The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

  “You can start by changing the designation of the investigation. It's neither a hoax nor a mistake.”

  Durand raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  The detective stepped closer and Hugo smelled the stale cigarettes on his breath, saw the little flecks of gold in the angry green eyes. “Monsieur. I appreciate you are not used to being in this situation and that usually you are in my shoes. However, I have done my job and will continue to do it. Now, please let go of my arm. Right now.”

  A new voice snapped out behind Hugo. “What's going on here?”

  Durand stiffened, his eyes wary now.

  So the newcomer is your superior. Hugo turned to look at the man who'd spoken. He was short and fat, with a polka-dot bow tie scrunched under the lowest of several round chins. He immediately reminded Hugo of the wily Hercule Poirot with his dark, watchful eyes and balding, egg-shaped head. He also had the moustache, though this man's was a thin line rather than the thick and oiled specimen worn by Agatha Christie's sleuth.

  “Just trying to get some information,” Hugo said. “No big deal.”

  “I am Capitaine Raul Garcia,” the man said.

  “Hugo Marston.”

  “A tourist?”

  “Head of security at the US Embassy. I live here.”

  Garcia nodded and watched Hugo for a moment, then his eyes slid down to Hugo's hand, which still gripped Durand's sleeve. Garcia smiled, like a conjuror withholding the secret to a magic trick. “Bien. Pleased to meet you. However, I'm sure you appreciate that even an American colleague has no need to lay hands on one of my detectives.”

  Hugo held his eye. This was an olive branch, a chance for Hugo to back off. Behind the soft words, though, it was clear whose side Garcia would take.

  Hugo released Durand's sleeve and opened his mouth to say something, but Garcia brushed past him and, with a flick of his wrist, directed his junior detective into the prefecture. Hugo clenched his jaw and started after them, but another gesture from Garcia sent two uniformed gendarmes to block his way. Hugo didn't feel like a fight, and being arrested by the French cops would take some explaining to his own boss.

  He walked away from the prefecture, avoiding the riverfront even though he knew all the stalls would be closed up for the day, Sunday being a day of rest for Christians, sinners, and bouquinistes alike.

  At his apartment, he left messages at the ambassador's home and office, hoping his boss would be able to pull strings, get an investigation moving. Two hours later, neither call was returned.

  Work kept his mind busy the rest of the afternoon, drafting shift rosters and approving vacation time until he could slip into a hot bath with a cold scotch, the events of the past two days seeping back into his mind after the impenetrable barrier of embassy business. A sadness crept through him, a feeling of hopelessness that had come to replace the urgency he'd felt immediately after Max's kidnapping. He tried to suppress it, tell himself there was still a chance, but he knew that hope was fading. If Max was free, uninjured, he would have sought out Hugo by now. And if he wasn't…Eventually, Hugo climbed from the tub, his body sapped of energy by the worry, the warm water, and the drink. He fell into bed long before midnight but slept fitfully.

  Hugo woke early on Monday. He was glad to be active and walked the mile and a half to the US Embassy, thinking about Max every step of the way, wondering what he could do—should do—to help find his friend. A dark thought pressed in on him, reminding him that finding people wasn't all he was good at. When those who'd gone missing couldn't be found, all that was left was to catch those who'd harmed them. Given Max's age and the coldness in Nica's eyes, Hugo knew he had to face the possibility that finding Max was no longer his priority.

  The snow had receded from the roads, pushed back by a warm Sunday and the workers who had scraped and brushed the city streets all weekend. Piles of graying slush lay at intervals on the sidewalk, watery at the edges, creating webs of rivulets that streaked the pavement and disappeared into the gutters. After yesterday's warmth it had turned cold again, temperatures hovering a couple of degrees above freezing, and Hugo wondered if the frigid day would turn the wet streets into ice rinks.

  He used a side door at the embassy, showing his credentials on the way in and passing through the least busy of the metal detectors. It was a formality; he'd known the two marines guarding that entrance for over a year.

  Inside, Hugo walked down the quiet hallway, hearing the murmur of voices and the clicking of computer keys behind closed doors, glad not to see anyone. He didn't particularly want to explain why he was not out enjoying his vacation or on his way to the States, the usual holiday destination for embassy employees. But if he wanted to use his office, seeing his secretary was unavoidable.

  In another era, Emma would have been described as handsome, and it would have been a compliment. In her late fifties, she had the erect posture and even features that gave her a timeless appeal. Her shoulder-length brown hair knew its place, always, and she wore just enough make-up to let you know she had made an effort. They had worked together for two years, but other than her never-failing promptness and efficiency, Hugo knew little about her. He had access to every law enforcement tool in existence and no doubt could have learned plenty, but he'd respected her privacy the way she respected, and protected, his.

  He pushed open the heavy wooden door labeled US Embassy Security and stepped in, smiling at Emma when she looked up. He waited for the raised eyebrow, the lingering look, knowing she wouldn't ask about his unscheduled presence directly.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Hugo said, closing the door behind him.

  “Why, yes it is.” Emma put down a magazine, the Economist. No fluff for her.

  Hugo nodded to it. “Nothing to do while I'm away?”

  “Plenty. I just don't want to do it.” She held his eye. “Is everything OK?”

  “Mostly. I was hoping I'd need the help of the embassy counsel to undo my divorce, but that didn't work out.”

  “Oh, Hugo.” Emma's mouth tightened. “I'm sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Hugo smiled to let her know it wasn't that bad. “Perhaps later in the week you could arrange for a couple of young ladies to come by my place and make me feel better.”

  Emma frowned and tsk-tsked, but Hugo's attempts to be outrageous had become a routine, part of their dynamic and even more reassuring than his smile. “You are a horrible man, Hugo Marston.”

  “Thanks, I try. Anything I need to know about?”

  “Yes. In the few hours you were away from the office, all of the embassy's weaponry was stolen, the ambassador was eaten by a lion, and immediately after that we were invaded by Martians.” She shrugged. “It happens every time you leave.”

  “I see. Well, unless some of those creatures are in my office, I shall get to work.”

  Emma tutted again as he went into his office and closed the door. He rounded the desk and sat down, switching on his computer. It wasn't work he intended to do, it was research. First, to learn about bouquinistes. He'd always meant to get the history of this Parisian phenomenon from Max over a drink, but their conversation had always been about other things—mostly books. He hoped he hadn't missed his chance.

  The first site he visited, a travel guide, told him the basics. The term bouquinistes came from the Dutch word boeckin, meaning “small book.” Made sense. The first sellers, he read, used wheelbarrows to transport and sell their goods, and fastened trays to the parapets of the bridges with thin leather straps. After the French Revolution, business boomed when entire libraries were “liberated” from nobles and wound up for sale cheap on the banks of the Seine. In 1891, bouquinistes received permission to permanently attach their boxes to the quaysides. Hugo was struck by the line: “Today, the waiting list to become one of Paris's 250 bouquinistes is eight years.”

  Hugo's phone rang, and he let Emma pick it up. A moment later, his intercom buzzed. “It's a Peter Kendall. I
told him you were on vacation but he said you'd told him to call.”

  “I did, thanks Emma. Can you put him through?” The line clicked. “Mr. Kendall, Hugo Marston here.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Marston, I have news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  He heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. “I'd call it good. After you left I got straight onto my friend at Christie's. Been selling books all his life. He asked me to take some pictures and e-mail them to him. I would have walked it over, but with the snow…Well, I just e-mailed him, and you'll never guess.”

  “It is a first edition?” That was no great surprise given Kendall's earlier opinion, but Hugo thought he heard excitement in the bookseller's voice.

  “Yes, it is. And…and that scribble in the front. It's Rimbaud's signature.” Kendall cleared his throat. “Actually, it's more than that, which is what threw me off.”

  “I don't understand,” Hugo said.

  “I saw the name Paul written inside the front cover. I assumed that someone named Paul had owned and written his name in the book, but my friend is convinced that Rimbaud inscribed the book to his lover.”

  “Paul Verlaine.”

  “Exactly, very impressive, Mr. Marston. It turns out that Rimbaud did indeed inscribe three copies of his book for Verlaine.”

  “And this is one of them?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Incredible. So what does that mean?”

  “It means, Mr. Marston, that your book is worth a great deal of money.” When Hugo didn't respond, Kendall coughed gently. “I am told that at auction you can expect something in the region of a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

  Hugo was stunned. “Are you serious?”

  “That's what they told me, Mr. Marston. Unless you wish to keep the book.”

  “No.” Hugo almost laughed. “If someone wants to pay that much for a book, Mr. Kendall, then they want it a lot more than I do.”

  “In that case, I shall take it over to Christie's myself. There is an auction the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. They normally like to advertise the lots that are for sale in advance, but my friend assures me that a few well-placed phone calls will bring in the right bidders for a piece like this.”

  “Not many at that price, I'm guessing.”

  “A dozen or more, or so he tells me. You'd be surprised what the idle rich will pay for a book.”

  “Yeah, I would. OK, that sounds fine. Is there anything I need to do?”

  “If you would be kind enough to fax me handwritten, or at least typed and signed, authorization to handle the sale. I hate to be a pedant, Mr. Marston, but…”

  “A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Hugo said. “Give me your fax number.”

  Ten minutes later, Hugo had entrusted the most valuable possession he'd ever owned to a secondhand bookseller in a Paris back street. He wondered for a moment why it bothered him so little, but he didn't want to think about bad luck so he dove back into his research on booksellers. A hundred thousand dollars made him a lot more intent on finding Max. Most of that money rightly belonged to the old man.

  He began to read more on the history of the bouquinistes and was surprised to see that they were tightly regulated, even today. At least, in theory. From what he was seeing, they were initially prohibited from selling anything but books, but with the advent of international tourism they had banded together to form a semiofficial union, Le Syndicat Des Bouquinistes de Paris, or SBP. With more than two hundred members operating in the most tourist-friendly parts of Paris, and with the weight of history behind them, the government had relented on this rule and allowed them to sell souvenirs—as long as they carried three times as many books as they did mini-Eiffel Towers and postcards. Apparently the SBP had managed to keep their rent low, too, a nominal amount. Hugo was no economist but he knew a good deal when he saw one. Low rent, prime location, and an ever-renewing supply of customers. No wonder there was an eight-year wait to become a bouquiniste. It also explained how the Seine's band of booksellers were able to undercut the book shops and tourist boutiques.

  A knock at the door interrupted him, and he stood as Ambassador Taylor came in.

  Rotund, balding, and somewhere around average height, one could walk past J. Bradford Taylor on the street and, assuming you noticed him at all, would imagine him to be a bank clerk or accountant. Actually, Hugo had joked with Ambassador Taylor over brandy one night that he'd make a master criminal—utterly unrecognizable and hugely intelligent. Typical of the ambassador, he'd taken the joke as a compliment.

  “Morning, sir,” Hugo said.

  “Morning to you. Aren't you on vacation?” He gestured for Hugo to sit, and plopped down in a chair opposite him.

  “Yes and no. Something came up.”

  “So I heard. I got your messages and made a couple of calls.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don't thank me, Hugo, I'm not going to be any help.”

  “How's that?”

  “I talked to a couple of people and they say there's nothing much to investigate. Which confused me. What the hell's going on?”

  Hugo leaned forward, the last hope of official cooperation evaporating before his eyes. “Ambassador, a friend was kidnapped in front of me. A man with a gun took him from his book stall by Pont Neuf.”

  “You saw this?”

  “I was right there, I couldn't do a damn thing except call the police afterwards. The detective made all the right moves but never really…I don't know.” Hugo sat back. “It's hard to explain. He went through the motions, but since a couple of people told a different story, he's just thrown up his hands and stopped looking.”

  Taylor stroked his chin. “That's very odd. Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea, but I was hoping you might be able to find out.”

  “I'm sorry Hugo, but this is one of those jurisdictional things.” He held up a hand as Hugo started to protest. “Yes, I know, we both hate that kind of talk, but the fact remains. If they don't want to investigate, there's nothing you or I can do about it. And I know what you're thinking, but don't. We have a sensitive conference coming up, our friends from Zimbabwe, and this isn't the time to be ruffling French feathers.”

  “Honestly, ambassador, right now I don't care about French feathers.”

  “Well I do,” Taylor said, standing. “And you better start because that's your job. I'm sorry about your friend, Hugo, I mean that. But if the locals are satisfied there was no crime, then what can I do? Between nothing and very little. Which,” he added, holding up a warning finger, “is what I want you to be doing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you stand down, vacation or not.”

  When Emma walked into his office with a cup of coffee, Hugo was staring into space.

  “Hugo, you look pale. Are you OK?”

  “Yes, fine. Just thinking, that's all. I just had some…news.”

  “Oh dear. Bad news, from the look on your face. And the look on the ambassador's when he walked out.”

  Hugo looked up. “Oh, I'm not worried about him. He has a job to do. No, this is something else, something good but mysterious, you might say.”

  “Care to share? We could use some excitement around here.”

  “Lions and Martians not enough for you?” He thanked her for the coffee and, when she left, he turned back to his computer.

  What had that bouquiniste said his name was? Ah yes, Jean Chabot.

  One of the things Hugo had done as embassy security chief was to negotiate access for himself and senior members of his staff to the databases of France's foreign intelligence agency, the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, or DGSE, and the databases of the French version of the FBI, the Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, or DCRI. If he'd wanted to, he could also tap into Interpol's global communications system, known as I-24/7. He'd try that next, if nothing came up.

  He first logged into the DCRI's syst
em. The latest generation of crime-fighting software, it could search for crimes or criminals using the barest of details. A name, a place, a date, or even a modus operandi would bring back results. Not always fast, it was nonetheless thorough, and his first thought was to have it track down that bastard Nica. But his fingers hovered over the keyboard. Presumably the man's first name, but short for Nicolas? Nicholas? Nikolas? Too many possibilities. Instead, he filled two search boxes with the names “Jean” and “Chabot.”

  Then he sat back, lifted his boots onto his desk, and took a careful sip of Emma's hot coffee. Perfect, as always. Why he couldn't make it this good at home, he'd no clue. Even using her written instructions, and the exact same beans and coffee-concocting equipment, he ended up producing either a witch-thin potion or a bitter, burnt-tasting brew.

  He took another sip and watched as a thick bar on his computer screen filled up from left to right. It paused at ninety-nine percent and then flashed up twelve hits on Frenchmen named “Jean Chabot.” Only three were in Paris, so he started with those. The first was a bust: a black male killed in prison two years ago. The second and third Jean Chabots were also not his man, a quick glance at the pictures showed that much. He ventured further afield, choosing a Chabot from Toulouse. Not him. The next one was from Pau, a town Hugo knew from following the Tour de France religiously every year. Down near the Pyrénées, one of the mountain stages of that race usually began or ended there.

  This Jean Chabot was his man, the too-close eyes and thin mouth unmistakable. He had six convictions, all for theft-related offenses, the most petty was a shoplifting charge when he was twenty and the most serious an armed robbery, for which he spent four years behind bars. What struck Hugo was that each of Chabot's crimes was in southwestern France, three in the city of Pau itself, two more in Biarritz, and the other one in Lourdes. Nothing at all in Paris.

  Which meant that Hugo now had two questions that he couldn't answer.

  First, why would a humble bouquiniste get kidnapped? Second, how did a not-so-petty criminal from the Pyrénées-Atlantiques Department end up in possession of one of the most coveted bookstalls in Paris? He didn't believe that Chabot didn't know Max, or at least know of him. But if Chabot wasn't talking, there wasn't a lot he could do about it. Yet.