by Mark Pryor
A gong rang out from the other end of the room and the crowd started to shuffle through a pair of double doors to the dining room. As they were siphoned through, Hugo stood aside to let a portly couple pass, and he lost contact with Claudia and the Merciers.
Inside the dining room he saw that place cards had been set up, the guests floating around and bumping into each other as the discovery process began. He was looking for his own card when a hand took his. It belonged to a redhead, a young lady of no more than twenty-five. Large blue eyes met his look of surprise, but any innocence in them was undone by her smile, replete with intent.
“I believe we are seated together, Monsieur Marston,” she said in English, her accent from somewhere south of Alabama. “My name is Jenny Reye.”
“Nice to meet you,” Hugo said, instinctively looking for Claudia. “Call me Hugo. And how do you know who I am?”
“I asked,” she said, as if it were a stupid question.
“Of course.” Hugo smiled. “I have no idea where we are, so I'll follow you.” Following was a pleasure, even though her dress was less fitted than that worn by most of the women there. There was a subtlety about the way she moved her hips, not enough to draw attention from the men around them, but just enough to let Hugo know that she knew he was watching. They rounded the head of the table where Claudia stood by her chair, waiting for her father. Hugo was surprised to see a look of puzzlement on her face, a look she transferred from the girl to Hugo with a raised eyebrow. Hugo smiled and shrugged as he passed. Don't ask me.
He held Jenny's chair for her and they sat down, Hugo suddenly grateful for the tedious lessons in etiquette the ambassador forced all of his senior staff to take when they joined the embassy. Faced with a dozen forks, knives, and spoonlike devices, plus four different glasses, the Texas Hugo would have been at once confused, irritated, and amused. The head-of-security Hugo, however, knew which glass was for what, and why he had a fork shaped like a spoon nestled among the knives. His new neighbor seemed less sure. He could see her eyes flicking around the table as other guests settled in for the meal, watching to see who touched what. Napkin unrolled now or later? Pour my own water? He could empathize.
“It's nice to be speaking in English,” he smiled. “Have you been here before?”
“No.” Her big blue eyes flashed and she waved a hand over the place setting. “And I can't figure out whether I'm going to end up gorging myself or starving to death from choosing the wrong tools.”
Hugo chuckled. “I know what you mean. I was always told to start on the outside and work my way in.”
“That so?” Jenny looked at him and smiled that way again. “Sounds like a good lesson.”
A young lady appeared behind them holding two bottles of wine, one red and one white. “Mademoiselle?” she said.
“Good,” she whispered to Hugo, “I'll let her figure out which glass I should use.” Jenny leaned into him, her bare arm brushing his jacket. She looked over her shoulder at the server. “Blanc, s'il vous plait.”
Hugo breathed in her scent and tried to place it, but couldn't. Soft and flowery, quite unlike the way she was behaving. He wanted to splash his face with water, grab Claudia, and get out of there.
Hugo's eyes trailed over the rows of silverware. Only one, two, three…six courses to get through. He felt a hand grip the back of his chair and he twisted to see a man of about eighty, as round as he was tall and with a giant moustache, tugging at the chair next to him. Hugo stood, pulled out the chair, and helped him sit.
“Merci,” the old man said. When Hugo told him he was welcome, the old man pointed to his ear, smiled sadly, and mouthed the word sourd. Deaf. Hugo smiled and nodded, then turned back to Jenny. “So what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“I work for the count,” she said.
“Doing…?”
“Books. I have a Masters in European Literature and worked for two years at Sotheby's selling musty old books. The kinds of books that he,” she thumbed toward the head of the table, “likes to pay way too much for.”
“I see,” said Hugo, noting another book connection. “That sounds interesting. Has he been buying lately? At auction?”
“Not that I know of, but sometimes he does his own buying without involving me. That's pretty rare, though. Why?”
“Just curious.” But Hugo didn't want her to be. “Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. You were saying that it's an interesting job.”
“Mostly, yes. I get to travel a lot, that's fun. I get paid well, too, and meet interesting people. What do you do?”
“I work at the US Embassy.” Hugo glanced down the table and saw Claudia watching them. “In the security section.”
Jenny ran a finger around the top of her wine glass and cocked her head. “American Embassy, huh? You carrying a gun?”
“Here?” He laughed. “I think we're all pretty safe here, don't you?”
“How about handcuffs?”
He was saved from having to reply by a sudden hush that ran around the table, the diners quieting themselves to a signal that Hugo had missed. Roussillon was on his feet, a relaxed smile on his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter, my chef, and I welcome you. We see you all so very rarely and I'm sorry I don't get to sit and chat with you individually. I've been wanting to say something and…” He paused and looked down, his fingers moving to a polished knife, which he turned over. His mouth opened and when he raised his head Hugo saw a look of surprise on his host's face. Roussillon looked at them all, studied them, then turned as his daughter took his hand. They smiled at each other and she half-stood to guide him back into his seat, pressing a glass of water into his hand. She stood and addressed the party with a smile. “My father usually likes to give thanks for his food. So please.” Heads bowed around the table and she said a quick grace. Immediately after, the chatter resumed as though a dial had been turned and nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
Throughout dinner Jenny continued to flirt with him, but the way a teenager would, full of innuendo and lingering looks, devoid of subtlety. Hugo didn't mind—after all, she was very pretty. And he was pleased, too, at the long looks Claudia was sending their way at increasingly frequent intervals, though she wasn't giving away much; her expression sat halfway between irritation and amusement.
The meal itself lasted two hours, and Hugo was experienced enough at the French table to pace himself and leave the bread well alone. Jenny fared less well, her sauciness diminishing as she filled herself with the quail, pastries, and cheese of the last three courses. At meal's end, via telepathy, it seemed, the men stood and excused themselves, moving back through the main room and into Roussillon's library, where three boxes of cigars lay on a table, flanked by decanters of port and brandy.
Hugo was wondering whether to indulge when Roussillon touched his elbow. “I'd suggest the port. It's a 1963 Croft; I'm not sure you'll find better.” He reached out and picked up a glass, filled it with the ruby liquid, and handed it to Hugo. “Try it.”
Hugo sipped obligingly and rolled it gently around his mouth, surprised at the difference between this and other ports he'd tasted. It felt like velvet, offering a perfect touch of sweetness and a fullness of fruit that kept opening up on his tongue. “I'm no expert,” he said when he'd swallowed, “but I can honestly say that I've never had port this good.”
Roussillon seemed genuinely pleased, clasping his hands together and flashing white teeth. “I shall have a glass myself,” he said. “Not much of this stuff left, half a dozen cases maybe. Then it's on to the 1970s, of which we were sensible enough to lay down aplenty. Of course, it's the '77s and the '94s we're really looking forward to.” He looked to the heavens, as if God himself were awaiting the ripening of those particular vintages. “Did you enjoy dinner?”
“I did, very much.”
“You met Jenny. I trust you enjoyed her company, too?”
“Thank you, yes.” Hugo took another sip. “I assume her…co
mpany will be waiting for me at the end of the evening?”
“Monsieur Marston, why would you ask me that?” Roussillon's look of shock was the same one that Hugo had seen on a thousand guilty faces.
“Oh, let me see,” Hugo said, smiling to let his host know he was not offended. “First there was the seating arrangement. I suppose that putting me next to her could have been pure chance, two single guests. But the deaf gentleman on my other side meant no distractions, no way to avoid Jenny's charms.”
“And charming she is,” Roussillon said.
“Oh yes. Charming, pretty, and intelligent. And when she's actually attracted to someone she probably flirts quite well.” Hugo waved away Roussillon's offer of a cigar. “But when she's told to do it, paid to do it perhaps, well, then she doesn't want her signals to be misinterpreted as mere friendliness, so she overdoes it. Which, ironically, makes her somewhat less appealing.”
“Are you saying I should have hired a professional, Monsieur Marston?” Roussillon said, more amused than concerned that his ruse had been unearthed.
“Perhaps.”
“But my other guests would have wanted an explanation for a stranger's presence.” He leaned in to Hugo. “They do like to gossip, you know.”
“Most people do.” Hugo drank more of the port and wondered why he'd never bothered to seek it out before. “I assume it was done for your daughter's benefit more than mine,” he said.
“Two birds with one stone. Although jealousy can be a powerful agent, don't you think?”
“No doubt.” For all his money and his title, because of them perhaps, Roussillon was proving to be a manipulative and controlling man. “I guess I'm wondering what happens if I say no to young Jenny?”
“Then the next one I send will be younger.”
“And if I still say no?”
“Then the one after that will be younger still. And if that doesn't work, I can always send boys. I have found that while one never knows the predilections of one's friends and acquaintances, one can be sure that they have them.”
“Perhaps, monsieur,” said Hugo, draining his port, “you should not judge others by your own standards.” He set the glass down on the table and extended his hand. “Thank you for a delicious meal. I have an early start tomorrow so will excuse myself.” Hugo didn't wait for the response, suddenly unsure of his ability to remain polite. And a senior member of the US Embassy didn't need to be throttling French nobility, no matter the provocation.
As he let himself out of the library he looked toward the main room. The flames from the fireplace cast flickering shadows on the white wall and he could see clusters of women standing and sitting, the conversation subdued after the large meal. Gossip still to be swapped, but the good stuff was out of the way. He thought about raiding the room for Claudia, but that might indicate a disagreement with the host, and it would stir up gossip for sure.
He walked into the reception hall and went straight to the closet to fetch his hat and coat. He stepped to the front door, willing no one to see him, but paused by the circular table when he realized that he didn't know how to contact his driver. No matter, that's what taxis were for; he'd find one sooner or later. If not, he could always call Emma and have her send one. Or Claudia. He opened the front door silently, closed it quickly behind him, and trotted down the steps, the cold night air surprising him with its bite, a pleasant contrast to the suppressed anger that warmed his face.
He walked down the gravel driveway to Boulevard D'Argenson and looked up. The moon was a thin sliver and the evening breeze had pushed the day's clouds out of sight. The homes around him sat in curtained darkness, blankets of trees softening their glow and allowing the stars their moment.
He started down the boulevard and had gone less than a hundred yards when a black Mercedes pulled up beside him. The window came down and Jean's face appeared. “Can I drive monsieur home?”
Hugo hesitated, but not for long. “Oui, Jean, merci.”
Jean hopped out and opened the rear door. Hugo thanked him again and started to climb in, suddenly wondering whether it had been Claudia who'd sent Jean, whether she might be in the car herself. He plopped down into the seat and found the car empty. He wasn't sure whether the sharp twinge in his stomach was relief or disappointment.
Hugo awoke early on Friday to a Paris that twinkled after a long night's frost. The clouds that had sat over the city for two days had finally descended across the streets, buildings, and trees, clinging to them before disappearing with the dawn, leaving the city bright and glazed under a clear blue sky. He left Tom to sleep in and stepped out of his apartment, the crisp air and faint smell of wood smoke making the previous night's soiree seem like a fairy tale, a bizarre and unlikely fantasy wiped away by the stroke of midnight and made unreal by the bright light of morning.
His plan was to find the neighboring bouquiniste, and even though she'd not been there on previous occasions, he felt an urgency as if she was already in place, waiting for him. He was hungry but didn't want to spend time ordering in a café, so he stopped instead at a bakery to pick up a croissant and coffee to go. As he left the shop, he narrowly missed spilling the hot liquid on a man in a cloth cap who hurried past the store's entrance. He tried to apologize, but the man hunched his shoulders and kept going.
Hugo walked on, turning onto Rue Bonaparte, where he glanced into the window of a wine shop. Roussillon may have been an ass, but he sure had good port. Another time, thought Hugo. He continued walking north up Rue Bonaparte, and when he got within sight of the Seine he turned left, keeping the busy street between him and the stalls. He kept his head down, not wanting Chabot to spot him. When he did glance up, the little weasel was busy setting up for the day and not yet on the lookout for customers.
A hundred yards down the street, Hugo waited for a break in the traffic. When it came, he trotted across the road and turned right when he got to the sidewalk. The woman he wanted to talk to, the bouquiniste who'd been harassed the day he'd bought the Rimbaud from Max, was also setting out her wares.
He slowed as he approached her stall, not wanting to startle her, and out of habit removed his hat when he greeted her. She was struggling with a stack of books, the slippery plastic covers making them hard to hold with the woolen mittens that covered her hands. She smiled and gave Hugo a friendly “Bonjour.” Her wind-chapped face glowed red in the cold and was the only part of her body not covered in swathes of clothing. A nose crisscrossed with broken blood vessels and watery red eyes suggested her affinity for strong drink. An unashamed appraisal of his cashmere coat and obviously American boots suggested an affinity for ways to obtain it.
“Madame,” he said. He picked up and shuffled through a stack of postcards, picking out two that were sepia photographs of well-dressed couples, one holding hands in front of the Eiffel Tower, the other taken alongside the Seine in roughly the spot they were standing now. She asked for two Euros for the cards, but he gave her five and waved away the change. A narrowing of her eyes told Hugo that the old woman knew there was a reason for the tip. He pocketed the postcards and decided to try a straightforward approach. “I am looking for a friend, a bouquiniste. His name is Max Koche.”
“Max?” A look crossed her face that fell between wariness and fear. “He's a friend of yours, did you say?”
“Yes,” said Hugo. “I've known him a long time. I work at the US Embassy and have bought many books from him.”
“Yes, I've seen you talking to him before.” She turned her back to him and straightened a few books. Hugo let her think about it. “I haven't seen him for a week,” she said, then looked over her shoulder. “One day he was there, the next…” She shrugged.
“Were you working here last week?”
“Oui, all week.”
“Non, your stall was closed for a while.” Hugo stepped closer. “But you were here to see what happened to him.”
She stared for a moment, her watery eyes crisscrossing his face as she considered the question
. She shook her head and turned to her stall.
“Non.”
“You told police that he got onto a boat with some people, voluntarily.” It was a guess, he knew she'd been working that day and that if she'd returned to her stall she couldn't have missed the fracas. “But you saw what really happened, didn't you?”
“I saw nothing.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and her tone softened. “I am old, monsieur, old and tired. And my memory is as bad as my eyesight, probably worse. I am sorry.”
“Even an old woman would have seen that Max was kidnapped,” Hugo urged. “Please, I need you to tell me what you saw.”
All he got was a sad smile.
“D'accord, I understand,” he said, softening his tone. “I'm Hugo Marston, by the way. What's your name?” Her eyes narrowed again. For some reason she was afraid. Hugo reached into his pocket and pulled out his credentials, and the shiny State Department badge seemed to reassure her.
“I thought perhaps you…” She pulled a glove off and offered a cracked hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “I am Francoise Benoit.”
“Is there something going on with les bouquinistes, Madame Benoit?”
She looked up and down the street, but their only company was a family of frosted leaves that scuttled along the sidewalk, propelled by the wind. “I mind my own business. You might want to do the same.”
“Max was my friend, which means his disappearance is my business.”
“Your friend.” She said it quietly, as if she finally believed it. She straightened and turned to him, glancing up and down the quai again. “It's supposed to be confidential, but we have been offered money for our stalls.”
“Who has? All the bouquinistes?”