The Bookseller (8 page)

 

 

That night, Hugo walked along the left bank of the Seine. It was almost eight o'clock and the green metal boxes attached to the stone walls were closed and locked tight, the sellers all gone. The air sat heavy and cold around him as he walked, and once he slipped on a patch of black ice on the sidewalk. He'd already paid a visit to Max's home, getting there by taxi an hour after talking to Tom. No one was there, either in Max's apartment or in any of the other four in the building. He'd brought his tools and could have picked the lock, but there were too many people still around, it was too early for that kind of clandestine activity. Reluctantly he'd left the place, knowing he'd return with a plan, a definite way to get through the front door. Now, he avoided Max's stall by cutting down the narrow Rue de Nevers. It made no sense, but he didn't feel ready to see it again. He felt as if it were a crime scene and, by returning to it full of questions rather than answers, the metal boxes might become contaminated and never give up their secrets.

He turned left again, making his way onto Rue Dauphine, heading toward his apartment. He wasn't ready to call it a night, though; he was restless and needed to be around people. Even if that meant sitting alone in a bar. He slowed, gazing into the windows of the tiny stores that made up these narrow streets, one-room boutiques that sold not much to hardly anyone. There were dozens of them in this
arrondissement
, and he often wondered how they paid the rent.

He found an empty table under a heating lamp at a café on Rue Andre Mazet. It was busy for a Monday night, but it pleased him to be out in a crowd. He ordered a scotch, and when the waiter returned
he opened his wallet and took out a ten Euro note. The woman at the small table next to him stared at his wallet. She tried to be subtle about it but the edge of her table touched Hugo's, and their chairs were just inches apart. And, Hugo would have to admit, her presence had already attracted his attention, the moment she walked into the café. He sipped his drink and took the opportunity to look at her a little more closely. She was a few years younger than him, maybe mid-thirties, with light brown hair that she wore short, an almost-bob. Stylish and pretty, but with a hardness to the face that almost certainly dissuaded strange men from making conversation.

As he put his glass down, she caught him looking. He was about to apologize, when she did.

“
Je m'excuse
,
monsieur
,” she said, nodding at his wallet. “I noticed your badge. You are a cop?”

“
Non
. Not exactly.” So it wasn't the money. “I work at the US Embassy, in security.”

“
Bien
. You speak French very well.” She looked at his wallet again and switched to English. “You should know better than to carry so much cash.” A smile accompanied the reprimand.

He patted the bulge under his suit and returned the smile. “The US Embassy, remember.”

“Ah yes, you Americans and your guns. Perhaps I can help you lighten your wallet.”

“Excuse me?” America or France, Hugo knew that a certain type of working girl, usually the more attractive ones, plied their trade in bars, restaurants, and cafés rather than on the street. But he'd never actually been propositioned before, and he wasn't even sure if that's what was happening now.

“By buying me a drink,” she said, putting out her hand. “Claudia Roux.” She put her other hand into her bag and pulled out her own credentials. “A journalist.”

“I'm sorry, of course, I thought…I'm Hugo Marston,” he added hurriedly.

“I know what you thought, Monsieur Marston, and I'm not sure
whether to be flattered or appalled.” Her eyes reflected neither, though the slight curl at the corners of her mouth suggested amusement.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I should be appalled, not you.” He caught the waiter's eye and when he came over, Hugo turned to his companion. “What would you like?”

She spoke directly to the waiter. “
Un whisky, s'il vous plait
.” She held up a hand, stalling the young man. “Have you eaten yet, Monsieur Marston?”

“Actually, no.”

She turned back to the waiter. “
Alors, deux omelettes. Vous avez les cepes toujours
?”

“
Oui madam. Deux omelettes avec cepes
?”

“
Oui
.” She smiled at Hugo. “You are married, I take it.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Why do you say that?” Hugo asked.

“You should see your face. You are not used to having a woman order for you.”

He nodded. “That's true.” His southern belle, Christine, would have let them both starve before she ordered for him at a restaurant. “But I'm not married, not anymore.”

She watched him closely as he spoke and Hugo couldn't help but hold her gaze. She had hazel eyes, utterly flawless, and once he'd noticed them the toughness she carried about her like a cloak softened considerably. Her eyes matched perfectly a thick stripe of color in the scarf wound around her neck. Hugo wondered whether that was intentional, perhaps the gift of an observant friend or lover.

“Not anymore?” she said. “Then we are either celebrating or commiserating, no? Either way, we should order wine with dinner.”

“Fine by me,” Hugo said. “So what exactly did you order? Omelets, yes, but ‘cepes'?”

“A type of mushroom. The best type. The Italians call them porcini but the ones they grow around Bordeaux are different, I would swear to it. Much better. We're a little late in the season but some chefs keep a good supply, and it seems we're in luck. You've never had them?”

“Not that I know of.” When they arrived, he discovered that she was right. Rich but light, without the meaty, overpowering taste of other mushrooms, such as the ubiquitous portabella. Cooked in butter and garlic, he guessed, and only now did he realize how hungry he was. The waiter arrived with another basket of bread.

“So what kind of journalist are you?” Hugo asked between bites.

“Newspaper. A police reporter for
Le Monde
. Robbery, rape, murder, all that stuff. Drugs, too, that's my current interest. The cops are seeing a lot more of that lately, which means I'm writing about it more.” She smiled and tore a piece of bread in half. “The whole European Union thing. You open the borders up to tourists and trade and guess what else you get.”

“That makes sense.”

“Believe me, the dealers think so. The cops are starting a new antidrugs task force. I'm kissing a lot of butt to get info about it, get an exclusive or two.” She was switching between French and English and had used the slang
cul
for “butt,” which made Hugo smile. The way she said it, the language and her soft voice, it actually sounded elegant.

“I see.” Hugo poured them more wine. “And are drugs more interesting than robberies or murder?”

“Usually. More back story. A murder or a robbery just happens and that's it. They're not like on television, the murders we have here. They're quick and senseless, almost always. But with drugs there's often intrigue, drama, and real people touched by them. Plus, I'm tired of looking at dead bodies.”

“I understand that.” He told her a little about his time in the FBI, working out of the Houston office as a profiler, showing up to murder scenes and having to dispassionately evaluate why the killer had gouged out the eyes of the victim. Too often a child. He'd had his successes, but success for him usually meant catching the bad guy after the event, not stopping him before. And that kind of success took its toll, which is why, he told Claudia, when he'd been offered the chance to get out of the trenches and travel a little, he jumped at it. No need to mention Ellie.

“But I think you miss it, no?” Again the cocked head as she looked at him.

“Maybe I do. A little.” He looked at Claudia. “So you have good contacts at the prefecture?”

She batted her eyelids dramatically. “What do you think?”

He laughed. Of course she did. “Good. Do you do favors for American cops?”

“That depends on the favor.” She forked the last bite of her omelet into her mouth and chewed. “And it depends on what's in it for me.”

Hugo laughed gently. “I think you'd do this cop a favor even if there was nothing in it for you.”

Delicate eyebrows rose high. “Why is that?”

“Just guessing. How about I pay for dinner?”

He did, and afterwards they went to Hugo's apartment, where they drank brandy by the fire. She was a more enthusiastic listener than talker, mentioning only her “humble roots,” a father with some health problems who was turning to religion in his later years, and the lack of a mother growing up. She'd had a short marriage but didn't say whether it ended well or badly, and then she peppered him with questions about Texas. When they had exchanged enough background information and small talk, they went to bed.

Her lovemaking was adept, intense, her breath sweet with the night's liquor and her body as firm as he'd imagined it. He felt out of practice, because he was. She, without meaning to be, was like a dance instructor, guiding her talented but rusty student, and somehow he didn't mind the direction because he knew it meant she was getting what she wanted, and that was what he wanted.

She left in the night, thinking he was asleep. He watched her silhouette glide about the room gathering clothes and then dressing. She paused by the bed before letting herself out, just for a moment. She didn't leave a phone number or e-mail address.

A cop and a journalist would be able to find each other, if they wanted.

When he awoke, Hugo was glad to be alone. He hadn't thought about the morning after but as he made coffee he did, and the idea of awkward chatter disturbed him. Far better to part without diluting the memory with idle pleasantries. Then again, it'd been a while since this apartment had heard a female voice, so maybe the chatter would have been bearable.

It was Tuesday now, almost nine o'clock when he closed the apartment door behind him. He had three tasks for the day. The first was to find a bite to eat and some more coffee, the second was to ask Claudia for that favor and maybe arrange lunch or dinner together, and the third was to get inside Max's apartment on Rue Condorcet. But food and coffee first.

He strolled down the normally busy Boulevard Saint-Germain, crowded on weekends with tourists and in the week with commuters. It was at its quietest right now, the lull between the morning rush hour and the lunch-time exodus from offices and stores. He bought a crepe with lemon juice and sugar at the stand beside the Church of Saint Germain des Pres, then passed by the famous cafés of Deux Magots and Café de Flore, where the artists and writers of the previous generations congregated. He kept walking northwest toward the Seine until he got to Rue de Bellechasse, where he turned right and went into Café Rubais. There, the coffee was just as good as anyone's, and it was a few Euros cheaper. It was served quickly and he drank it almost as fast, impatient to begin his day's work. With a few sips left he reached for his phone. Emma answered on the second ring.

“Can you get me the number for a journalist at
Le Monde
? Name of Claudia Roux.”

“Of course. But would it help if I reminded you that you're on vacation still?”

“Not really.”

“OK. You have a pen?”

“Yes, but can you connect me?”

“I can conference us then hang up,” she said, sweetly, “if dialing a number is too much trouble for your poor little fingers.”

“Much too much trouble.”

“Fine, but you'll have to hold while I call her, if you can stand the inconvenience.” Before he could reply, the line went dead and stayed that way for a full minute. Emma reappeared and said, “Here she is, Your Majesty. Call me if you need anything.”

Claudia was smiling when she said “
Bonjour
,” he could hear it in her voice. “I hope I didn't wake you when I left,” she said.

“No,” he replied truthfully, “you didn't.”