The Paris Librarian (16 page)

“One of three ways. First, drafted in front of witnesses and a
notaire
, who sends it to the central registry of wills. Second, you draft your will, hand it over to a
notaire
in a sealed envelope, and the
notaire
sends it to the central registry. I called over there and checked; they have nothing for either Paul Rogers or Sarah Gregory. Which means the only other option would be a holographic will, one that you write entirely by hand and hold on to. I went through their drawers and filing cabinets and didn't see any copies of a will, or a living will. I didn't even find a safe where that stuff might be.”

“What about passports?” Hugo asked. “People usually keep their important papers together.”

“
Oui
, I found those in a file folder, in the cabinet. They were together in a manila envelope with the passport expiry dates written on the outside.”

“Yeah, Paul was organized,” Hugo said. “It sounds like if there was a will, it'd be in a folder. And I'd put money on there being one.”

“Right. I mean, it's possible he didn't have one but seems unlikely. Especially since he did have life insurance—I found that in another properly labeled folder.”

“Interesting. How much?”

“Half a million Euros. Sarah was the primary beneficiary, then his mother.”

“Well, there you have it. Both killed by a senile old lady, it's perfect.”

Lerens chuckled. “You and your black sense of humor.”

“It's the only way to survive sometimes.”

“It is. But back to the subject at hand, why would they have the passports and life insurance, but no will?”

“No idea,” Hugo said. “Perhaps we should go down and talk to Madame Rogers about that, since we're already here. Also, I've not heard anything from Michael Harmuth about funeral plans, maybe she knows about those.”

“
C'est possible.
How senile is she?”

“Not too far gone, I think, not yet anyway.” Hugo smiled grimly. “Perhaps we'll catch her on a good day.”

“Why don't you call Harmuth, see if he'll come over. He knows the old lady pretty well, right?”

“He's only been at the library for a year, I think, so I doubt it. Although, he said he was helping Paul make all the arrangements for the retirement home.”

“
D'accord.
We can be sure he knows her better than we do, how about that?”

“True. I'll call him.” Hugo took out his phone and dialed the library. “
Bonjour
, is Michael Harmuth available, please?”

A moment later, Harmuth's voice came down the line. “Hello?”

“Michael, it's Hugo Marston. I'm calling to ask you a favor.”

They loitered at Paul and Sarah's apartment, waiting for Harmuth to arrive. He'd called Madame Rogers to make sure she was home, and to ask if they could come by. She'd accepted, Harmuth said, but who knew if she'd remember that when they got there.

As he waited, Hugo alternated between wandering through the rooms and stopping to look more closely at books, pictures, anything that caught his eye. At one point, he returned to the desk carrying Rogers's papers and looked at everything a second time. The only thing he learned, though, was that the architectural plans were for a small sunroom and tile patio where Claire Rogers's precious garden lay. Hugo doubted that a sunroom would get too much use in Paris, but one with a glass roof could be made cozy with a blanket, a mug of hot chocolate, and a good book on a rainy afternoon. Not that Madame Rogers would approve of her special place being destroyed.

Harmuth rapped on the apartment door as Hugo stood in the doorway to the bathroom, trying to both re-create and forget the scene he'd encountered so recently, poor Sarah tinged red with her own blood, either murdered or dead by her own hand. Hugo welcomed the interruption.

“Let's go down,” said Lerens. She watched as Hugo and Harmuth stepped out of the apartment, then she locked the door and put back the strip of crime-scene tape. “Probably no need for that at this point, but policy says it stays for a week.”

Harmuth knocked on Madame Rogers's front door, with Hugo and Lieutenant Lerens giving him a little distance, so as not overwhelm the old woman. She answered at the second knocking, peering out from behind the door. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, then something flashed in them, recognition of Harmuth, and she looked past him to his companions.

“You know Monsieur Marston,” Harmuth said. “He's a friend of Paul and Sarah.”

“Police?” Madame Rogers said. “Is that a policewoman?”

“Yes. May we come in?” Harmuth asked, his voice gentle, soothing.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Madame Rogers turned and shuffled into her apartment, leaving the door open for them. Hugo again marveled at the change in the woman, and her home. Once elegantly furnished for dinner parties, it was now a disorder of clothing, boxes, and blankets. It looked like she'd set up a bed on the couch, a nest of pillows and quilts. She headed straight for it, sitting awkwardly on the edge. The others found seats around her.

“Madame,” Hugo said, “how are you feeling today?”

She looked at Hugo for a moment, then gave him a warm smile. “One of the good days, thank you.” Hugo was about to speak, but she cut him off. “I remember you from the other day. Paul spoke highly of you. Did you also come here for parties?”

“Several, yes, and some events at the library, too.”

“Yes, I remember a few of those.” She held her smile for a moment, then a cloud seemed to pass over her eyes, and she looked around the room as if lost. Her gaze settled on Michael Harmuth, and then she turned away, her eyes now filled with tears. “My son. My poor son.”

Harmuth shook his head gently. “We're so very sorry for your loss, madame, it must be very hard for you. But these people have a couple of questions . . . is it OK for them to ask you right now?”

“Questions about what?” she said, her voice faltering.

“We were wondering about two things, madame,” Hugo said. A thought striking him. “First, whether you had a spare key to Paul's apartment.”

She blinked and two tears ran down her cheeks. “A key? I don't . . . if I do, I don't know where it is. I'm sorry.”

“That's quite all right,” Hugo said reassuringly. “The other thing, do you happen to know if he had a will?”

“Yes, of course. We met with a
notaire
and he did mine, I didn't want to write it out by hand. But Paul did, the
notaire
was right there, too. I remember because we did it all together last year. When I, you know, started to be less well.”

Perhaps two years ago, then
, Hugo thought. “So the
notaire
sent yours to the registry, but Paul kept his?”

“I imagine it's in his file cabinet. Does he have that still?”

“The cabinet, yes,” Hugo said.

“In there. He keeps everything important in there.”

“He didn't have a safe?”

“No,” she said. “He kept everything in there.”

“Do you recall the name of the
notaire
who helped with the wills?” Lerens asked.

Madame Rogers shook her head. “No. But I think I have his card with my copy.” She waved a hand toward a desk in the corner. “Bottom drawer on the left, the key is in the lock.”

“Thank you.” Lerens got up and went to the desk. She slid the heavy drawer open and stood, looking down into it. Then she stooped and picked up a business card. She studied it for a moment, then placed it back into the drawer, which she left open.

“Did you say a copy of your will is supposed to be in here?” Lerens asked gently.

“Yes, that's where I put it.”

“I'm sorry, madame, but it's not there. The card is the only thing in the drawer.”

Madame Rogers knitted her brow in confusion. “Maybe I moved it? Perhaps Paul took it.” She looked up, eyes wide like a helpless child. “I don't know where it is.” She turned and looked at Michael Harmuth. “Did you take it?”

Harmuth shook his head, but his voice was gentle, kind. “No, madame, I didn't. I promise.”

“If it doesn't turn up in a day or two, let me know,” said Lerens. “I can come look for it, but it's just a copy so it being lost wouldn't change anything.”

“Even if it was the real thing, I don't have much to leave behind,” the old woman said. “Just this place, so it doesn't matter.”

“Let us know if we can help,” Lerens said. She closed the drawer and took her seat, nodding to Hugo almost imperceptibly.

Hugo was curious as to the old woman's attitude toward leaving her home, so he gestured to the boxes. “Are you moving soon, madame?”

She leaned over to a side table and plucked a tissue from a box. She dabbed at her eyes and nodded toward Harmuth. “My . . . I'm sorry, I get confused. Michael and the nice lady from the library have been helping me. They've been very kind.”

“Madame Juneau?”

“Yes, I think that's her name.”

“That's right,” Harmuth said. “Actually, Nicole's been over, too. She's stronger than all of us put together. Michelle and I lift one box, she lifts three.”

“Yes, Nicole,” Madame Rogers said, her voice distant. “I think I remember her.”

“Will you have a garden where you're going?” Hugo asked. “I know you've always been so fond of yours, kept it up so well.”

“My garden?” She sighed, as if the idea of a garden was all too much, or she just didn't care anymore. “I don't know. Perhaps.”

Hugo caught a look from Camille Lerens, one accompanied with a slight head tilt toward the door.

Hugo stood. “Well, we've taken up enough of your time, madame. Thank you.” He decided not to say anything about the funeral service; she seemed emotionally fragile enough at that moment.

Harmuth and Lerens stood, too. “I'll be back in the next day or two to help you with the packing, OK?” Harmuth said gently.

The old lady nodded but didn't seem to be listening, so Hugo led Lerens and Harmuth out of the apartment and closed the door gently behind them.

“She's not doing so well,” Hugo said.

“You can't blame her,” Harmuth said with a sigh. “Everything in her world is disintegrating. Her son, Sarah, her own health.”

“And her living situation,” Lerens added. “Hugo said you're moving in here.”

“Yes. The plan was for my rent money to go toward her retirement fees.”

“Makes sense, for you both,” Lerens said. She turned to Hugo. “So, do you want to hear the name of the
notaire
who drew up their wills?”

“Someone I know?”

“Yes, and no,” Lerens said with a smile. “A man by the name of Alain Benoît.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hugo drove Harmuth back to the library to spare the man a walk in the still-hot afternoon. On the way, Hugo thought about the incident between Michelle Juneau and Paul Rogers, their encounter in the basement of the library.

“Michelle told me that you and Paul were the ones who close up the library at night.”

“Yes, that's the only reason I'm going back now, to help with that.”

Hugo smiled. “A scary basement?”

“Yes.” Harmuth laughed. “I wasn't going to make fun of the girls, but they don't like to go down there at night. I can see how it'd be a little creepy but I think they've talked themselves into a frenzy over it.”

“Did Paul stay late to write down there, in the
atelier
?”

“At night? I don't think so, no. He only used to write in the mornings, then do library business the rest of the day.”

“You never saw him down there when you were closing up?”

“No, never.” Harmuth looked over at Hugo. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. And there's only the front stairs, behind the circulation desk, and the ones at the back of the building?”

“As ways to get into the basement? That's right.” Harmuth held up a finger. “Well, yes and no.”

“Yes and no? Explain.”

Harmuth chuckled again. “You don't know about the secret door?”

Hugo glanced over to see if he was joking. “Seriously?”

“Yes, actually. If you go down the back stairs, instead of turning right at the bottom into the main storage rooms, you can turn left.”

“Where the boiler room is.”

“Exactly. But beside the boiler room is another door.”

“I didn't notice it when I went down there.”

“You wouldn't unless it's pointed out. It's not hidden or anything, it's just painted over and never used. And locked, of course.”

“But it leads somewhere?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely.”

“Are you going to tell me where?” Hugo asked. He merged into the traffic on Avenue de la Bourdonnais, the Eiffel Tower soaring over them to his left.