The Bookseller (12 page)

Hugo did so.

Inside, a long staircase led up to the offices of the SBP. He took his hat off and started up, the thick carpet on the stairs making his entrance a silent one. At the top was a landing where the carpet turned into creaking floorboards, old but polished and a little slick underfoot. An unmanned desk sat to his left, guarding the two closed doors of the SBP. He walked up to the desk, looking for a bell and listening for the sound of voices or typing. He heard a phone ring and the door on the left swung open. A dumpy, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo bustled out carrying a stack of letters. He thought she hadn't noticed him but, without looking up, she dumped the mail on the desk and said, “
Oui monsieur
?”

Hugo gave his name and broke into his clumsiest French. “I am a journalist, American, and wanted to write an article about the bouquinistes.”

It wasn't much of a plan but he couldn't play the policeman and, in his experience, the only people who could ask questions without raising suspicion were cops and journalists.

“You should make an appointment and speak with Monsieur Gravois,” she said, still avoiding eye contact.

“Monsieur Gravois, yes,” Hugo said. “The thing is, I'm only in Paris today and tomorrow, then I head to Belgium. Chocolates and beer.” He shrugged. Americans. What can you do?

“
Un moment, s'il vous plait
,” she said, apparently unimpressed by chocolates, beer, or Americans. She looked over her shoulder at the
door she'd just come through, then at the phone on her desk, then at Hugo. She stood and walked back to the door, knocked tentatively, and listened for a response. Hugo didn't hear it but she did, and she slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, as if an unwelcome dog were trying to follow. Or an unwelcome visitor. A minute later she opened the door wide and stood holding it, bidding Hugo enter.

When he did, Hugo got two surprises, only one of which he chided himself for. The first came when he saw the man behind the desk, the bald head and gaunt features, the large eyes staring at him and ready to take in everything about his visitor, but giving nothing in return. Bruno Gravois was the man who had slapped Chabot.

The second surprise was the office itself. Three metal filing cabinets stood against the wall opposite the door, each drawer labeled in neat type, and to his left Gravois sat behind a desk that knew no clutter. Two sheets of paper lay on a blotter, and as Hugo moved closer Gravois laid his pen down between them, his movement as deliberate as that of a surgeon. No computer that Hugo could see, not even a telephone. Three prints hung on the wall, two placed precisely over the gaps between the filing cabinets and the third behind the desk, and as far as Hugo could tell, squarely in the middle. The book case to the right of the doorway was full but not stuffed, and even a brief glance told Hugo that every book had been placed according to its category.

Gravois rose and narrowed his eyes just a touch, trying to remember where they'd seen each other before. Hugo pictured their sidewalk stand-off and scrolled his mind back over their encounter, remembering nothing that would directly contradict his journalist story. He decided to take the initiative, to make it a non event.

“At the book stall by Pont Neuf,” Hugo said. He leaned across the desk and extended his hand. “I believe we saw each other there a few days ago. I'm Hugo Marston.”

“Yes, I remember now.” Gravois nodded slowly. “You were asking questions.” Despite the warmth of the office, he wore gloves and, as if to explain, said, “I am undergoing treatment for cancer, I have to be careful about infections.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Hugo said. That explained the baldness and lack of eyebrows. “As I told your assistant, I am a journalist. I'd been told that a bouquiniste called Max worked at the stall, that he'd give me an interview.”

“
Ah, oui
? About what?” He spoke slowly, his voice deep and gravelly, his words as deliberate as his movements.

“About the bookstalls. Their history, what it's like to work at one, what they think of tourists.”

“
Alors
. Sit, Monsieur Marston, please.” Gravois directed his guest to one of two identical seats opposite him and sat down himself. “Tourists pay the bouquinistes' rent, what do you suppose they think of them?”

“True,” said Hugo. “But they don't have to like them.”

“And you think,” Gravois said, “that my bouquinistes are stupid enough to tell you they don't like Americans?”

“No, no, you misunderstand. That's not the focus of my article at all.”

“And who is your employer? Do you have credentials?”

“I'm freelance. I hope to sell to one of the airlines, actually. They pay the best.”

“And your credentials?”

“Unfortunately,” Hugo shrugged, “you only get those when you work for a news organization. We freelancers have to rely on our charm.”

“Indeed.” Gravois shifted in his seat. “What do you want from me?”

Hugo pulled out the notepad and pen that he'd bought at a
tabac
en route. “I've always wondered how the bouquinistes get their stalls.”

“Like Monsieur Chabot, for example?”

“Monsieur…?” Hugo played dumb, as good at this routine as anyone. But Gravois was inscrutable. He would make a great interrogator, Hugo thought; you had no idea what he knew, but you suspected he knew a lot.

“No matter.” Gravois waved a hand. “Bouquinistes have been around for many years, over a century. How the stalls are passed along varies, Monsieur Marston. Sometimes father to son, sometimes friends.”

“Sometimes the SBP?”

“Yes. We are a resource for our members in many ways. That is one of them.”

“What else does the SBP do?”

“Many things.” Gravois looked away from Hugo for the first time, checking the alignment of his pen. Almost perfect but not quite. Gravois straightened it, then looked up again. “We are a lobbying organization. If the government tries to oppress our members, we represent them. We provide supplemental health packages for those who do not want to rely on the current system.”

“And for that your members pay a fee?”

“Like any union, yes, of course.” Gravois smiled, but there was no change in the eyes. “Even journalists have unions, you know.”

“So I've heard,” said Hugo. “Just not in America.”

“No? America is an interesting country, I should visit one day.”

“You should.” Hugo cleared his throat. He knew he would have to choose his words carefully, that for some reason suspicion was already aroused. That fact alone told Hugo plenty, about Gravois if not about what he was doing. Fastidious and suspicious, and either his temperament or some position of power allowed him to slap a man in public and fear no recrimination. It probably didn't matter if Hugo got thrown out as a fraud, but until he knew where Max was, he had no desire to antagonize anyone. “Are all bouquinistes members of the SBP?”

“Yes. It is, as the English say, ‘a closed shop.' Your French, by the way, is excellent. For an American.”

“Thank you.” Hugo ignored the slight. “Let me ask you this, do you suppose Monsieur Chabot would give me an interview? Background on the SBP is of great interest but so too are the daily activities of your members.”

“You did well to come to me first, monsieur. I think that few bouquinistes, none perhaps, would talk to you without my…our permission. You must understand that the police, government officials of several kinds, they go around looking for petty violations. Those spots are valuable real estate and I think some bureaucrats resent that we get
them so cheaply. To them, money is more important than tradition. It's a shame.”

“Yes, it is. But with your permission, I can interview Monsieur Chabot?”

They locked eyes for a moment, each man trying to read the thoughts and intentions of the other. Gravois spoke first.

“No. I think it is better that the bouquinistes retain a little mystery about them, don't you?” A thin smile. “You are free to write whatever pleases you, but I would prefer it if you did not bother my members, monsieur.”

The interview was clearly over but Hugo made no attempt to get up. “Then one last question, Monsieur Gravois. How exactly did Monsieur Chabot come to be in possession of that stall?”

Again the deliberate pause. “Why your interest in him?”

Hugo shrugged. “When I spoke to him he didn't seem to know much about books. He seems young and I'm not sure he has the highest ranking in, or respect from, the SBP.”
Yes, I saw you hit him.
“And yet he suddenly comes into possession of what must surely be one of the best stalls in Paris.”

“Suddenly?” Gravois stood. “What makes you say it was sudden?”

“Just something Chabot said.” Hugo flipped his notebook closed, well aware that Gravois had been looking to see if he'd been taking notes. He had. “I don't remember what exactly, he just left me with that impression.”

“I hide nothing from you, Monsieur Marston, when I tell you that he is a stupid man. But even stupid men need to make a living, no?”

“Of course.” Hugo reached for his hat as Gravois limped around the desk, leaning on it for support.

“I expect that with his limited intelligence and your good but imperfect language skills, there was a miscommunication.” Gravois picked up his cane and walked to the door. He opened it and waited. “That is, of course, another reason why an interview is not a good idea. It would benefit no one for you to misrepresent their words in your article. Good day, Monsieur Marston. And
bonne chance
.”

Hugo paused in the doorway and turned to face Gravois, close enough to smell stale tobacco on the man's breath. Funny, he hadn't noticed an ashtray in here. It was an intentional invasion of space and Hugo felt satisfaction when Gravois shifted his weight to his bad foot.

“Do you know where Max Koche is, Monsieur Gravois?”

“Max Koche?” His face was impassive. “I'm not familiar with the name. We have several hundred members, I do not know them all.”

“Then maybe you can look him up. Jean Chabot is running his stall.”

“
Au revoir
Monsieur Marston. And as they say in America, ‘take care.'”

 

 

It wasn't much of a café, and wasn't one at all except for those who knew it was there. On a narrow street less than a block from the Seine, a weathered board spelled
Chez Maman
in peeling black letters and hung over an entrance that showed no particular sign of welcoming strangers. It was five o'clock, a good time to find a table and some peace, and maybe wash away the bitter taste that had settled in his mouth in Rue Nollet.

Hugo put his shoulder to the door and stepped into a small room filled with trails of smoke that rose past the blank, tired faces of men who stared into cups of coffee, beer, and shot glasses of amber liquid. A scarred stone floor and the heavy elbows of the bar's patrons made every one of the dozen or so tables wobble, though no one was moving much. Above Hugo's head dark beams striped the low ceiling, the plaster stained yellow from a hundred years or more of cigarette and cigar smoke.

Hugo closed the door behind him, then looked over and saw the owner behind the bar, the woman known simply as Maman. She was short and squat and unwilling to pour anything but beer, wine, and the occasional whisky—if you didn't mind being horribly overcharged. Sixty-something, maybe seventy, but always there, and no matter how crowded and smoky the place got she was visible, shuffling up and down behind the bar with her bright orange head of hair that was a slightly different shade every week. She laughed plenty but never for long—the bar's smoke had stained her lungs, too, and jocularity inevitably devolved into a rasping, hacking cough that her customers pretended not to hear. For those moments she kept a canister of fresh
oxygen behind the bar, always within reach, and never far from the cigarette that burned in her fingers.

But her coffee was hot, strong, and served faster and cheaper than anywhere else in Paris. And, if she recognized your face, most of the time it came free when you ordered something stronger. It was a place for bouquinistes who needed a moment of warmth or shelter and for the men, and occasionally women, who worked nearby, sweeping the streets and emptying the tourists' trash cans. Hugo had been here at least once a month for the past two years, for the coffee and the atmosphere.

He'd been introduced to the place, and to Maman, by Max a couple of months after they became friends. Hugo wasn't the most avid book collector, but twenty years in law enforcement, mostly with the FBI, had meant a discerning and distrustful eye when it came to buying goods from the side of the road. He'd first met Max on a quick trip over from England, chancing across his stall and buying a book about late eighteenth-century serial killers. He'd reconnected with Max when he moved to Paris and soon found him to be one of the few sellers who derived joy not from the money he made from a sale, but from the very act of pressing a collector's item into the hands of an appreciative customer. Most of the time Hugo stopped by his stall to chat and bought something on a whim, often not paying until the next time he stopped by.

Once, Max had presented him with a set of first-edition books by Eric Ambler, Hugo's favorite author. Hugo had not found out until much later that the old man had squirreled them away one by one, seeking them out among his colleagues for months before presenting them with a flourish one summer morning.

There had always been something about the old man, his disinterest in money, a habit of deflecting conversation about himself with a wave of his hands, and the occasional far-off look that started in his eyes and quickly shut him off from the world. They were friends, Hugo knew, good friends, but whatever lurked within Max always had to be offered by the old man himself, not extracted. And, now that Hugo knew about his past, he understood why.

“
L'Américain
.” Maman said it every time he came in; a year ago with mistrust, but nowadays just to let him know she knew.

“
Maman
.” Hugo nodded and asked for a shot of her whisky. He'd soak it up with a sandwich later if he had to, but the burn of Maman's overpriced rot-gut was good for right now. He perched at the bar and slammed the first one, nodding at Maman for a second. He wrapped a hand around it and smiled his thanks as she shuffled over and slid a cup of coffee in front of him. He sipped from the glass, then stood to make way for two men who'd just entered the bar, rubbing warmth into their hands.

He found a table at the back of the room, sat down, and began to run Max's abduction back through his mind, step by step, trying to reduce it to a training-ground exercise to take the sting out of a real man's kidnapping, maybe his murder. He knew there was little more he could have done to save his old friend, but that didn't stop him from trying to think of something, or from finding fault with himself for letting it happen. At the very least he should have abided by the seven-foot rule: the minimum distance between an agent and a hostile, enough distance to draw a weapon before a man with a knife became dangerous. A rule he'd forgotten, or at least forgotten to observe.
Too long out of the game
, he thought.

He was staring into his coffee, watching the steam rise slowly over the black liquid, when a newspaper slapped down on the table and he heard a voice behind him.

“You like look a miserable bastard. Buy me a drink and I'll cheer you up.”

Hugo turned in his seat and a smile spread over his face. “Tom! What the hell are you doing here?”

“Tourist.” Tom grinned back, then looked around the bar. “Nice place you got here.”

“Isn't it? How the hell did you find me here?”

“Let's just say you have a lioness for a secretary.”

“A toothless one, apparently.” He'd told Emma about this place a long time ago; he couldn't even remember why. But she knew he came here with Max, must have guessed he'd be here now.

Hugo resisted the urge to put his friend in a bear hug. Chez Maman was a place where men nodded and shook hands with each other, then sat down. Hugs were reserved for after midnight when the orange-haired lady's hooch could be blamed.

Hugo gestured to the chair opposite him and stole a second look at Tom as he sat. Time had softened Hugo's own figure, but regular weight workouts and the occasional run had ensured that a core strength and fitness remained. Tom, on the other hand, had ballooned. The wiry figure of old had been obliterated by Tom's natural distaste for physical activity and his penchant for good food. And alcohol. Hugo knew better than to say anything, but seeing his friend huff his way into the chair, hearing the air whistle through his nose, was decidedly disappointing. He could probably get away with a comment on the thinning hair, but somehow his friend's shabby look and his watery, blood-shot eyes saddened Hugo and served to silence him.

“That's better.” Tom settled in and looked around again. “I don't see any cocktail waitresses.”

“You won't,” Hugo smiled. “And don't try ordering from back here, either. What are you having?”

“Same as you. Load us up.”

Hugo went to the bar and brought back two beers and two double shots of whisky. A moment later Maman herself dropped a cup of coffee onto the table in front of Tom.

“On the house,” she said with a wink.

Hugo nudged Tom's shin with his foot as their eyes followed Maman's weighty shuffle back to the bar. “Never seen her do that before,” Hugo said. “You got something to tell me?”

“I don't kiss and tell. I sure as hell don't kiss that.”

Hugo sat back and his fingers played with his whisky glass, a smile on his face. “I can't believe you're here, Tom. It's good to see you.”

“Well, you sounded all sad and needy on the phone, plus I have this Marseille thing.” He smirked. “And playing in Paris is always fun.”

“You still like to play, huh? Why does that make me nervous?”

“You'll survive. What about you, still doing your Sherlock Holmes
party trick? You used to pretend to hate it when I made you do that for the ladies.”

“Pretend?” He'd minded when Tom made him perform, but not too much. It looked like a party trick, that was true, but mostly it was a result of Hugo training himself to observe. And it was also true that he'd gotten the idea from Sherlock Holmes, who was able to startle people with his accurate deductions about where they'd been, or where they were going, through simple observations.

“Come on, you've not seen me for ages. Tell me something about myself.“

Hugo rolled his eyes. “Later maybe. I have something more interesting to talk about first.”

“The guy sounds like a control freak.” Tom had drained his whisky, half his beer, and was onto his coffee. “His office, the way he looked and talked, everything by the sounds of it. Jeez, the only person I know of who slaps people in public is you.”

“Funny.”

“Look, Hugo, it's also possible he was just fucking with you. He may not know anything at all, just hates nosey American reporters. And there ain't no sin in that.”

“Maybe. But he's definitely a control freak, I'd say actively paranoid. I just got the sense that he was hiding something. Correction: he was clearly hiding something.”

“That's the definition of paranoid, Hugo. They hide shit when they don't have to, they hide shit they don't even know about.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hugo sipped at his own coffee, now almost cold.

“So what the fuck can I do to help?”

“Do you think you can find out who bought the book? Get it back?”

“Dude, I can find the buyer. I can have him disappear in a car accident somewhere in Monaco if you like.”

Hugo looked at his friend and knew that he was only half-joking. Maybe not even half. “Let's keep it legit. He can have his money back and if the book turns out to have nothing to do with this, I'll give him first option to buy at a discount.”

“You sweet man. And if he doesn't want to give it up?”

“I rely on your discretion and powers of persuasion,” Hugo said.

“You got it.”

“You remember I said legit, right?”

“Yeah, you did say that. Anything else?”

“Yes, one thing. Think you can dig up anything on this Bruno Gravois?”

“Honestly Hugo, if there's anything on him then it's probably on the DCRI or DGSE databases. I'll look, but all these agencies now, CIA, FBI, and Interpol,” he snorted derisively, “they're all touchy feely, into sharing information and open access. Which means that we gather it, they use it. It's bullshit if you ask me, but of course no one does.”

“Of course.” Hugo drained his coffee. “Now, if the lecture's over, let's head out. I have work to do in the morning.”

“Work?” Tom raised his beer glass. “Fuck work.”

“Ah yes, you had something else in mind.”

“Meaning?”

“You're hoping I'll go to the Moulin Rouge with you tonight.”

Tom slapped the table with delight. “Now we're talking! Go on, do your thing.”

“For old time's sake, but I'm a little rusty so this is an easy one. We'll start with the fact that you are tech savvy, which means you get your news online. And yet you come here carrying a newspaper. It's crumpled, so you've finished with it, but you didn't read it here, obviously, so you probably got it from the airport or train station.”

“Airport. Free in the business class lounge.”

“And yet you still have it, so I have to presume that you saw something that caught your eye and made you want to hang on to it. Otherwise, obviously, you would have disposed of the paper long before you got here.”

“So far so good.”

“So, knowing you, the something that caught your eye will either be drinkable or have long, sleek legs. Rule out booze because I can't think of anything drink-related that would cause you to hang on to a newspaper for hours. Which leaves us with the legs. Now, regular strip joints don't advertize in major newspapers, so I'm guessing it's something higher class and aimed at tourists, which brings me to the Moulin Rouge.”

“Impressive.”

“I'm not done, because you can go there any time you like, so why the newspaper today? That's made easier because I also know that you're a cheap bastard, which makes me suspect there's a coupon or discount advertized for tonight. Maybe tomorrow night.”