The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

  “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.

  “Maybe later, I should not ignore my guests for too long. Please sit.” Roussillon gestured toward an undersized chintz armchair. More for decoration than comfort, Hugo thought, but he sat anyway. Roussillon unpinned and slid off his cravat, then took off his sweater and dropped them both on his dressing table. He opened a mirrored closet and inspected two tuxedo jackets. “I do have a penchant for white tails. People never seem to wear those any more, I don't know why.”

  “Monsieur.” Hugo knew little and cared less about the fashion habits of the elite. And he certainly didn't care to watch them undress. “I am a little confused as to why you invited me.”

  Roussillon unbuckled and kicked off his pants, revealing plum-colored, silk boxer shorts over thin, white legs. He turned and looked at Hugo. “You Americans are known for speaking bluntly. We, and even more so the English, tend to say in a paragraph what can and should be said in a sentence. So you will not mind if I speak openly and honestly with you?”

  “I would prefer it, actually.” And I'd also prefer you to be in pants, he thought.

  “Bien. This discussion requires, I think, that we arrive at a clear understanding.” Roussillon turned back to his closet and pulled out a black tuxedo. “You are a behavioral scientist, yes? A profiler?”

  “I was, yes. For the FBI.”

  “You consider yourself good at reading people, then.”

  “A misconception,” said Hugo. “I consider myself good at reading crime scenes.”

  Roussillon turned and held Hugo's eye. “Then it will come as a surprise to learn that I am gay?”

  “This whole evening,” Hugo said with a smile, “is turning into a surprise. That isn't one of them.”

  Roussillon chuckled. “Monsieur Marston. My daughter is a desirable woman, attractive, and intelligent. All of her life I have guided and helped her, provided for her basic needs. Are you with me so far?”

  “I think so.”

  “What am I telling you, Monsieur Marston? I am telling you that I am very careful about who I let near to my daughter. I do not mind if she has boyfriends or girlfriends, but I do not like her to fall in love with any of them.” He looked at Hugo. “And I do all I can to discourage them falling in love with her.”

  Hugo raised one eyebrow. “I thought Paris was the city of love.”

  “Mais non.” Roussillon's tone lightened. “The city of loving is more accurate.”

  “Either way,” Hugo said, stretching his legs out, “I have known Claudia for less than a week. Love is not an issue, believe me.”

  “Good.” Roussillon slipped on a starched white shirt. “Understand that my protectionist concerns aren't merely those of a fussy father. Claudia is, in my view, particularly susceptible to a damaged heart.”

  “How do you mean?” Hugo asked.

  “Did you know she has been married before, yes?”

  “Yes, she told me.”

  “And did she tell you how it ended?”

  “None of my business,” Hugo said.

  “Maybe not. But I'll tell you anyway.” He turned his cool eyes to Hugo. “They were very much in love. He was a policeman, a young detective, handsome and clever and on his way up. On the way up until he was shot by the same type of people that Claudia is writing about now. They'd been married less than two years and she hasn't, to my knowledge, dated anyone since. Your name is the first she has mentioned to me, that much I can say.”

  “I didn't know any of that. And I'm still not sure it's my business
.”

  Roussillon smiled. “And even knowing this, you think it strange that I vet the men in my grown daughter's life?”

  “I am not a father, Monsieur de Roussillon. One of the reasons for that is my job, the things I have seen, the things I do, and the people I meet. If I haven't had children because of the way the world is, I can hardly fault you for protecting yours so carefully,” Hugo said. “And as I told you, we've known each other less than a week. You don't need to worry about it being love just yet.”

  “You have been married before?”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “Of course, you are from America, where marriage is like a fine suit. You wear and enjoy it for a while, then discard it when it becomes worn or uncomfortable.”

  Hugo clenched his jaw but kept his tone even. “My first wife was killed in an accident. And my second decided she didn't like the French enough to stay married to me and live here.”

  Roussillon turned and looked at Hugo. “Je m'excuse. I should not have assumed the worst. Forgive me.”

  Hugo nodded. “As I said, you are a father. I don't blame you for being protective. Even if she is a grown woman.”

  “Not to me.” Roussillon smiled, then turned and went back to buttoning up his shirt. “She didn't tell you about me, about being a Roussillon?”

  “No. And I confess the name would not have meant much to me anyway.”

  “That is often part of the problem, from where I stand. We do have to be careful, you know, because the name, the title, they can attract a certain sort of man.”

  “I can imagine,” Hugo said.

  “And forgive me for appearing to be rude, but I had imagined my daughter marrying a man of…well, a Frenchman, anyway.”

  “A man of what?” Hugo knew the answer and was amused at this glance into social elitism. He also felt a slight jolt of surprise that marriage would even occur to Roussillon at this stage because neither he nor Claudia had broached the subject of exclusivity, let alone matrimony. And he doubted it was something she'd gone to her father about for discussion or advice.

  “Of nobility. Of a certain class.” Roussillon grimaced. “Someone who recognizes the family name, at least. You find all this amusing?”

  Hugo stifled his smile. “I'm sorry, really. But hearing you espouse a very traditional view of marriage is, you have to admit, a touch ironic. And, I have to say, a little preemptive.”

  “Maybe, but such things are nevertheless important to me.”

  “Are they as important to Claudia?”

  “I can hope. I had thought so.” Roussillon turned to him again. “And since you touch upon the subject, you are not wondering how a gay man has a daughter?”

  “Again, that's hardly any of my business.”

  “No, it is not. But I want you to know that she is my flesh and blood. As a straight man can experiment, so can a gay man, especially when one is told that straight is the only way to be.” Hugo didn't respond, and Roussillon asked, “You will continue to see her?”

  “Normally I'd say that it's none of your business. But since we are sharing…” He shrugged. “If she wants to, of course.”

  “Yes? She will not be disappointed.”

  “But you are.”

  “We shall see. I suspect she will be disappointed with me for interrogating you.” Roussillon wagged a finger. “And that will not do at all.”

  “That's between you and her,” Hugo said, standing. “Now, if we're still speaking frankly, I could use a drink.”

  Roussillon picked up two boxes containing cufflinks and made his selection. “I am a terrible host, Monsieur Marston. Word will spread at the embassy about such rudeness. Forgive me for not offering before.”

  “No problem. I can find my way downstairs.”

  “I will be right down, monsieur. I trust we will have a rewarding evening together.”

  Hugo nodded. Rewarding? And a look in Roussillon's eye told Hugo that their conversation, one way or another, would be continued.

  He found Claudia beside the walk-in fireplace, a glass of champagne in her hand and a worried look on her face. When she saw him, she started forward. “Hugo, I'm so sorry, are you angry?”

  “I haven't decided,” he said with a frown. “But I'm sure as hell thirsty.”

  Claudia glanced over his shoulder and, with a slight inclination of her head, summoned a waiter. “Champagne?” she asked Hugo.

  “Scotch,” he said, then looked at the waiter and spoke in French. “Large. I do not have to drive myself home tonight.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” The waiter smiled. “We have Laphroaig, fifteen years old, or a Talisker, I think twenty-one years.”

  “Either will do fine. Perhaps whichever is fastest. And no ice.”

  “Right away, monsieur.”

  The waiter turned and slalomed his way through the room with his head down, avoiding eye contact with, and thereby interruption by, the other guests. Nice work—shame the French don't tip, thought Hugo. He turned back to Claudia.

  “So Ms. Roussillon, were you going to tell me?” He kept his voice light, amused rather than annoyed.

  “Hugo, of course.” She was having trouble meeting his gaze. “I should have told you right away, I am sorry. I want to know if you are upset.”

  “For humble roots, I wasn't expecting this,” he said, gesturing to the room. Forty men and women, mostly middle-aged or older, stood holding drinks and napkins, some nibbling delicately at the corner of various hors d'oeuvres that Hugo couldn't recognize. Mostly things wrapped in pastry. All of the men wore bow ties, and most in tuxedoes, but a few wore tails. The women, as rich women do, looked comfortable in their tight-fitting dresses and heavy jewelry. But this wasn't just the rich set, Hugo saw, it was the rich and beautiful set. The conversation bubbled all around them and Hugo was aware that Claudia kept her distance from him. Roussillon's friends may know about his homosexuality, they may even keep it secret, but Hugo guessed that they'd still love to gossip about his daughter and an American.

  “Believe it or not, this place is humble to some of these people,” Claudia said, as if reading his mind. “And I think you'll like them, too.”

  “I have no reason to doubt it. I'm curious about your father, though. He could have stopped by my apartment to give me his little speech.”

  “That's not his style.” Claudia shook her head, smiling. “And yes, he is a good man, too. But he does like to impress. I think he wanted you to know that he is important.”

  “Influential, you mean.”

  “That too. You know, Hugo, he's only protecting me.”

  “Because you can't do that yourself?”

  “He's my father, reality doesn't enter that equation.” Claudia looked at him, serious. “I would like to talk about it,” she said, “sometime soon.”

  “We can. We will.” Hugo's drink arrived on a silver tray. He took it with thanks and downed half the glass. The burn was less than expected, always the trouble with good whisky. “So did your gendarme friends find anything out today?”

  “My…? Oh, that.” She looked disappointed. “You want to talk about that now?”

  “Of course,” Hugo said. “Seems like a safe topic, no?”

  “Bien.” Her smile was thin. “Well, they talked to Chabot and said they were pretty firm, pressed him for a while.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, but he told them the same thing he told you: he didn't know Max.”

  “Did they ask how he came into possession of the stall?”

  “I don't know, probably. They didn't tell me what his response was, though. If any. I'm sorry, they did try.”

  Hugo frowned into his drink. If you want something done right, do it yourself. And he'd do just that tomorrow.

  “So,” he said, nodding toward the busy room, “how does this work? Should I be meeting your friends?” The idea was less than attractive. He knew he had little in common with these people, none of whom probably worked for a living. He watched as a well-preserved woman in her fifties
clinked glasses of champagne with a lookalike, their noses almost touching, an amusing secret just shared. The men in their black and white, the plumage on the women, and the little zookeepers in their white coats stopping to feed and water their charges all made Hugo feel claustrophobic.

  But he was just a little bit curious. Curious about the relationship between Roussillon and his daughter, about the guests themselves. Claudia had said they were nice. Heck, maybe they were.

  A handsome couple approached. The man was tall and strong, with black hair combed straight back, the confident smile of someone who knew that others wanted to meet him. His wife had once been beautiful but now wore the slightly stretched face that comes with cosmetic surgery. But the blue eyes were clear and the smile more genuine than that of her husband. Perhaps because of the sparkling rock on her wedding finger. Claudia made the introductions.

  “This is Hugo Marston, head of security at that US Embassy. Hugo, meet Alain and Marie Mercier.”

  Hugo shook hands with them both. “Enchanté.”

  Claudia turned to Hugo and spoke in French. “The Merciers are old friends of mine. Somewhere along the line Marie and I are cousins, but I'm not sure how far back.”

  “That's true of most Europeans, isn't it?” Hugo said.

  The couple laughed gently. “Alors, Hugo,” Alain Mercier said, “how do you know Claudia?”

  Good question.

  “The truth,” Claudia said, and leaned in close to Alain. Both he and his wife cocked their heads expectantly. “The truth is, I caught him fucking your wife.”

  The French couple snorted delightedly and Marie put a hand on Hugo's arm, squeezing playfully as she looked at her husband. “If that were true, Alain, I would boast of it myself.” Alain smiled indulgently, a man confident that his wife would never do such a thing. In these circles, that was his role. Despite his reservations, Hugo warmed to the couple, enjoying their easy banter.