The Bookseller (3 page)

 

 

Hugo stood by Max's stall and told his story to the first gendarme on the scene, a waif of a man who spoke no English and kept his pen and notepad busy as Hugo talked. A small crowd gathered behind the policeman, wide-eyed but wary, drawn like moths to the blue light that flashed atop his little white car.

“Wait here please, sir,” the policeman said. “There is a detective
en route
, he will take your statement.”

“Look, forget the statement. Right now I want your river police looking for that boat, maybe a helicopter, too. A man with a gun just kidnapped a friend of mine, in broad daylight and—”

“I heard you, sir,” the gendarme interrupted. He looked over his shoulder as an unmarked car pulled up behind his. “
Voila
, the detective. Talk to him about that, I don't have the authority.”

The detective was tall and lean, with the dark skin and hooked nose that spoke of Arab descent. He wore a green woolen sweater under an open overcoat and a matching ski hat that was pulled low over his ears. He slammed his car door, then looked up at the sky, sighed, and walked slowly over to the gendarme. He stood frowning as he listened to the hurried briefing, his hands deep in his pockets. When the gendarme had finished, the detective nodded and walked over to Hugo. He drew a hand out of his pocket and offered it to Hugo. It was ice cold.

“I'm told you are one of us,
mon ami
,” he said. He spoke in French, his voice low and worn as if he'd spent all day smoking the unfiltered cigarettes that Hugo could smell on him. “My name's David Durand.”

“Hugo Marston. What do you mean, ‘one of us'?” Hugo asked.

“Law enforcement.” He nodded toward the gendarme. “He says you work at the American embassy, speak French fluently, and carry a gun.”

“Former FBI, now security chief at the embassy,” Hugo said. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but—”

“I have given the order for our river police to look for the boat you described. If a helicopter can be found, we'll send one up to help. But it will be dark soon and the pilots complain when we make them fly at night, especially so close to the center of the city. Not safe, they say.” He shivered and looked around. “Can you wait for a few moments? We have some witnesses I need to talk to.”

“Of course,” said Hugo, watching Durand approach a small group of onlookers. Hugo was comforted by the assurances of police boats, and maybe a chopper, but equally irritated by the man's languid attitude, his unhurried walk, as if this were a burglary with the intruders long gone.

Hugo turned and looked out over the water, picturing Max out there somewhere. He acted the gruff, tough guy, and maybe he once was, but Max was no longer young. Hugo had no idea what the thug Nica had wanted from his friend, but it wasn't some random shakedown. He wanted something specific and Hugo wondered what he would do to get it. His face flushed with anger as he imagined them hurting Max, beating a weak old man. Even if he had the mental toughness to resist, Hugo knew that violence to someone Max's age, even a minor assault, could prove too much for an old heart. Whoever had Max, whoever wanted something from him, could kill him without meaning to. Without even trying.

Hugo spun around when he heard the detective behind him. Durand had a frown on his face and dark green eyes watched Hugo intently. “
Monsieur
,
un problème
. I have spoken to two people who say that your friend got onto the boat of his own free will.”

Hugo stared at the detective, wondering if he'd misheard or if his mind had somehow mistranslated. “What did you say?”

“Two witnesses, monsieur. They say your friend left of his own free will.”

“
Non
, that's not possible, it's not…Who are the witnesses?”

“Why? Do you plan to make them change their stories?” It was said lightly, but the watchfulness in Durand's eyes remained.

“Of course not.” Hugo bit back his anger. “Look, the man had a gun, I can give you a description, I can pick him out of a line up. And I can assure you, Max did not go with him voluntarily.”

The detective looked out across the water, a black ribbon in the gathering dusk. “
Bien
.” He turned to the gendarme. “Make sure you have a full statement, every possible detail. I will go supervise the search. If they are still out there, we will find them.”

“
Oui
, monsieur,” said the officer, flipping open his notepad.

Durand took a last look at Hugo, then turned and walked to his car, the word “if” hanging between them.

Max had been right—the snow began to fall twenty minutes later as Hugo was walking home. He crossed the street into Rue Jacob and paused for a moment, bemused and angry by what had just happened, somehow unwilling to enjoy, perhaps undeserving of, the warmth and comfort of his apartment.

He took off his hat so the flakes could tickle his face and opened his mouth like a child, letting them fizz on his tongue. He walked on, the sense of unreality that had settled around him magnified as the falling snow muffled the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk. He paused again, once, and thought he could hear a hiss as the snow hit the ground and melted. The flakes were large, though, and stuck to his coat and hair, so he knew they'd stick to the ground soon enough.

At the door to his apartment building he stopped and looked up and down the street. A hush had descended, the quiet that comes with the start of a heavy snowfall. He turned, wiped his boots on the large
mat, and went into the foyer, nodding at the Cretian concierge who sat at the reception desk with a novel in his hand.

“
Salut
, Dimitrios.” Hugo took off his hat and batted the snow from it.

“
Bonsoir, monsieur
.” Dimitrios sprang to his feet. A wiry old man with a brush moustache, he looked after his tenants as though his life depended on it. “How are you? Friday night plans?”

“No, I've had my excitement for this week.” Hugo shook his head and kept moving. “Have a good night, Dimitrios.”

“
Merci
.
Vous aussi, monsieur
.”

Hugo trotted up the stairs to his apartment, passing straight through the living room and into his bedroom. He dropped the Rimbaud and the Agatha Christie on the bed and unholstered his gun, a Glock 19, and laid it next to the books. Then he knelt in front of a safe that he'd had specially built. Disguised as his bedside table, it was essentially a steel box with an elegant mahogany facing, and it was bolted to the wall beside his bed. He opened the safe and put his gun on the narrow shelf next to a larger, wooden-handled Smith & Wesson.

Hugo checked the time, six o'clock, so midday in America. A good time to call Christine again, but he had some things to do first. He wanted to call Max's home, go there in person just to prove to himself that what he'd witnessed really happened, that Max hadn't been a party to his own kidnap. But he realized that he didn't even know Max's last name, let alone his address or phone number. A vague recollection that they'd swapped last names, sure, probably over coffee or beer at their favorite dive, Chez Maman, but it wasn't close to the tip of his tongue, and he felt a little ashamed about that. Instead, he dialed the police prefecture and asked for Detective Durand. Three dead-ends later, a man's voice came on the line.

“Monsieur, you are looking for David Durand?”

“
Oui
.”

“
Alors
, he is not available. Can someone else help you?”

“Is he on duty and not available, or gone-home-for-the-day not available?”

The voice hesitated. “I'm not sure. Unavailable is all I know. Would you like to leave your name and number?”

“That depends,” Hugo said tautly. “When will he get the message?”

“I can't say for sure. When he is available, I suppose. I know he works on Sundays.”

Hugo hung up the phone, swore under his breath, and thought about calling his boss, the ambassador. But he had no real reason to pull strings, not yet at least. As far as he knew, Durand was out searching for Max, directing a manhunt on both sides of the Seine. But when he pictured the lethargic detective, he couldn't help but doubt it.

Instead, he perched on the bed and took a calming breath. He was not used to being shut out of an investigation, either by intent or through bureaucracy, and it was especially frustrating when his friend was the one who needed help, who needed very badly to be rescued—and soon. He looked at the phone. If he couldn't help Max, he thought, then maybe he could do something positive about the situation with Christine.

He picked up the phone and dialed. When her cell phone sent him to voicemail, for the second time that day, he tried her home number.

A man answered. “Hello?”

“May I speak with Christine, please?”

“Certainly.” The familiar voice paused. “Is this Hugo?”

“That's Mr. Marston to you, doc.”

“Look, I'm glad you called. I never had a chance to explain—”

“There's nothing to explain,” Hugo interrupted. “You had an affair with a married woman who also happened to be your patient. And my wife. Now hand her the phone because there's nothing you have to say that I want to hear, and anything I have to say will be uncivil.”

A moment later, Christine came on the line. “Hugo?”

“Howdy. So is the good doctor a permanent resident now?”

“I'm a divorced woman, remember. You don't have the moral high ground anymore.”

“Funny thing, Christine. Even when I had the moral high ground, you were the one who acted outraged.” He took a breath. “I'm sorry, I didn't call to argue with you.”

“Good, I don't want that either. Your message said something about coming over.”

“Yes, but I can't now. Something's come up.”

A moment's silence. “Well, there's a surprise.”

“Take it easy, Chrissy, it's not my fault.”

“It never is.” She sounded weary now. “That's just how it works in your world.”

“And yet still you blame me.”

“You chose that world, not me.”

“I don't want to rehash old arguments, Chrissy, I'd just like to be able to come over and talk to you. If this…situation gets sorted out.”

“Hugo, no. I'm sorry, I really am. But…I've moved on.”

“Moved on? I suppose I shouldn't blame you for that.”

“Thank you.” He could hear the sadness in her voice, but tempered by a smile. “You always were insufferably understanding.”

“Thanks, but I'd like to know if there's any chance of you moving back.”

“No, there isn't.”

“You're not even willing to talk about it?”

“No, Hugo. I really have moved on, so there's nothing left to talk about. I'm sorry.”

He thought, for a few seconds, about pushing harder, but he knew her well enough to take her at her word. “Well, you can't blame me for trying,” he said. “You were quite a catch.”

“Were? Thanks a lot.”

He smiled at her mock outrage and looked down at the two books beside him. “Hey, this may sound weird but I bought you a couple of presents. OK if I mail them to you?”

“Oh. No, I really don't think—”

“A couple of books for your collection. One's a Hercule Poirot mystery, first edition, and the other is…kind of like an Oscar Wilde, but more personal.”

“You're very thoughtful. But you're right, it would be weird. Please don't send them.” Her voice caught and he knew she was about to cry. “Please, I thought I'd got past all this, you're making it difficult again.”

“OK, don't worry about it. I'll keep the books.”

“I'm sorry. I really am.”

“Me too. Take care of yourself.”

He hung up and dropped the phone on the bed. He picked up the Rimbaud and looked at the cover, then set it back down. He didn't feel much like homosexual love poetry, either.

But what had he expected from Christine, really? They'd been matched up by socialite friends after their first marriages had ended, and they'd talked about being in love because of the fun they had, and the sex. But had they ever gotten around to falling in love? Marriage had seemed easier the second time around, especially without the pressure of new careers to distract them. And the gloss had been thick. His job as security chief in Washington, DC, had been prestigious and was followed by an exciting two years as head of security at the London embassy, with parties and meetings with heads of state and celebrities from all over the world.