The Bookseller (13 page)

“Fuck, I've missed you.” Tom was grinning broadly, unfolding the paper to the full-page ad. At least half of the page was taken up by the long, bare legs of a dancer. “Her name is Mimi and she's a goddamn marvel, a star as good as any from the past. For her show tonight it's buy one ticket, a friend gets in for free. Shall we?”

“She is beautiful. But you know that buying a ticket doesn't entitle you to sleep with her?”

“My dear friend,” Tom wagged a finger. “I think that's for her to decide, not you. Well?”

Hugo stood and patted his friend's head. “Good to see you, too, Tom. No dancing girls, but I do have booze at home. You coming?”

 

 

It was early afternoon the next day when Hugo fixed himself a sandwich and flipped on the coffee maker for his third cup, and Tom's first. More whisky, several pints of water, and a host of war stories had kept them up well past midnight and neither man's body had seen fit to stir before the noon bells clanged.

As the coffee brewed and Tom took a shower, Hugo turned on the computer in his study, now Tom's bedroom, and was logging in when the doorbell rang. Hugo checked his security monitor, wondering if Claudia had decided to stop by rather than return the message he'd left with her. Instead, he saw a young man with the beginnings of a Mohawk fidgeting on the doorstep. He wore a blue parka with an insignia on the breast and blue nylon pants with a black stripe down the sides. Delivery boy, and apparently Dimitrios wasn't at his station to let him in. Hugo picked up his phone and unlocked the door remotely. A minute later he opened his apartment door and took an envelope from the young man, thanked him with some coins, and retreated back inside.

The envelope, unmarked, was between white and cream in color and so expensive it was almost cloth. Thin, too, so no more than a letter inside. The thinner the safer, Hugo knew. He went to his desk and searched for his letter opener, an ornate wooden knife given him by the head of a Namibian delegation who'd been impressed by the size and efficiency of the security detail Hugo had provided. He slipped it into the corner of the envelope and scythed it open. Inside, as he'd suspected, a single piece of paper. He pulled the letter out and sat down to read.

It was written in English, in an elegant, sloping hand. From the broadness of the letters and the lack of indentation on the back, Hugo could see it was written with a fountain pen. No doubt an expensive one. The paper was embossed with raised, silver lettering and, of all things, a coat of arms belonging to one Gérard de Roussillon, le Comte d'Auvergne. On the page was written:

Monsieur Marston:

Please forgive the short notice, I am not in the habit of imposing without a fair degree of warning. However, if you find yourself available I would be very grateful if you could spare me and a few of my friends an hour or two of your time. In a poor attempt to make amends for my late invitation, I will send a car for you at seven o'clock. Please dress for dinner.

I look forward to meeting you.

It was not, Hugo knew, as much an invitation as a summons. And he had no idea why it had come to him. He tried but failed to remember an official function at the embassy involving a count. But he'd come across a lot of people whose names and backgrounds he didn't know, people who often wanted to curry favor with Americans. This guy could be one of them.

Hugo turned back to his computer and typed his host's name into a search engine, but other than a few links to books on French nobility, there was nothing of note on the first page of results. Hugo clicked onto the second page and saw a reference to “G. de Roussillon.” The description indicated that, assuming it was the same man, le Comte d'Auvergne was a client. Hugo clicked on the link and the image of worn, leather-bound books appeared. It was the website for the bookshop belonging to Pierre Vasson, perhaps the most expensive and connected of the country's sellers of “
livres anciens et d'occasion
.” Hugo had been there several times, more to browse than buy, such were the prices. The image of the Rimbaud sprang into his mind, the connection too obvious not to rear its head. Not another coincidence, surely.

Hugo had loved books since he was a child, but they were starting to give him a headache.

He considered calling Emma to get more background on de Roussillon but couldn't face the inevitable questions in her voice, so he dialed Claudia's number instead. Again no answer, and when he rang off he felt a little foolish. The last thing he wanted to do was chase her away by appearing overly eager.

Dating games. Jesus.

And that line,
Dress for dinner
. Where Hugo came from that meant jeans and cowboy boots, but in embassy-speak it meant black tie, though he could have guessed that a tuxedo was required just from the silken stationary. Still, he didn't own shiny black shoes and didn't feel obliged to rush out and buy any at such short notice, so the cowboy boots would stay.

Tom emerged from the shower and Hugo excused himself, having already seen too much of his friend. When he handed him hot coffee five minutes later, Tom also took the letter.

“Am I your date?” he said.

“Not the kind of place where excessive drinking and swearing is welcome, by the looks of the envelope.”

“Fair enough,” Tom said. “I got my list of things to do from you yesterday, anyway. Want me to look into this guy first?”

“No,” said Hugo. “I kind of like surprises.”

The car was there at ten minutes before seven, a black Mercedes chauffeured by a willowy man in his sixties wearing a gray suit and a white, neatly trimmed mustache. The driver opened the rear door for Hugo with the merest of bows and drove in silence, in a cautious but assertive way that told Hugo he'd received police or military training once upon a time. They headed west, gliding alongside the Seine, the water drifting in and out of view as the night's fog folded itself around it and them.

After a couple of miles they slanted northward, and Hugo's sense of direction was rewarded when they passed the Memorial to the Martyrs.
They were headed to Nueilly-sur-Seine, one of the wealthiest areas in Paris, not far out enough to lose cachet as a suburb but not close enough to suffer the trials and tribulations of impermanence, which was the frequent result of tourist fluctuations. The families and some of the homes in the neighborhood had been there for hundreds of years and, God willing, would be there hundreds more.

The driver slowed and turned onto Boulevard D'Argenson, a boulevard in every sense, and not by chance did it intersect with Boulevard Chateau. Wide but quiet, the road was as straight as an arrow, perfectly spaced plane trees a first line of defense against traffic. The trees shaded the road and a broad cobbled sidewalk, on the other side of which ran a continuous stretch of bushes and shrubbery that provided color, and privacy, to the expensive homes behind. A minute later the car slowed again and crunched into the gravel driveway of one of the homes, a miniature chateau in stone that had a square, three-story tower at each corner. To his right, a pond lapped at the corner of the house, almost moat-like, deep green under the security lights.
Impressive
, Hugo thought,
even for this street
. He couldn't help notice the absence of gates on these driveways, a lack of security Hugo had observed ever since he'd taken the job in Paris. The French did not believe in preemptive measures, he'd found—an attitude that took some adjusting to, but that was also somehow reassuring.

Two other cars were in the driveway, parked as if they belonged there. An ancient but clean Range Rover and a spotless Bentley, also pre-1990s. Hugo wondered whether he was the only guest, but thought it more likely that everyone else attending had chauffeurs, all of whom were off somewhere smoking and grumbling about their bosses. His driver slipped out of the car and opened the passenger door for Hugo, who stepped out and thanked the man in French. Hugo turned to look at the house, admire really. The curtains were closed in all the windows and they glowed golden in the dark. He smelled wood smoke from one of the chimneys.

“This way, monsieur,” said the driver. They started toward the front entrance, two heavy wooden doors set back and atop three stone steps.
As they got close, one of the doors opened and light from inside spilled out, the shape of a person momentarily just a silhouette.

Hugo saw that it was a woman and stopped in his tracks when he recognized Claudia. The driver, unsure, hovered. Claudia walked down the steps, high heels clicking on the stone. She wore a dress that was tight and simple—black velvet, Hugo guessed. A diamond necklace crossed her throat, and from it an emerald pendant nestled against her chest.

“
Jean, merci
,” she said to the driver. “You are excused for now. We'll call you when Monsieur Marston wishes to return home.”

You are excused
?
So she lives here
, Hugo thought.
Nice house for a journalist.
Behind him, Hugo heard the heavy clunk of the Mercedes door and he turned to watch it pull through the circular driveway and into the street.

“Can't have a nice driveway like this cluttered with cars like that,” Hugo said.

Claudia started toward him but wobbled when her high heels hit the gravel. He put out an arm. “Damn shoes,” she said.

“Do you mind telling me what's going on?” he asked, glancing over at her. She was chewing her lip as they walked to the foot of the stairs, but didn't respond. Hugo turned to face her. “Claudia, was that invitation really from you?”

Claudia finally looked at him, and sighed. “I kept meaning to tell you,” she said. “But it never seemed like the right time.”

“Tell me what, that this is where you live?” Hugo waved an arm at the mansion. “Look, we've only known each other a few days, you are allowed to have secrets.”

“I know, Hugo. Tonight wasn't my idea, believe me. I mentioned you to my father and…” She turned to face him as footsteps approached from inside, and Hugo instinctively stepped back.

A man's silhouette appeared in the doorway, paused for a moment, then trotted lightly down the steps, a hand extended toward Hugo. The man had perfect white teeth and manicured gray hair, and when he reached the foot of the steps Hugo saw how slight he was, in height and
build.
Probably sixty
, Hugo thought,
maybe sixty-five
. And not wearing the uniform of the evening, rather a pale yellow sweater, blue pants, and a light blue cravat held in place with a gold pin. Hugo shook his hand.

“Gérard de Roussillon,” the man smiled.

“
Enchanté
,” Hugo said.

“Welcome to my home; please come in and meet some of my friends.” Roussillon spoke in English, his accent almost undetectable. No doubt, Hugo thought, from years of tutoring, followed by vacations and social engagements, and maybe business ones, too, with his aristocratic counterparts from across the English Channel.

Roussillon sprang up the first two steps and then paused. “Monsieur Marston, I apologize for my attire, I have not yet had a chance to change for dinner. Perhaps you will accompany me upstairs while I dress?”

Hugo looked at Claudia and thought he detected the slightest of nods, but it might have been a trick of the light. “Certainly,” he said. “And I appreciate the invitation.”

“Of course, of course!” He waved away the thanks. “I do love to throw a party. Claudia, not so much, but she knows I am—how do you say it in America? Ah yes, a ‘party animal.' No, it is I who should be thanking you, for coming at such short notice.”

Roussillon stood aside to let Claudia and Hugo enter the reception hall, which was circular, stone-flagged, and unfurnished except for a round table, teak maybe, right in the center. It bore a ceramic vase brimming with wild flowers. Looking down from the walls were four large paintings of rural scenes. To his immediate right a small door opened into a closet, now a cloakroom, and Roussillon disappeared inside for a second with Hugo's hat and coat.

“No butler?” he murmured to Claudia, who responded with a tight smile.

Hugo could see the main room through an archway ahead of him but Roussillon turned left, up a curved, wooden staircase. He followed his host up the stairs and down a long, wide hallway until they reached what he announced was his dressing room. He pointed to an ancient oak door, its iron hinges stretching like arrows across the broad panels.

“I'd like to show you my little turret,” Roussillon said. “It's my sanctuary, a sort of private place where I can meditate and exercise. No one may disturb me in there, and only Jean is allowed in.” He smiled. “My only house rule.”

“I see.” Hugo wasn't sure what else to say or where this was going.