The Bookseller (6 page)

 

 

On Sunday morning, Hugo stationed himself on the busy Boulevard de Palais, near the exit to the metro stop closest to the Prefecture de Police. He walked in large circles, the police station always in view, hoping that the mid-morning tourist traffic and his hat and coat collar would give him the element of surprise.

He saw his man as soon as he emerged from the metro, the thin figure sporting the familiar heavy overcoat and woolen ski hat. Hugo hurried across the street and caught up to him at the front steps of the prefecture.

“
Excusez moi
, Detective Durand,” he said.

The detective turned, his hooded eyes taking a moment to make the connection. “Ah, Monsieur Marston. How can I help you?”

“A progress report would be nice.” Hugo decided to gauge Durand's response before mentioning the so-called hoax/mistake investigation.

“Not much to say, sadly.” Durand frowned and looked down, as if thinking. “We searched the river that night but found no boat matching the description you gave. No one of the alleged victim's description turned up, either, in the hospitals or morgue.” He turned his eyes onto Hugo. “And of course, we still have those witnesses who say your friend went onto the boat voluntarily.”

“I suppose you're not willing to give me the names of those witnesses,” Hugo said, forcing himself to remain calm.

“I cannot, I'm sorry.”

“You can,” Hugo said. “I'm one of us, remember.”

“
Non. Je m'excuse
.” Durand started to turn away but Hugo gripped his sleeve.

“So the investigation is over?”

“
Non
. The description of your friend, and the boat, remains with our men on the street. If an unidentified person shows up in an ambulance or hearse, that person will be checked to see if it is him. Now, unless you know something you are not telling me, I don't quite see what more I can do.”

“You can start by changing the designation of the investigation. It's neither a hoax nor a mistake.”

Durand raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

“What difference does it make?”

The detective stepped closer and Hugo smelled the stale cigarettes on his breath, saw the little flecks of gold in the angry green eyes. “Monsieur. I appreciate you are not used to being in this situation and that usually you are in my shoes. However, I have done my job and will continue to do it. Now, please let go of my arm. Right now.”

A new voice snapped out behind Hugo. “What's going on here?”

Durand stiffened, his eyes wary now.

So the newcomer is your superior
. Hugo turned to look at the man who'd spoken. He was short and fat, with a polka-dot bow tie scrunched under the lowest of several round chins. He immediately reminded Hugo of the wily Hercule Poirot with his dark, watchful eyes and balding, egg-shaped head. He also had the moustache, though this man's was a thin line rather than the thick and oiled specimen worn by Agatha Christie's sleuth.

“Just trying to get some information,” Hugo said. “No big deal.”

“I am Capitaine Raul Garcia,” the man said.

“Hugo Marston.”

“A tourist?”

“Head of security at the US Embassy. I live here.”

Garcia nodded and watched Hugo for a moment, then his eyes slid down to Hugo's hand, which still gripped Durand's sleeve. Garcia smiled, like a conjuror withholding the secret to a magic trick. “
Bien
. Pleased to meet you. However, I'm sure you appreciate that even an American colleague has no need to lay hands on one of my detectives.”

Hugo held his eye. This was an olive branch, a chance for Hugo to back off. Behind the soft words, though, it was clear whose side Garcia would take.

Hugo released Durand's sleeve and opened his mouth to say something, but Garcia brushed past him and, with a flick of his wrist, directed his junior detective into the prefecture. Hugo clenched his jaw and started after them, but another gesture from Garcia sent two uniformed gendarmes to block his way. Hugo didn't feel like a fight, and being arrested by the French cops would take some explaining to his own boss.

He walked away from the prefecture, avoiding the riverfront even though he knew all the stalls would be closed up for the day, Sunday being a day of rest for Christians, sinners, and bouquinistes alike.

At his apartment, he left messages at the ambassador's home and office, hoping his boss would be able to pull strings, get an investigation moving. Two hours later, neither call was returned.

Work kept his mind busy the rest of the afternoon, drafting shift rosters and approving vacation time until he could slip into a hot bath with a cold scotch, the events of the past two days seeping back into his mind after the impenetrable barrier of embassy business. A sadness crept through him, a feeling of hopelessness that had come to replace the urgency he'd felt immediately after Max's kidnapping. He tried to suppress it, tell himself there was still a chance, but he knew that hope was fading. If Max was free, uninjured, he would have sought out Hugo by now. And if he wasn't…Eventually, Hugo climbed from the tub, his body sapped of energy by the worry, the warm water, and the drink. He fell into bed long before midnight but slept fitfully.

Hugo woke early on Monday. He was glad to be active and walked the mile and a half to the US Embassy, thinking about Max every step of the way, wondering what he could do—should do—to help find his friend. A dark thought pressed in on him, reminding him that finding people wasn't all he was good at. When those who'd gone missing couldn't be found, all that was left was to catch those who'd harmed them. Given Max's age and the coldness in Nica's eyes, Hugo knew he had to face the possibility that finding Max was no longer his priority.

The snow had receded from the roads, pushed back by a warm Sunday and the workers who had scraped and brushed the city streets all weekend. Piles of graying slush lay at intervals on the sidewalk, watery at the edges, creating webs of rivulets that streaked the pavement and disappeared into the gutters. After yesterday's warmth it had turned cold again, temperatures hovering a couple of degrees above freezing, and Hugo wondered if the frigid day would turn the wet streets into ice rinks.

He used a side door at the embassy, showing his credentials on the way in and passing through the least busy of the metal detectors. It was a formality; he'd known the two marines guarding that entrance for over a year.

Inside, Hugo walked down the quiet hallway, hearing the murmur of voices and the clicking of computer keys behind closed doors, glad not to see anyone. He didn't particularly want to explain why he was not out enjoying his vacation or on his way to the States, the usual holiday destination for embassy employees. But if he wanted to use his office, seeing his secretary was unavoidable.

In another era, Emma would have been described as handsome, and it would have been a compliment. In her late fifties, she had the erect posture and even features that gave her a timeless appeal. Her shoulder-length brown hair knew its place, always, and she wore just enough make-up to let you know she had made an effort. They had worked together for two years, but other than her never-failing promptness and efficiency, Hugo knew little about her. He had access to every law enforcement tool in existence and no doubt could have learned plenty, but he'd respected her privacy the way she respected, and protected, his.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door labeled
US Embassy Security
and stepped in, smiling at Emma when she looked up. He waited for the raised eyebrow, the lingering look, knowing she wouldn't ask about his unscheduled presence directly.

“Surprise, surprise,” Hugo said, closing the door behind him.

“Why, yes it is.” Emma put down a magazine, the
Economist
. No fluff for her.

Hugo nodded to it. “Nothing to do while I'm away?”

“Plenty. I just don't want to do it.” She held his eye. “Is everything OK?”

“Mostly. I was hoping I'd need the help of the embassy counsel to undo my divorce, but that didn't work out.”

“Oh, Hugo.” Emma's mouth tightened. “I'm sorry.”

“Thanks.” Hugo smiled to let her know it wasn't that bad. “Perhaps later in the week you could arrange for a couple of young ladies to come by my place and make me feel better.”

Emma frowned and tsk-tsked, but Hugo's attempts to be outrageous had become a routine, part of their dynamic and even more reassuring than his smile. “You are a horrible man, Hugo Marston.”

“Thanks, I try. Anything I need to know about?”

“Yes. In the few hours you were away from the office, all of the embassy's weaponry was stolen, the ambassador was eaten by a lion, and immediately after that we were invaded by Martians.” She shrugged. “It happens every time you leave.”

“I see. Well, unless some of those creatures are in my office, I shall get to work.”

Emma tutted again as he went into his office and closed the door. He rounded the desk and sat down, switching on his computer. It wasn't work he intended to do, it was research. First, to learn about bouquinistes. He'd always meant to get the history of this Parisian phenomenon from Max over a drink, but their conversation had always been about other things—mostly books. He hoped he hadn't missed his chance.

The first site he visited, a travel guide, told him the basics. The term
bouquinistes
came from the Dutch word
boeckin
, meaning “small book.” Made sense. The first sellers, he read, used wheelbarrows to transport and sell their goods, and fastened trays to the parapets of the bridges with thin leather straps. After the French Revolution, business boomed when entire libraries were “liberated” from nobles and wound up for sale cheap on the banks of the Seine. In 1891, bouquinistes received permission to permanently attach their boxes to the quaysides. Hugo was struck by the line: “Today, the waiting list to become one of Paris's 250 bouquinistes is eight years.”

Hugo's phone rang, and he let Emma pick it up. A moment later, his intercom buzzed. “It's a Peter Kendall. I told him you were on vacation but he said you'd told him to call.”

“I did, thanks Emma. Can you put him through?” The line clicked. “Mr. Kendall, Hugo Marston here.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Marston, I have news.”

“Good or bad?”

He heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. “I'd call it good. After you left I got straight onto my friend at Christie's. Been selling books all his life. He asked me to take some pictures and e-mail them to him. I would have walked it over, but with the snow…Well, I just e-mailed him, and you'll never guess.”

“It is a first edition?” That was no great surprise given Kendall's earlier opinion, but Hugo thought he heard excitement in the bookseller's voice.

“Yes, it is. And…and that scribble in the front. It's Rimbaud's signature.” Kendall cleared his throat. “Actually, it's more than that, which is what threw me off.”

“I don't understand,” Hugo said.

“I saw the name Paul written inside the front cover. I assumed that someone named Paul had owned and written his name in the book, but my friend is convinced that Rimbaud inscribed the book to his lover.”

“Paul Verlaine.”

“Exactly, very impressive, Mr. Marston. It turns out that Rimbaud did indeed inscribe three copies of his book for Verlaine.”

“And this is one of them?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Incredible. So what does that mean?”

“It means, Mr. Marston, that your book is worth a great deal of money.” When Hugo didn't respond, Kendall coughed gently. “I am told that at auction you can expect something in the region of a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

Hugo was stunned. “Are you serious?”

“That's what they told me, Mr. Marston. Unless you wish to keep the book.”

“No.” Hugo almost laughed. “If someone wants to pay that much for a book, Mr. Kendall, then they want it a lot more than I do.”

“In that case, I shall take it over to Christie's myself. There is an auction the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. They normally like to advertise the lots that are for sale in advance, but my friend assures me that a few well-placed phone calls will bring in the right bidders for a piece like this.”

“Not many at that price, I'm guessing.”

“A dozen or more, or so he tells me. You'd be surprised what the idle rich will pay for a book.”

“Yeah, I would. OK, that sounds fine. Is there anything I need to do?”

“If you would be kind enough to fax me handwritten, or at least typed and signed, authorization to handle the sale. I hate to be a pedant, Mr. Marston, but…”

“A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Hugo said. “Give me your fax number.”

Ten minutes later, Hugo had entrusted the most valuable possession he'd ever owned to a secondhand bookseller in a Paris back street. He wondered for a moment why it bothered him so little, but he didn't want to think about bad luck so he dove back into his research on booksellers. A hundred thousand dollars made him a lot more intent on finding Max. Most of that money rightly belonged to the old man.