, “you'll see that no cocaine was found at his home or at his stall. There's just no reason to think he was a user.”

“After I talked to you last time I looked at his file again,” Garcia said, wiping his mouth. “I also noted that no evidence of prior drug use was found. I did not appreciate those toxicology figures, though. How about Desmarais?”

“Harder to tell with him, but I think these photographs are enough to at least cast doubt on his death being an accident.” He laid three of them on Garcia's desk. “See these bruises?”

“From when he fell in?”

“Well, water doesn't bruise, obviously. So the theory must be that he fell on the ground, then into the water. Right?”

“
Oui
.”

“But think about how that works, practically.” Hugo stood and moved the two chairs out of his way. He stepped back by the wall and then let himself fall forward, arms extended. He caught himself in the push-up position on the floor. Garcia stood and leaned over the desk to watch. “If I fall on my front, onto something hard, how do I end up in the water? With difficulty. Now, if I'd fallen on my side, then maybe I would roll. Maybe. But not my front.”

“I see. Not definitive, but interesting.”

Hugo jumped up. “And look at the photos again. See how his forehead is bruised, and his chin messed up?”

“Yes, I see that,” Garcia said. He picked up the photos and looked closely at them. “I know what you are thinking. If he'd fallen, he'd have hit either his chin or his forehead. Not both.” As if to convince himself, he put his face on the top of his desk. “You can't do both at the same time.”

“Exactly. And if he'd hit one then the other, which is theoretically possible, then only one would be badly damaged. Here he has a major contusion on his head and I bet the autopsy report will show his jaw was broken, too.”

Capitaine Garcia spread his hands. “I am impressed. And, more
importantly, I think you may be right.” He held up a warning finger. “And I mean, you
may
be right.” He smiled. “I'm guessing it's not a serial killer, though.”

“No,” said Hugo. He returned the smile. “Not in the traditional sense, I don't think so.”

“Then who?”

“The only thing that makes sense to me is Gravois. He is replacing bouquinistes with his own people.”

“For kickbacks?”

“Maybe. But I can't help feel like there's more to it than that. Murder is just too extreme.” Hugo picked up the toxicology report on Max. “And why go to all the trouble of making Max's death look like an overdose?”

“Because three accidental drownings is more suspicious than just two?” Garcia shrugged and looked at Hugo, as if for an answer.

“Three drowned bouquinistes so close in time would be pretty odd, that's true,” said Hugo. “And if it is Gravois, how does he have access to such pure cocaine?”

“I don't know that either, but I intend to find him and ask,” said Garcia. He rounded his desk and reached for his coat, then stopped and looked at Hugo. “Are you coming?”

 

 

“W
hat do you mean he wasn't there?” Hugo asked. He'd called Tom when Capitaine Garcia stopped at the front desk to speak to one of his junior officers.

His friend had answered from the sidewalk in front of Roussillon's house. “Look,” said Tom, “he told you he's happy for us to look at the book, no big deal. I'll just come back another time.”

“Did he call you?”

“No, man, I showed up at his fucking palace. The beefeater said he'd left earlier and hadn't come back.”

“It's a butler, not a beefeater.”

“Whatever. He wasn't there so I didn't look at the book.”

“OK. I'll call him.”

“Where are you?”

“At the prefecture. I identified our intruder, so it's just a matter of time before they pick him up. Hopefully.”

“Yeah, hopefully. The frog police haven't been too impressive up until now.”

Hugo glanced up as Garcia came down the front steps and reminded himself to keep the two men apart. “They're working with me now. Garcia and I are off to find Gravois.”

“Awesome, where do I meet you?”

“No.”

“Bullshit. Why not?”

“Because I'm going to have to deal with Gravois and Garcia. I don't want you needling one or both of them while I'm doing it.”

“Fuck off, then. Call me when you're done.”

“What are you going to do?”

“More sightseeing. You prefer the Louvre or the Musee d'Orsay?”

“Go to the d'Orsay. I'll take you to the Louvre myself; I haven't been there in a while.”

He hung up and turned to Garcia. “Sorry. How do we get there?”

“I have a car in the garage,” Garcia said, “let's go. But let me say something first.”

“I won't shoot him,” Hugo said, with a half-smile.

“No, it's not that.” Garcia was serious, troubled even. “I owe you an apology, a very sincere one.”

“It's OK, I know what you're going to say.”

“Then let me say it.” He put a hand on Hugo's shoulder. “I wish I had listened to you, believed you. I wish I had acted on what you saw. I think it's possible we could have saved your friend.”

“I appreciate that. But I suppose you had to go with what your detective told you.”

“Ah, yes. Durand. I would like to tell you the full story, but I can say that I've had my eye on him. Believe me when I say that he won't be getting promoted any time soon.”

Hugo waited for more but Garcia looked away, ending the conversation. If it was that confidential, Hugo thought, it must be serious. Was Durand just lazy or incompetent, or was he on the wrong side of the law? He couldn't help but wonder about Claudia and her connection to the man. Was she charming a story out of the detective that he'd later regret? Hugo could only hope she knew what she was doing and exactly who she was dealing with.

The drive to Rue Nollet took fifteen minutes. On the way, Hugo told Garcia about his previous visit, a little embarrassed at his role play as a journalist. Garcia just smiled and nodded that he understood. Hugo told him more about the book he'd bought from Max, its progression from the Pont Neuf to Kendall and into the hands of Roussillon. Garcia's face tightened when he heard Roussillon's name, but he didn't say anything.

At Hugo's suggestion, they parked away from the entrance of the SBP building, wanting to ensure a surprise visit.

The street outside the office was empty and the note about the broken bell was still attached below the SBP sign. They climbed the stairs quickly, and when they reached the top the beehive secretary looked up at them, eyes wide.

“
Bonjour
,” said Garcia. “Capitaine Garcia for Monsieur Gravois.”

“Capitaine…He is expecting you?” Her eyes rested on Hugo, and he knew she was wondering why a journalist accompanied this policeman.

“
Non
.”

“
Un moment, s'il vous plait
.” She got up, walked to Gravois's office, and knocked lightly, a definite request for permission rather than a formality. A muffled “
Oui
” from inside and she disappeared, closing the door behind her. She was in there for a full minute, and when she reappeared she just nodded and held the door for them to enter.

Gravois was, as before, presiding over an office devoid of clutter. His gloved hands were folded on the desk top, his gaunt face a blank. He did not rise when they came in, and he looked directly at Hugo. “You brought
un flic
to make me answer your questions, monsieur?” If it was a joke, there was no humor in the man's eyes.

“He is not a journalist,” Garcia said, “Monsieur Marston is working with the police on a matter of extreme importance.”

Gravois's black eyes bored into Garcia and then Hugo, as his right hand clenched and unclenched. “And what matter is that?”

“Murder,” said Garcia. “Three bouquinistes have turned up dead in a week, and we don't think they were all accidents.”

“Three?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know anything about this.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Garcia said. “But you are the head of the SBP and, I am told, took some extreme measures to remove each of these people from their stalls.”

“I would hardly call a severance package an extreme measure, capitaine.”

“Severance package or bribe, monsieur?” asked Hugo.

“You chose your words, American, I will choose mine.”

Capitaine Garcia sat down unasked. “Do you have records of those you offered severance packages to?”

“I offered them to all bouquinistes.”

“Why?”

“Because the current system is not a good one. We have a group of ancient alcoholics selling trashy books to tourists. I would like to see the old bouquinistes replaced by a younger and more vibrant group. Return the banks of the Seine to its former glory and attract more tourists, sell more quality merchandise.”

“And you get a cut from the new bouquinistes?” Garcia asked.

“Not at all. Ask any of them. Not one Euro.”

Hugo walked to the man's bookcase then turned. “Do you have a current list of bouquinistes?”

Gravois stared at him.
As much as he doesn't like Garcia asking him questions
, Hugo thought,
he sure as hell hates me doing it
. Gravois rubbed his left wrist and answered slowly. “Yes. I assume you would like to see it.”

His cancer must be bothering him
, thought Hugo, as he watched Gravois reach over and open a draw on the left side of the desk with his right hand. Gravois pulled out a leather binder and opened it. He looked over the rows of neatly typed names and placed it on the desk for Garcia to see. “I can't think what you are trying to learn, gentlemen. Do you have any specific questions for me, or just veiled accusations?”

“We can unveil them if you like,” Hugo said mildly. He ignored a look from Garcia. “Actually, I do have a question. Have you heard of a book called
Une Saison En Enfer
?”

“No. Who is it by? Perhaps I know the author.”

“Arthur Rimbaud,” Hugo said. “Mean anything to you?”

Gravois looked back and forth between Hugo and the capitaine. “No, it means nothing. What does this have to do with me? With those bouquinistes?”

“You have never heard of the book, monsieur?” Garcia repeated.

“No. Not the book, not the author. I am not a bouquiniste, gentlemen,
you probably know that already. Instead, I am their voice, a resource for them.”

“What about Gérard de Roussillon?” Hugo asked. “How do you know him?”

“Roussillon?” The eyes blinked once. “I am not a policeman. I think that if I were,” he said, “I would try and ascertain the truth. I would not go barging into the offices of public servants. I see your smirk, capitaine, but yes, I regard myself as a public servant. As I was saying, I would not go barging in and asking cryptic questions and making such unpleasant allegations. In fact, let me ask you a question, capitaine. Do you have any evidence, any evidence at all, that connects me to the deaths of any one of those bouquinistes?”

“If you were a policeman, Monsieur Gravois,” Garcia paused as he stood, “you'd know that my suspects find out about the evidence
after
I put on the handcuffs.”

“Ah, is that so?” Gravois smiled and held up his wrists. “I don't see handcuffs, capitaine, so I am assuming you have no evidence.” He put his right hand on the desk and pushed himself up. “You may see yourselves out. And please do not trouble to come back. If you do, I may have to call a real policeman.”

Hugo turned and walked out of the office and Garcia followed. They nodded to the secretary, who got up as soon as they passed her desk. As they descended the stairs, Hugo heard the click of Gravois's door shutting.

Outside, Hugo turned to Garcia. “Did you notice his accent?”

“Yes. Not much of one, but he wasn't born and bred here.”

“I hadn't noticed it before. Spanish maybe?”

“I don't know,” Garcia said. “But I think you're right, it's one of the Romance languages.” They walked down the street toward the police car in silence. When they got to the car, Garcia stopped and looked at Hugo. “Do you really think the book has something to do with this?”

“I don't know, capitaine. I really don't.”

“We have no motive for these bouquinistes to be murdered. We have suspicions, yes, but no real evidence or motive, especially for Max Koche,
assuming that what you told me is true. As Gravois seems to know. We need to be careful, Monsieur Marston, both of us need to be careful. I did not know about the involvement of le Comte d'Auvergne. That makes me both curious and also very concerned. He is well-connected in this city, as I'm sure you know. Not just to Claudia Roux, but to some very powerful and influential people. I am happy to lean on a thug like Gravois, but less happy to dirty the rug of someone like Gérard de Roussillon.”

“I understand.” Hugo grimaced as he thought of the ambassador. “I am in much the same position.”

“Did you believe Gravois when he said he didn't know about the book?”

“Yes,” said Hugo, “as a matter of fact I did. Did you see the way he looked back and forth between us? He was unsure of himself. Specifically, he was unsure what the answer should be. I think he was telling the truth.”

“A wasted trip, then?”

“Not necessarily. I think we found out something quite important.”

“And what is that?”

“It seems to me that one of two things is true. Either the Rimbaud book is somehow connected to the murders and Gravois is not, or—”

“Or,” Garcia interrupted, “the book has nothing to do with their deaths, and Gravois does.”

“I hope to look at the book this afternoon, capitaine. After that, maybe we'll know more. Gravois, though,” Hugo grimaced. “He is a little harder to read.”

As they climbed into the car, Garcia's phone rang. He put the key in the ignition and answered with his other hand. “
Oui
?” He looked at Hugo as he listened. “Address?” He nodded. “Got it. I'll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up and looked out of the windshield, shaking his head. “
Merde
. They think they found your intruder.”

“They think?”

“Hard to tell. Half of his head is blown off.”

“Where is he?”

“My colleagues went to his apartment and saw him leaving. They
followed him to a restaurant in the Nineteenth Arrondissement. As soon as he got there, he pulled a submachine gun from his bag and opened fire on a table of patrons. He killed all of them but one. The survivor removed the top of his head with a bullet.”

“He was shooting at people who carried guns?”

“Oh yes,” said Garcia. “He killed two organized crime bosses and their bodyguards.”

“Organized crime?”

“Les Pieds-Noirs. Which means we definitely have a new player in town.” He looked at Hugo. “We may even have a war on our hands.”