The Paris Librarian (20 page)

“Now you're being coy.”

“You know me,” Hugo said. “I don't like to show my cards until I'm sure they're good ones.”

Lerens sat up straight. “You have an idea of what's going on?”

“No, definitely not. If I did, I'd tell you.”

“You better,” Lerens said. “Else I'll swap you out for Tom. That man wouldn't keep secrets from me.”

“No?”

She laughed. “I'm not sure he's even capable of keeping secrets.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” Hugo drained his coffee. “In that case, you'd be in for a big surprise.”

Hugo spent the afternoon at his office, glad of the peace and quiet and that he didn't have to ask Emma to intercept his calls. He fired up his computer and began his research with a look into the poison, curare, reading as much as he could about it. Lerens had been right, for it to kill Rogers it had to be absorbed into the blood, possibly injected or stabbed some other way. It didn't take much at all to paralyze a man's respiratory system, but even a cup of the stuff in Paul's water bottle wouldn't have been effective.

And yet there was no injury, no cut or graze or injection site. Hugo wondered if Sprengelmeyer would really be able to spot a tiny pinprick, but whether he could or not, no needle was found in the
atelier
. And with the quick reaction time of the drug, there seemed little doubt that the curare had entered the blood stream of Paul Rogers while he was in his little writing room.

But how?

Unable to solve that puzzle, and learning nothing more revealing about the drug, Hugo sat back and thought about the interview with Alain Benoît. He couldn't put his finger on anything the man had said that was a provable lie, yet he couldn't escape the feeling that Benoît had not been telling them the whole truth, had been hiding something. If this
was
murder, and Hugo believed both Paul and Sarah had indeed been murdered, then where did Alain Benoît fit in all this? The only two things distinguishing him from the other potential suspects were that he had been close to both Paul and Sarah, and the fact that he didn't work at the library.

But so wha
t?

If Paul had been the only one to die, then Hugo could've seen a motive, an Alain Benoît in love with Sarah Gregory and unwilling to let Paul stand in the way. It was possible, he supposed, that Benoît killed Rogers and was subsequently rejected by Sarah, and he killed her in a fit of rage. Or maybe she knew or guessed he'd killed Paul, and was going to turn him in, leaving Benoît with no alternative but to murder her to avoid being caught.

Hugo swung his feet onto his desktop as Tom knocked and let himself in, dropping into a chair opposite Hugo with a grunt.

“Actually working?” Tom asked.

“One of us should.”

“On the library murders?”

“That what we're calling them?”

“If they're murders.” Tom frowned. “I got your message, obviously.”

“Quite the conundrum, we have.”

“You're smarter than me, big fella, so maybe you can explain either a motive, or how the hell Rogers got himself poisoned behind a locked door.”

“I can come up with a motive, though it's a bit of a reach. What I don't have, is an answer to your second question.”

“Where's Miss Marple when you need her, eh?”

“Making tea and crumpets, I imagine.” Hugo shook his head. “We're missing some important parts of the story, but I'm not even sure which direction I should be looking.”

“Toward Saint-Germain-des-Prés, I believe. At least, for the foreseeable future.”

“All about the stomach, eh?”

“Hey, we have guests to show a good time. And it's the damn weekend, lighten up for an hour or two.” Tom gave him a lingering look. “After all, you know what today is, right?”

“It always seems like you shouldn't be the one to remind me about that.”

“I know. Some sense of guilt or appreciation or some shit like that.”

“And like I always say, you have no reason to feel either. But if it makes you feel better, just buy me a drink like you always do.” Hugo winked. “Come to think of it, that's about the only time you ever pay for drinks. Including your own.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tom shifted awkwardly and changed the subject. “Hey, I know, you can do your Sherlock trick for our new friends.”

“Oh, I don't think there's any need for that.”

“Hell yes, there is.”

“You'd really make me do that?”

“And you're really gonna pretend you hate doing it?” Tom slapped the desktop as he stood. “Come on, it'll be fun. You know it pisses me off how good you are, and this time I'm giving you advance notice. That makes it easy.”

Hugo swung his feet to the floor. “If it's easy, why don't you do it for a change?”

“Because, dummy, then I couldn't get mad.” He lowered his voice to an almost-mutter. “And even though I'll never admit it in public, it's a pretty cool trick that I don't think I could pull off.”

“Well, there's a rare admission,” said Hugo, eyeing his phone. “And would you look at that, I think I was accidentally recording that conversation.”

Hugo had not been to Les Deux Magots for over a year, and his last visit had been on embassy business. It had been the café of choice for the intellectual elites and writers of years gone by, people like Simone de Beauvoir, Albert Camus, Earnest Hemmingway, and Jean-Paul Sartre. The café lived off that history, and its location in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, but even with its tables filled with tourists rather than writers, the place still impressed.

Its tiled floors and polished tables, the shining brass handrails and immaculate wait staff, all gave the impression of a café in its heyday. As Hugo sat beside Tom, he found it easy to look past the backpacks and cameras and imagine this as the haven Ernest Hemingway settled into with his two pencils and writing journals, and maybe a libation to unlock the creative mind.

“This place is so cool,” Merlyn said, her eyes shining. She sat opposite Hugo but her head swiveled from left to right, taking it all in.

“It looks like it's not changed for fifty years,” Miki said. “And I mean that in a good way.”

Once they were settled, a waiter approached the table, a slender man in his forties dressed impeccably in black pants, a white shirt, and a black vest. He took out his pen, which slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Hugo noticed the man wince as he stooped to pick it up.

The waiter straightened, pen in hand, and smiled. “
Bonsoir messieurs et mesdames
.
Quelque chose à boire?
” he asked.

Merlyn and Miki opted for champagne, Hugo went for an Americano, and Tom, ignoring Hugo's curious gaze, settled on a scotch with lots of ice.

“Moderation is more realistic than abstinence,” Tom muttered when the waiter had gone.

“I'm with you on that,” Hugo said. “No worries here.”

Tom grunted and then slowly smiled at Hugo, an evil glint in his eye. “Say, ladies, I have a treat for you.”

“Oh, yes?” Merlyn replied.

“Well, it's not my treat really, it's Hugo's. Have you ever read any Sherlock Holmes, seen the movies or the BBC series?” The two women nodded. “You know where he does that thing, where he can tell someone had just come back from the battlefield by the color of mud on his shoes, or deduces that someone's an aspiring magician from the one worn knee in his pants.”

“Trousers, if Sherlock's doing it,” Hugo said mildly.

“Whatever. Anyway, Hugo can do the same thing. Better, even.”

“Is that so?” Miki asked, doubt in her voice.

“Yep. Pick someone in here, and Hugo will tell you something about them.”

Merlyn immediately looked around, settling on a tall couple in their fifties by the main window. “How about them?”

Hugo shook his head, laughing. “It has to be someone I'd pay attention to, not someone I can barely see.”

“Fine. Our waiter.”

“Our waiter. All right.” Hugo cleared his throat dramatically, then stared at the table for a moment. “He plays soccer in his spare time, or used to, and probably plays as a striker, although I could be wrong about that. He's injured right now—I'd say his right hip. Probably a strain to the hip capsule itself, or more likely the upper quads. And he's healing quite nicely.”

Merlyn and Miki swapped glances, as if unsure whether they were being pranked. “Are you serious?” Merlyn asked.

“I am,” Hugo replied.

“You get that from the way he holds his pen, I suppose?” Tom said.

“Actually, yes. But more from the way he tied his shoelaces.”

Merlyn tilted her head and stared at Hugo. “No. Now you're kidding.”

“Ask him,” Hugo said. “See if I'm right.”

“My French isn't good enough.”

“Oh, I forgot to add that despite him feigning otherwise, he speaks decent English.”

“Wow, really?” When Hugo nodded, she raised her hand to catch the waiter's attention. When he came over, Merlyn asked him in English, “
Monsieur
, do you play football?”

The waiter hesitated, then smiled and replied, also in English. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“I was just curious. You play every week?”

“Usually, but right now I'm injured. I hope to play again soon.”

“Oh, you are? I didn't see you limping,” Merlyn said.

“It's getting better. I strained my . . .” he paused, searching for the word. “The leg muscle by my hip, running for the ball.”

“That'd be his quad,” Hugo said smugly. “Upper quad.”

“What position do you play?” she asked.

“Midfield or forward. Usually forward. You are a fan?”

“Yes,” she said. “West Ham all the way.”

“
Bien
.” He smiled again. “Can I get you anything else?”

When the waiter walked off, Tom shook his head. “Damn, Hugo. Every time you get me. Every damn time.”

“Yeah, that was amazing,” Merlyn said. “Tell us how you knew.”

“I can't do that,” Hugo said. “That's like a magician showing the rabbit up his sleeve, or the false top in his hat.”

Tom groaned loudly. “I forgot to warn you girls. A mandatory part of this little sideshow is Hugo making his audience beg him to tell how he did it.”

Hugo sipped his wine and settled back in his seat. “Pretty poor job of begging, I have to say.”

“Fine, I'll do it.” Merlyn took his hand and batted her eyelashes. “Please, Mr. Hugo, we so admire you, will you kindly tell us how you knew all that stuff?”

“That's better,” Hugo said. “I'll think about it.”

“Oh, come on!” Miki said. “I'll beg, too, if I have to.”

Something about her offer made Hugo uncomfortable, but he couldn't decide whether her tone overflowed with shameless sincerity or glib insincerity.

“Fine,” he said. “He's wearing the bracelet of his favorite team—”

“Wait, you didn't say anything about that,” Merlyn protested.

“Too easy. Anyone can spot a bracelet, even if you people didn't.” He held up a hand to silence Merlyn's impending protestation. “And I know it's his favorite team, because they're playing right now and he keeps checking his phone, I imagine to see the score.”

“So how did you know he plays?”

“Ah, that was a lucky guess,” Hugo said. “He's at least forty but in good shape, so he obviously exercises. I combined his love of soccer with his injury and presumed. Some luck, I'll admit.”

“And what about that injury?” Miki said. “You're not serious that you could tell from his shoelaces?”

“Actually, I am. Here's the thing,” Hugo went on, “he's right-handed, you can see that when he writes down orders. But when he dropped his pen, he bent over and picked it up with his left hand. I looked at his shoelaces, and his left one is tied directly in the center of the shoe, over the tongue. But his right one is off center, way to the left. What do those two things tell you?”