by Mark Pryor
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.”
“Good. And I hope you weren't offended.”
“I'm a big boy, Claudia, it's OK.”
“Can you meet me for dinner tonight?” she asked, before he had a chance to.
“Yes.” He paused. “Hey, can I ask you about that favor?”
“Mais oui, what is it?”
“I have a friend, a bouquiniste. He's disappeared and I'd like some help finding him.”
“Disappeared?”
For no reason he could think of, Hugo didn't want to tell her about the kidnapping. Perhaps because he'd failed to stop it, perhaps because the police had refused to believe him. There was something larger going on, he was sure, but until he knew what it was, he would parcel information sparingly.
“Yes. At least temporarily. I'm going to his apartment later just to check but…well, I'll tell you about it tonight.”
“D'accord. Give me his name and address, I'll see what I can do. We have our own investigators here, they're plugged into all kinds of resources, the same ones the police use.”
“Merci.” He gave her the information and added a physical description, just in case. “I checked the DCRI database but they didn't have anything recent.”
“They probably wouldn't, ours would be better for a missing person. I can check easily enough.” She paused. “So, tonight. Let's eat early, I'll pick up some things and cook at your place, say seven o'clock?”
“Perfect.” Hugo hung up, dropped money on the saucer for the waiter, and picked up his hat. With jobs one and two out of the way, it was time to visit the home of an old friend.
Max's apartment on Rue Condorcet was on the upper floor of a four-story building. The only visible entrance was at the top of six granite steps bordered by an iron railing, a black door that looked like it had recently been painted. For the second time in two days, Hugo climbed the steps and pressed the highest doorbell. He cocked his head to listen but heard neither ring nor movement, so he tried again. Still nothing. He tried the lower buzzers, hoping someone might let him in, but again got no reaction. He was digging into his pocket to bring out the little bag of tools he'd brought to his new job from the FBI when the front door opened and an old woman, carrying empty shopping bags in one hand and a cane in the other, let herself out. Hugo retreated down the stairs so as not to startle her.
“Bonjour, madam.” He took off his hat and gave a slight bow.
“Monsieur, bonjour.”
“Excusez moi, je cherche un ami. Max Koche.”
“Oui, monsieur, he lives here. The top floor.”
Hugo smiled. “Yes, I tried but got no answer. Have you seen him lately?”
“Oui.” She put a hand on the iron rail and started down the stairs. “Just last week. Is that recent enough? I don't get out much.”
“It's hard when it's this cold.” He smiled. “Actually, I was hoping you'd seen or heard him in the last day or two.” He tried to keep his voice casual but the old woman was perceptive.
“Heard him? What an odd question, monsieur. Is he alright?”
“That's what I am trying to find out.”
“Well, as I say, I've not seen him this week. Or heard him.” She looked at Hugo and cocked her head. “You have an accent, you are not from Paris.”
“I'm American.”
A smile crossed her face. “Vraiment! J'adore les Americains. After the war, during the Liberation, I had quite a romance with a young colonel.” She winked at him. “At least, he said he was a colonel, I never bothered to check.”
“I'm sure he was.”
“Pah!” She waved a hand. “I'm sure it doesn't matter.” She reached the last of the stone steps and paused. “Talking of accents reminds me. A few days ago I came outside because I heard a dog barking. A man was leaving and he held the door for me.”
“He had an accent?”
“Yes. I thought perhaps he was Italian or Spanish. He was very polite when I thanked him.”
“Do you think he'd been to see Max?”
“That's why I mention it. I live on the ground floor, the one above me is empty, and the couple who live in the apartment above that are in Africa for three months. They do missionary work, you know.”
“I didn't know that. Very noble.”
She waved the hand again. “Non, monsieur, they are in some cult. Nice but…” She shrugged.
“I see. And when did you say this was?”
She frowned. “I have trouble remembering sometimes. But it was probably Saturday, perhaps Sunday. I wanted to go to bed and the noise was stopping me, so about nine in the evening. But I didn't see Monsieur Koche.” She eased past him and nodded at the front door. “I didn't lock it. Go in and knock, if you like. Au revoir, monsieur. If I see him, can I tell him you came by?”
“Of course. Je m'appelle Hugo Marston. Just tell him ‘the big American.’ And thank you for your help.”
“Le grand Américain.” She straightened up, a smile on her lips. “You are welcome, monsieur, and thank you for reminding me.”
She started to shuffle away down the street, but Hugo had one more question. “Madam. Do you remember what the man looked like? The man with the accent.”
“Oui, of course. He looked like a foreigner, monsieur. Small and thin, with dark skin. You know, his face made me think of a rat. And he kept rubbing his chin.” She started to turn away, then looked back. “Ah, mon colonel, how long since I've thought of him.” She smiled wistfully and continued on her way.
Chabot. That bastard had lied. Not only did he know Max, but he'd been to his apartment.
Hugo looked up and down the empty street, trotted up the stone stairs, and went inside. To his right was the door to the old lady's apartment, ahead of him a staircase with a worn runner, faded and dirty, inviting him up. The stairs creaked underfoot and even though he knew the building was empty he moved as quietly as he could. Instinctively he touched the weapon under his arm, a matter of reassurance rather than necessity. At the second-floor landing he passed the door to the empty apartment and kept going until he reached the third floor where, straight ahead of him, was another door. The couple in Africa. He barely paused, crossing the landing and continuing upwards.
Max's door was at the top of the staircase. Hugo stopped to catch his breath, irritated that his
breathing and heart rate were faster than he would have liked. He stepped forward and knocked on the door. Silence. He looked around and saw a small wooden table on the landing, not even knee high. It bore no plant or ornament, just a thin layer of dust.
Hugo shook his head, a slight smile on his lips. It was an apparently pointless piece of furniture, but Hugo had learned over the years that very few things were without reason. He walked over and picked up the little table. He turned it upside down and inspected it. He then flipped it onto its side and found what he was looking for. Taped under the rim was a key. He peeled it off and inserted it into Max's door, paused for a second, and then felt it turn cleanly in the lock.
The door swung open silently and Hugo stepped into Max's living room and looked around. The room was large and bright, with three windows to his left that looked out over Rue Condorcet, and filled with furniture that would have cost Max very little but would last a lifetime, dark and heavy. And everywhere, books.
Obviously, someone else had gotten there first. While the furniture was still upright, the floor was awash with the contents of the room, mostly books. Some lay alone on the floor, their covers flung open like the outstretched wings of dying birds. Others had been tossed into piles, making untidy pyramids beside, and on, the furniture. Opposite Hugo was a long sofa piled high with them, several precariously balanced at the precipice edge of the leather seat.
A wing-backed armchair sat beside the couch, near the windows and at an angle to the room, its seat one of the few spaces free of literature. A pair of round end tables flanked the chair, books piled five and six high, and some spilling onto the floor. Directly to Hugo's left was an armoire, its doors open. He moved further into the room, intentionally keeping away from the large windows, and looked inside.
Max had inserted some cheap pine boards to hold more books, but the shelves of the armoire were mostly empty, their contents scattered on the floor at Hugo's feet. He looked down at them and his boots crinkled the discarded plastic envelopes that had once protected these books from the elements. With the bent covers and torn pages around him, the empty sheaths seemed like discarded body bags, too late to do any real good other than carry away the dead.
The plastic covers told Hugo one thing, though: the books tucked away in the armoire had been Max's more valuable ones. He knelt and sifted through them. No more Rimbauds, and he didn't see On War.
Standing there, in Max's home for the first time, he felt the familiar buzz of the crime scene. His senses and training were reactivating for the first time in years, absorbing and channeling information, processing what he saw into a coherent story. He crisscrossed the room, touching as little as possible, his eyes raking over everything. By the time he'd finished scouring the room he knew one thing: someone had searched Max's place, quickly and quietly. But there had been no fight in here.
Hugo moved to a half-open door in the far corner. It led into a short hallway, off of which sat a tiny kitchen on the right and a bathroom on the left. The hallway ended at Max's bedroom, the door open. He trod quietly, again out of habit as much as necessity, glancing into the kitchen and bathroom for further signs of intrusion. Nothing.
At the entrance to Max's room, he paused.
The bedroom was a person's greatest sanctuary, the place where he did his thinking, his sleeping, his loving. Walking in uninvited gave Hugo pause. He had, or hoped he had, always treated these rooms with utmost respect. So many of the bodies that he'd seen were in bedrooms; Austin's axe murderer hacked his victims to death as they slept, and he'd killed half a dozen before Hugo caught him a thousand miles away, sound asleep in a disused box car that sat at the back of a Cincinnati rail yard. Children, too, he'd found in bedrooms, though not usually their own.
He stepped inside. Facing the door was Max's queen-size bed, the blankets pulled up. At its foot sat a low, wooden trunk, its lid open. Hugo's chest tightened as he moved toward it, but he found it empty, blankets dropped carelessly in front after it had been searched. He turned to the closet on his left. The floor creaked as he walked to it and the door creaked, too, as if in sympathy. A string hung from a light bulb and Hugo tugged it. In the harsh light he saw two brown leather suitcases, open and empty. Beside them was a large duffel bag, panels of green canvas stitched together with heavy thread. Military, thought Hugo, and also empty. He ran his hands over the shirts and jackets hanging in the closet, then looked over the half-dozen pairs of pants on a high shelf.
Hugo heard a gentle click from the hallway. He snapped the light off and instinctively put a hand under his jacket. He heard the noise again. Had he closed the apartment door behind him when he came in? Locked it?
Hugo moved slowly out of the closet, staying close to the wall so he wouldn't be seen, and because that was where the floor was less likely to creak. He approached the back of the open bedroom door and peered through the crack between door and jamb. He saw a thin sliver of the hallway. He watched for a second, but saw no movement. His fingers closed around the butt of his gun.
“Anyone there?” he called out. If he was to startle someone, it should be from somewhere safe, from here. But no response.
He stepped around the door and moved quickly into the hallway, eyes darting from the kitchen to the bathroom. He ghosted against the wall when he heard a noise from the bathroom, a light brushing sound. He slid the gun from its holster and spoke in a low, calm voice. “I am an officer from the US Embassy and I am armed. Please remain where you are and identify yourself.”
His heart hammered in his chest and his grip tightened at a light thump from the bathroom.
He raised his gun and aimed it at the door.
With a gentle bump the door swung open and a black cat wandered into the hallway and looked up at him. It meowed once, licked its lips, and then sashayed into the living room. Hugo let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding and reholstered his weapon. He'd always preferred dogs.
He stepped into the bathroom. A simple pedestal sink and bathtub, but no shower. Beside the bath sat two saucers, both empty. Hugo knelt and touched them. Dry, so whatever milk or water Max had left for his cat was long gone. He stood and opened the vanity above the sink. A razor, shaving brush, and a little pot for the cream stood together on the shelf. Beside them, a plastic beaker holding a toothbrush and toothpaste.
He tried the kitchen, hoping to see something to change his mind, to challenge the disturbing and obvious conclusion that was settling in. The waist-high fridge held an open tub of paté, a large block of cheese, several plastic containers of unidentifiable leftovers, an unopened bottle of Sancerre, and a half-container of milk. He pulled it out, sniffed it, and almost retched. He went to empty it into the sink but the policeman in him said to preserve everything, so he put it back, silently irritated that he'd put his fingerprints on the carton.
Hugo looked over the rest of kitchen and noticed a loaf of bread protruding from under a dish cloth, so he picked it up and tapped it against the counter. Hard as a rock. He grimaced and moved back to the living room, where he found the cat perched on the top of Max's armchair.
He realized that he'd been hoping, despite everything he'd seen, that Max had been taken against his will but was staying away of his own accord. That hope now seemed ridiculous. The stale bread and sour milk made it clear that Max had been away from his apartment for several days at least, and the luggage and clothes still in the closet meant he'd not gone away of his own accord.
But what to do? He couldn't very well call the police. “Bonjour. Hugo Marston here. I just broke into someone's apartment and would like to report someone breaking in a day or two before me.” Hardly.
There was one person he could call. He pulled out his phone and dialed Emma.
“Hey, it's me,” he said.
“Well hello me, everything alright? You sound tense.”
“I'm fine.” How did she always know? She was better at reading people than he was. “Can you connect me with that journalist again? Claudia Rou
x.”
She sighed, and he knew what she was thinking. I don't believe that everything's fine, but if you won't tell me what's going on, I won't push it. “I should have the number written here somewhere. Got it. Hold on and I'll connect you.”
Twenty seconds later, Hugo heard two clicks and Claudia's voice.
“‘Allo? Hugo?”
“Claudia, I know you're busy today, I'm sorry to bother you.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes. Listen, I'm at Max's place.”
“He's there? You found him?”
“No. I found his cat.”
“His cat? I don't understand.”
“Neither do I. I let myself in and—”
“You broke into his apartment?”
“Claudia, ça va. It's OK. I had a key.”
“A key. Since when?”
“That's not important. Listen, someone was here before me, they went through his books. But all his personal things are here like he just stepped out to buy bread. Claudia, I didn't tell you everything before. Max was kidnapped, I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What? Why didn't you—”
“I know, I know. I'll fill you in later, but the point is, I was hoping that whoever had taken him had let him go, then told him to clear out of the city. But his stuff is here, clothes and suitcases, and his bread is stale and his milk sour. He hasn't been back.”
“Merde, I'm sorry, this is terrible. Why would someone break into his place?”
“I'm not sure. Did you find anything out?”
“Oh, Hugo. I'm sorry. I haven't had time. That new drug task force I mentioned, I've been meeting with them all day. But I'll do it before I come over tonight, I promise.”
“Thanks.” Hugo swallowed his disappointment. Max's kidnapping hadn't worried the detectives at the prefecture, and a man gone from his apartment for a couple of days in Paris wasn't going to register with even the lowliest gendarme. He shouldn't be surprised that Claudia hadn't gotten to it. “No problem,” he said. “I was just here so I thought I'd call. I'll see you tonight, OK? You remember the way?”