The Paris Librarian (13 page)

She studied him for a moment, then got up and closed the door. When she sat down again, she looked at her hands. “This is going to sound silly,” she began. “It's just, something's been bothering me and it's basically nothing, but with all that's been going on, Paul and now Sarah, and you with that look on your face . . .”

“What is it?”

“I didn't say anything to the police because . . . because there's nothing really to say.”

“Slow down, Michelle, and tell me what's bothering you.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “If it's nothing, then there's no harm. If it's something, then I probably ought to know.”

“
En effet
, that's true.” She took a deep breath. “About a week ago, maybe two weeks now, I was closing up the library. I went down to the basement to make sure all the lights were off.”

“Which staircase did you use?”

“The one behind the circulation desk.”

“OK, go on.”

“Well, I got to the bottom of the stairs and I thought at first all the lights were off. Then I thought I saw light at the far end of the basement.”

“Where the
atelier
and the rear stairs are?”

“Yes, exactly. Anyway, I looked again and realized it was the light above me reflecting off the side wall because all the other lights were, in fact, off. But then I thought I heard voices, so I turned on more lights.” She looked down for a moment. “I admit, I was a little scared. The basement is cryptlike at the best of times, but at night . . .”

“So I've heard,” Hugo said gently. “Did you see anyone?”

“As soon as I turned the lights on, the voices stopped. I didn't want to go investigate, but it was like I couldn't help myself. I started to walk down that way. I kept telling myself either no one was there or it was a staff member who'd lost track of time. I had to check because if it was, I didn't want to lock them down there.”

“You usually lock the basement at night?”

“We do now, since we keep some valuable books down there, and since there's only the front and back doors to it, it's easy to do. And, of course, now we have the Severin collection.” She shivered. “I couldn't imagine being locked down there overnight, I'd go mad.”

“Tell me what happened then?”

“I called out three or four times, I felt silly because it suddenly seemed like I was alone.”

“No one responded?”

“No, so I kept going. I was looking, too, but didn't see anyone until I got near the end and then, out of nowhere, he just stepped out in front of me. Just appeared, I guess, from between the stacks. Just like that, he was there. I actually screamed, can you believe it?”

“Who was it? Who was there?”

“I haven't screamed like that since I was a kid.” She shook her head, as if trying to free herself of the memory. Then she looked up and answered Hugo's question. “It was Paul. Paul Rogers.”

CHAPTER TEN

Hugo sat back and thought for a moment. It could mean nothing, Paul Rogers in the basement where he liked to write, in the library that he ran. But why hadn't he responded to Michelle Juneau when she asked if anyone was down there?

“He would have heard you calling out?” he asked.

“He should have. It was quiet, so yes, I'm sure he would.”

“Did he give a reason for being down there?”

“He didn't need to and I didn't ask.” She shrugged. “It's his library. Was.”

“And you didn't see anyone else with him?”

“There wasn't anyone, no.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I'd already locked the door to the basement from the back of the library. The only way out was the way I'd come. Paul followed me back upstairs and we locked the door and left.”

“Could someone have stayed behind the stacks, maybe in the
atelier
?”

She frowned in thought. “But why? I mean, it's possible, I suppose, but I could see through the shelves that the door to the
atelier
was closed, and if the light had been on, I expect I would have seen that, too, under the door.”

“So, if someone was down there, you locked them in?”

“Definitely. And I guess Paul could have come back later and let someone out, but I saw him walking away, he seemed normal and not . . .” She searched for the right word. “Not anxious, I guess. He was happy and joking with me, like always.”

“And if he was down there, why would he bother being secretive?”

“
Précisément.
No reason at all. Perhaps if he was having an affair, but Mademoiselle Gregory had left the library about thirty minutes before.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Quite apart from that, he adored her. I would bet everything I own he wasn't having an affair.”

“And she adored him, too?” Hugo couldn't help but ask.

She held his eye for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was soft. “Monsieur Marston, I told you about that incident because . . . I am not sure why, now. You seem convinced that something is amiss at the library right now. That night I thought something was wrong, too, at least for a few minutes. I don't know why Monsieur Rogers was down there, I don't have any idea what he was doing or why he didn't reply when I called out. Perhaps he was off in his own world, thinking about his novel.”

Hugo knew he was being chided. “You're right, I didn't mean . . .”

She held up a finger. “I had the utmost respect for him, and I still do. I can assure you, he was not having an affair, and his relationship with Mademoiselle Gregory cannot possibly be of concern to you or any other policeman.”

Hugo nodded to show he understood. “I meant no offense. Paul was a friend of mine, too, and I'm struggling to make sense of his death, and now Sarah's. Please, forgive me.” The strength of her feeling had taken him by surprise, making Hugo feel genuinely chastened but at the same time raising other, rather ugly, thoughts in his mind. Specifically, did Michelle Juneau herself have feelings for Paul Rogers? Was it possible that she'd been the one in the basement with him, and this story was her way to explain away anyone seeing them leave the library together?

And then again, maybe it was all nothing. A colleague of his at the FBI had once told Hugo that if all you had were questions and no answers, you were looking in the wrong direction, seeking the wrong thing. Right now, he sure was heavy on questions and light on answers. For now, he thanked Michelle Juneau for her time, and stepped out of her office and into the main library. To his left was the entrance, with the circulation desk and conference room, the busiest part of the library. To his right it was quieter, and Michael Harmuth stood between two stacks, nose tipped in the air as he looked through his glasses at the spines of some books. He looked over as Hugo moved toward him.

“What're you doing back here?” Harmuth asked.

“Bearer of sad news, I'm afraid. Somewhere we can talk?”

“Jesus, what now?” Harmuth shook his head and led Hugo to the nook they'd occupied previously. “I guess I should sit down.”

Hugo did as well, and told him as gently as possible about Sarah Gregory, leaving out as many details as he could. Including the possibility she'd been murdered. Harmuth paled as Hugo spoke, his shoulders visibly drooping.

“That poor girl,” Harmuth said.

“She must have loved him very much,” Hugo said quietly.

“She did. And I suppose I should find some comfort in the idea that they're together now,” Harmuth said. “But I don't. Maybe that'll come later.”

“I think I should go see Paul's mother. Someone will need to arrange the funerals. She'll almost certainly need the assistance of the embassy.”

“No.” Harmuth straightened. “We'll do it. It's the least we can do. We may not have the know-how but we have the funds, and with Sarah gone now, too, there's no need to burden Paul's mother. Absolutely not.” He stood, as if the possibility of a specific task had taken him over, pushing the despair aside and allowing a surge of energy and resolve to sweep over him. “I shall start immediately.”

Hugo didn't have the heart to tell him the bodies probably wouldn't be released yet, hoping he'd focus on the process before trying to contact the police or medical examiner. He watched Harmuth walk away, then walked to the front of the library and dialed Tom.

“Hugo, you quit your job?”

“Funny. I'm working from home.”

“In that case, bring me a sandwich, I'm in the bathtub.”

“Didn't need that image. And by ‘home,' I meant library.”

“I see. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to find someone.” Hugo gave him the name, and Tom let out a low whistle.

“Sounds like fun,” Tom said, “but I gotta find one other thing first.”

“What's that?”

“The soap.” Tom said, as the sounds of splashing came down the phone. “I dropped it so I know it's in here somewhere. Maybe under my—.”

Hugo shuddered and quickly hung up.

That night he had drinks with Merlyn, Miki, and Tom, but he abandoned them at eight to have dinner with Claudia, a formidable four-course meal at Il Vino on Boulevard de la Tour-Maubourg. Hugo hadn't known what to expect, accepting Claudia's late-afternoon invitation without knowing anything about the restaurant. In truth, it had been more of an insistence than an invitation—she'd wanted the scoop on Merlyn and Miki Harrison, and she wouldn't take no for an answer.

The waiter greeted her like an old friend, and Hugo smiled to himself as he caught the young man admiring his customer's figure. Hugo didn't blame the man; she looked gorgeous in her black skinny jeans, a silvery blouse, and a fitted black blazer.

As they settled into their booth, the waiter handed them small, leather-bound menus but Claudia waved them away.

“
Comme d'habitude
, Henri.”

“Same as usual?” Hugo asked. “You're a regular?”

“Regular enough. Trust me, you won't regret it.”

“So how does it work?”

“They'll bring us a glass of wine for each course, and pair it with something or other.”

“Something or other?”

“Chef's choice. You like surprises, right?”

“Sure. I'm not a picky eater. Bring it on.”

The first serving of wine came in a black glass to disguise its color, and the waiter left them to enjoy, and guess, what they were drinking. The puff pastry filled with foie gras that accompanied it, he was more than happy to announce.

“This,” Hugo said after swallowing a morsel, “is absolutely amazing. Fantastic.”

Claudia smiled. “Told you. Now guess the wine.”

“Not my forte.”

“Oh, come on. Try.”

“Fine.” Hugo took a sip. “It's white, I can tell you that much. Very light, so not a chardonnay, but it doesn't have that grassy taste of sauvignon blanc. I don't know, I really don't.”

“Me neither,” she laughed. “But isn't this fun?”

“It really is,” he agreed. “Kind of like Christmas for hungry grown-ups.”

The waiter returned after fifteen minutes and smiled kindly as they tried to guess the wine.

“A Riesling,” he said finally, “and this one is from the Basque region.”

The meal took them another ninety minutes, four courses plus the
amuse-bouche
and a sorbet to cleanse the palate before dessert. It was only at the end that Claudia mentioned Miki and Merlyn.

“I'm sure I told you about Merlyn ages ago,” Hugo said. “You remember hearing about my adventure with the crazy hangman in England?”

“Oh, right, something about going undercover at a kinky party.”

“That's the part you remember?” Hugo laughed. “But of course it is. Anyway, Merlyn was my . . . tour guide, I guess. She helped me out a lot.”

“And her pretty friend?” Claudia said it with a twinkle in her eye, but Hugo felt that she was watching him closely, curious about his reaction to the question, and the girl in the question.

“Pretty, indeed,” Hugo scoffed. “She's gorgeous. Stunning. Have you seen her legs? Like an athlete's, I've never seen a pair like them.”

“You won't make me jealous, Hugo.”

“Perhaps, but I can have fun trying.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “I know the chef. For me, he'd put a little cyanide in your dessert.”

“That so? And would you wear black at my funeral?”

She gave a casual shrug. “Sure, if I could find time to attend.”

“Tom would hunt you down, you know that, right?”

“Oh, for sure. He'd hunt me down and marry me.”

Hugo raised an eyebrow. “You're the marrying sort all of a sudden?”

“I could make an exception for Tom.”

“We could have a double wedding—me and Miki, you and Tom.”