The Paris Librarian (11 page)

“Actually, she requested that I speak only French to her. She wanted to learn and then become fluent.”

“How long since you stopped working for her?”

“Right before I came here, just over a year ago. I used to come here with her, incognito usually. She liked to sit and read, and hear the activity going on around her.”

“No one ever recognized her?”

“Occasionally, but I don't remember anyone approaching us. It was a safe place for her.” She smiled at the memory. “Anyway, I started volunteering here and then became full-time a year or so ago.”

“When Madame Severin moved into the retirement community.”

“That's right.” Juneau cocked her head. “Are you trying to find her?”

“Yes, for a friend. She wants to interview her.”

“Mademoiselle Harrison, I assume.”

“Right again,” said Hugo. “She's wanting to write an original and exciting book about your former boss.”

“Which I don't plan to help her with.”

“Why not?”

“In my experience, journalists like Mikaela Harrison dredge up the past when they think they can add to it. And, also in my experience, they're very liberal with the truth of their new facts.”

“All the more reason for you to cooperate, surely,” Hugo said. “I mean if you refuse to help her, can you really complain when she gets facts wrong that you could have corrected?”

“The onus is on her to get them right, or not publish. I have no obligation at all to help her or oversee her work.”

“I think she feels differently, seeing as you're a library employee.”

“I will provide her the same access everyone else gets,” Juneau said. “No less, no more.”

“OK, but why all the cloak-and-dagger? Everyone here must know you worked for Isabelle Severin, but no one mentioned it to Miki Harrison when she was looking over the collection.”

“Paul knew. But Michael, he got here after I did and I don't think I ever told him. The folks here know that on this topic I prefer them to be discreet.”

“Why?”

Juneau sighed. “Isabelle Severin is more than just a movie icon, she's an amazing woman. She's been exceptional all her life and, more personally, she was very good to me at a difficult time and I owe her a great deal.”

“Go on.”

“You would be amazed,
monsieur
, at the number and range of people who try to see her. Gossip writers, fan-club members, and in fifteen years about four men who claimed to be her long-lost sons.”

“I hadn't thought about that.”

“She is a generous and kind person, but she is also very private. And in recent years she has reached that point where others could take advantage of her. The transition to a retirement community was planned and executed with great care, and at her behest.”

“Would you make a request on Mademoiselle Harrison's behalf, at least?”

“No, I will not. Whatever she is writing, she will have to use the papers that Isabelle donated.”

“She seems to think that the donation was bigger than the library's viewable collection.”

“Meaning?”

“That some part of what she gave to the library is being kept secret.”

“Ah. Is that what
you
think?”

“I have no idea,” said Hugo. “I've heard the rumors about her involvement in the war, and given how hush-hush everyone's been, I certainly wouldn't blame Miki Harrison for thinking there might be something else to see.”

“Let me guess.” Juneau gave a small smile. “The famous dagger.”

“Does it exist?”

Juneau's smile turned into a laugh. “Think about how this works,
monsieur
. If it exists, then clearly it's not something she wants revealed, which means I am sworn to secrecy and will lie and tell you it doesn't exist. If, on the other hand, it
doesn't
really exist, I will say so.”

“Either way, you give me the same answer.”

“And Mademoiselle Harrison.”

“She's going to be very disappointed.”

“I'm sure, but that is not my concern.” She looked down. “I'm sorry, that sounded harsh, I did not mean to be.”

“I'm curious. If Isabelle Severin helped the Resistance, if it's true she killed a Gestapo officer, then why would she want to hide that? Wouldn't it only serve to boost an already-incredible reputation?”

“You are an American. Have you studied our history, the French history of the Second World War?”

“To some degree I have, yes.” Hugo thought of his old friend Max, the bouquiniste who'd been deeply affected by the war but never said anything. Affected enough that afterward he became a Nazi hunter, and never spoke of that either. At least not to Hugo.

“Then you will know that it's not like in the movies, where there are good guys and bad guys, and everyone wears the right color hat. In a real war, in
that
real war, the truth was more complicated. People did what they had to do to survive. People did things they were later ashamed of, but at the time maybe they had no choice. If the stories about Isabelle are true, then I expect they are only partly true.”

“Some people might be embarrassed if the whole truth came out?”

“Assuming there is substance to the rumors. Yes, I would think embarrassed would be a mild way of putting it.”

“I understand. So, now that Paul is gone, are you overseeing the collection?”

“In truth, I was before. Which means I will continue to be, and I'll have Nicole Anisse and Monsieur Harmuth help me. Would you like to see it?”

“Just the dagger,” Hugo said with a wink.

Juneau smiled again. “
Bien sûr
. I'll have it brought right up, wrapped in the Shroud of Turin.”

“Now that would be a scoop,” Hugo said. He stood and thanked her for her time, letting himself out of her office into the larger administration room. Harmuth sat at a desk with a cup of coffee, looking at a computer screen.

“Hugo,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Running into brick walls.”

“Sorry to hear that. Wait, is this about Paul?”

“No, a personal matter. Speaking of which, I saw Madame Rogers yesterday.”

Harmuth sat back and shook his head. “That poor woman. How was she?”

“Not well, honestly. I'd not seen her for a while but she looked like a different person.”

“Dementia and the loss of a son will do that, I'm sure.”

“True,” Hugo said. “I'm just not sure she should live there by herself much longer.”

“Ah, on that front we're working on a solution.”

“A solution?”

“Yes. Before Paul died we'd talked about moving her from the apartment to a nursing home. The plan is for me to move into her place, and my rent will go toward the fees.”

“That sounds like a great idea. Is she on board with it?”

Harmuth grimaced. “She was. I talked to Paul about it six months ago, and according to him she was very much in favor. Naturally, I'll wait a little before mentioning it. Although I can't wait too long, my own living situation isn't settled.”

“How long has she been . . .” Hugo hesitated, looking for the right words. “Not herself, I guess?”

“Paul said it started about a year ago, slowly at first and then all of a sudden she was forgetting things, or making crazy statements. You know, getting paranoid that people were out to get her.”

“That's how dementia works, I think,” Hugo said. “Very sad.”

“Do you know her well?”

“We've met a few times but I wouldn't say I know her well, not really. And she didn't really seem to remember me last night. But in my mind she's quite a force of nature, a tough and funny woman.”

Harmuth smiled. “That's what I've heard. Well, I hope this works out, it'll be good for us both.”

“If it seems right, I'll mention it tonight.”

“Oh, you're going over to see her?”

“She asked me to. Said she had something to show me, though I half wondered if she knew what she was saying.”

“Or if she'll remember tonight that she invited you.”

“Possibly not. But I'll stop by and check on Sarah, too, see how she's doing.” Hugo paused, wondering whether he should really ask his next question. “Do you know Alain Benoît?”

“No. Who is he?”

“A friend of theirs. Of Paul and Sarah. It doesn't matter.”

“Never heard of him.”

“No problem.” A thought struck Hugo. “How is Monsieur Tilly?”

“Thank heavens, he's fine. Apparently it was a cardiac event of some sort, but he's being released from the hospital tomorrow.”

“I'm very happy to hear it. Nice to get some good news for a change.”

“That's for sure.” Harmuth checked his watch, then picked up a book from the desk. “Well, I better go find something to eat. Believe it or not, I hardly ever get a chance to read while here. Lunchtime is a sandwich and a patch of grass on the Champ de Mars, so I can people watch between chapters.”

“One of my favorite pastimes,” Hugo said. “But I have an office and some paperwork awaiting me.”
And some disappointing news to deliver to Miki Harrison
.

The sun cast long shadows over the streets as Hugo made his way from the Cambronne metro station toward Madame Rogers's home. He kept to the west side of Avenue de Suffren, enjoying the cooling air and the activity around him, smiling at the couple drinking champagne in a horse-drawn carriage and admiring the ingenuity of a workman giving an empty storefront a fresh coat of lavender paint. The man knelt on a large square of bubble wrap that he'd taped to the ground, protecting his knees from the hard cement and the sidewalk from careless brushstrokes and splattering paint.

On the steps of the apartment building Hugo pressed the buzzer to Madame Rogers's apartment and waited. When he got no reply, he pressed it again, wondering if maybe she had a hard time hearing the bell. He tried Sarah Gregory's buzzer next, but again got no reply.

He looked around, as if he might see one or the other approaching, then walked over to a bus stop and sat down. It only took four minutes, an elderly couple returning from an evening stroll, perhaps, but all too happy to let the well-dressed gentleman through the main door behind them. He watched them disappear arm-in-arm up the stairs before knocking on Claire Rogers's door. When no one responded, he knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. He tried again, and waited.

Not wanting to waste a trip, he turned and went up the stairs to see if Sarah Gregory was home. He got no response there, either, but as he was about to turn away, Hugo thought he heard a noise inside. He listened closely, a tingle of concern creeping up the back of his neck. He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door squeaked as it opened.

“Hello?” Hugo called.

No reply.

He opened the door all the way, then stepped into the entryway so he'd have a view of the lounge to his left. It was empty. “Sarah?” he called again. The apartment was quiet but for sounds from the street drifting through an open window, a sheer white curtain waving gently in the breeze.

Hugo paused in the doorway to the main bedroom, uncomfortable with the violation of privacy, but he had to make sure she wasn't there, that the feeling in the back of his neck was wrong. He walked past the king-size bed, neatly made, his eyes fixed on the partially open door to what he assumed was the bathroom. When he got there, out of instinct he used his elbow to nudge open the door.

Neither instinct nor experience prepared him for what he saw.

Sarah Gregory lay face-up in the bath, pale and naked, her blond hair splayed across the back of the ceramic tub. The water covered her legs and hips, which were almost invisible to Hugo, mere shadows in the red liquid. Blood striped her breasts and shoulders, too, streaks of crimson on a pure-white canvas. Hugo moved forward, glancing down to make sure he didn't step in her blood.

“Sarah, what have you done?” he whispered, as his fingertips pressed against her neck. He tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn to the gashes on her wrists, the vertical cuts that had split her veins and allowed her life to flood out forever.

A sound from the apartment made Hugo straighten.

He listened, unsure of what he'd heard, if anything.
A door closing?
He looked down at Sarah Gregory, her eyes open but seeing nothing, and a great sadness swept through him. He allowed himself to feel it, for just a moment, then pushed it down, pressed it into the compartment of his mind where it needed to stay for now. He turned and stepped quickly out of the bathroom, through her bedroom to the living room. His hand dipped inside his jacket, hovering close to his gun as he stopped and listened.

Nothing.

Behind him, the front door was closed.
Didn't I leave it open?
he wondered. He opened it and stepped onto the landing, but it was empty and no sound came from the stairs. Then he heard it, the rattle of the front door to the building as it closed, as if someone was trying to do it quietly.