by Mark Pryor
“Oh, great, another mysterious book. Who's it by, Agatha fucking Christie?”
“Good guess, but no,” Hugo said. “It's by a guy called Clausewitz.”
“The military man? So did you sell this one, too?”
“That's the thing. I have no idea where it is.” But he couldn't help thinking that Max's copy of On War, wherever it was, might just give them some answers.
The train drew into the station at Montparnasse just before eight o'clock that evening. The journey had been frustrating, Hugo unable to reach Claudia or get any news about Max's autopsy, and Tom complaining about the food from the dining car.
They did talk seriously about On War but came to no conclusions. Assuming it was of value, Hugo wondered whether whoever took Max also had the book. Hugo cast his mind back to the kidnapping, trying to picture the book at the stall or even in Max's hand in those final moments, but he couldn't see it in that much detail, couldn't resolve the question one way or the other. Even if he could have, though, neither he nor Tom were able to come up with a reason the book had warranted kidnapping or killing Francois and maybe Max, let alone parting bouquinistes from their stalls. And that meant whoever searched Max's place was probably looking for something else.
“So On War is irrelevant?” Tom had asked.
“Could be. Seems like it, don't you think?”
“I do. But let me know if you change your mind on that.”
“I will.” They sat quietly for a moment, and Hugo let himself think about a conversation they'd started earlier, one they needed to finish. “About Durand.”
“You mean about Claudia.”
“Fine. What else can you tell me?”
Tom frowned. “How about you do the telling.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there's some shit that looked linked, but I don't get how.” When Hugo didn't respond, Tom continued. “You've got books that turn out to be extra pricey, a bookseller who gets kidnapped, an old geezer who collects books, and now you're banging the old geezer's daughter.”
“You don't like the coincidences.”
“I got no problem with them as long as you're not so blinded by finally getting laid that you chalk stuff up to coincidence when it isn't.”
“You think maybe Claudia followed me into the café and put her hooks into me?”
Tom grinned. “No fucking idea. But the mere fact the thought has occurred to you makes me happy.”
“Don't worry, I'm rethinking everything that's happened. Now tell me more about her meeting with Durand.”
“Nothing more to it, man, I told you everything. They had coffee, she was making goo-goo eyes. Look, she may be clean or she may be dirty but what I saw her doing is what reporters do, so don't sweat it. I didn't see them passing money or dope or hand grenades under the table. Not even playing footsie. I'm sure she's fine.”
“So am I. But let me know if you change your mind on that.”
“I will, trust me.”
Hugo sat back and watched as Tom squeezed his bulk out of the compartment and plodded off toward the dining car in search of beer and more rubbery sandwiches.
The taxi pulled up in front of Hugo's building, gliding into a space between a motorcycle and a poorly parked Renault, half of which hung out into the street. This fell under Tom's bad-driving rubric, one of his pet hates, and Hugo talked him out of exacting street justice. He pointed out the two men smoking nearby and how they'd probably call the cops. Tom snorted, insulted at the suggestion he was incapable of slashing tires without anyone noticing, but he followed Hugo into the black-and-white tiled foyer without protest. Dimitrios was missing from behind his desk—no great surprise on a Sunday evening.
They trudged slowly up the stairs, Tom laden with his overnight bag and Hugo carrying his full duffel bag.
“Get a fucking elevator put in, will you?” Tom panted. He stopped to catch his breath on the first landing. “Stairs, Jesus, it's like the fucking Stone Age.”
Hugo smiled and kept going. By the time he reached his apartment on the fifth floor, Tom was sitting on a suitcase on the third-floor landing, huffing and swearing. Hugo put his hand on the door knob and stopped as a shot of adrenaline fizzed through him.
It was unlocked.
Did I forget? No chance. He put his ear to the door and held his breath, then moved to the banister and waved at Tom. He held a finger to his lips and pointed at his door.
Tom stood and mouthed the question: Gun? Hugo shook his head. He'd followed the ambassador's request and locked it away before heading to Bielle. Tom, it turned out, did have one. He gestured for Hugo to stay put as he slipped off his shoes. Abandoning his bag on the landing, Tom lumbered silently up the stairs. Hugo gave him a moment to catch his breath, and when Tom nodded that he was ready, Hugo counted them down in a whisper.
Hugo turned the handle and Tom slipped into the apartment first, his gun sweeping the short hallway and what they could see of the living room. They inched forward until they could see the whole room. Empty. A thud from Hugo's study, off to the right. They edged through the living room, backs to the wall, Hugo walking sideways so he'd see if someone appeared from his bedroom behind them.
They paused either side of the study door and Hugo peered through the inch-wide opening. He shook his head and pointed to his ear. I can't see anyone, but I can hear them. Tom nodded and moved first. He kicked the door open, spinning to locate the intruder. Hugo stepped in behind him, feeling naked without a weapon.
The moment he was through the door he saw Tom fall. Hugo moved toward him but felt a sudden, searing pain across his shoulders, knocking him to his knees. Tom lay on his back by the bed, clutching his shin. A foot swept past his head, kicking his gun to the far side of the room. Hugo tried to recover, to push himself up, but pain slashed across his back again. What the hell was that? He collapsed beside Tom and looked up.
Two men stood over them, one carrying a short length of wood, a club, the other holding a longer, thinner rod. The man with the club stepped away and picked up Tom's gun.
“Who are you?” Hugo demanded. An image of the man who'd harassed Francoise Benoit flitted across his mind. Could be him, Hugo thought. Could be.
“Shut up.” The man was built like a rugby player, a solid mass of muscle under a layer of fat that gave him an extra forty pounds of fighting weight. His jaw was covered with stubble and he had the close, round eyes of a man with a temper. “Which one of you is Hugo Marston?”
“Fucking amateurs,” Tom gasped, “cocksucker hit me in the shin, he must have been kneeling on the fucking floor waiting for us. Jesus.” He rubbed at his leg but Hugo knew Tom's tibia was intact. If the man had broken it, even Tom would still be screaming.
“I said shut up.” The burly man turned the gun on Tom. “You're Marston?”
The second man moved to the bedroom doorway, presumably checking to see if anyone else had come in. He was shorter, stocky, and very black, with a wide, flat nose that had dented many a fist. Wary eyes held a cunning that was absent from the raw anger of the rugby player. Hugo looked at his weapon. No more than two feet long, it had a pair of small, blunt prongs at the end of it. A cattle prod.
“This one is,” the black man said, pointing to Hugo.
“How do you know?”
“The photos in the other room.”
As the man moved closer to Hugo, Tom rolled onto his side. “I think I'm going to throw up,” he said. He pushed himself onto all fours and started retching, causing the man with the gun to back away. He should be getting him closer, Hugo thought, not further away. What the hell? Fine, then I'll start it.
Hugo shifted his weight onto his arms, waiting for the black man to look at Tom. As soon as he did, Hugo slid forward and slammed his heel into the inside of the black man's knee, making him cry out as his leg crumpled. The man crashed to the floor and Hugo drove his boot into his face, then twisted to see how Tom was faring.
And froze.
The r
ugby player stood with the gun pointed at Tom's chest. Five feet separated them, as good as a mile. Yet Tom just stood there, a smile on his face. He looked over his shoulder at Hugo. “I told you they were fucking amateurs.” He started toward the man.
“Stop, asshole. One more step and you die.”
Tom paused. “Or maybe I take four more steps and you die.”
“Try it,” the man smiled, “if you think you can walk faster than I can shoot.”
“Tom,” Hugo spoke in English. “Just wait. We don't know what they want. Maybe we can talk to them.”
“Fuck that,” Tom said. He turned back to the man with the gun and spoke in French. “You gonna hand that over now, ugly motherfucker?”
Tom took a step forward and Hugo's heart sank. He watched as the man's finger crept tighter around the trigger.
“Tom. No!”
Tom ignored him. He took another step toward the thug, the barrel of his own gun two feet away from his chest. Hugo watched in slow motion as Tom took the final steps toward the intruder, who hesitated barely a second before he squeezed the trigger, once, twice.
No sound.
Tom reached out and wrapped his hand around the gun, twisting it up and out, wrenching it from the man's grasp. In less than a second, Tom had the barrel pressed to the stubble of the man's chin.
“You just met the latest in CIA smart technology, fuckhead,” Tom said. He kneed the man between the legs. “Don't you just love having your own set of fingerprints?” He kicked the groaning man once more for good measure, then looked at Hugo. “Told you they were fucking amateurs.”
But the black man wasn't. Hugo had expected his friend to be shot in the chest at point blank, more than enough to distract him from his own assailant, who had retrieved his weapon. As Hugo looked back to check on him, the man jabbed it into Hugo's thigh. His leg contracted of its own accord and he collapsed backward into Tom, knocking them both off balance. The black man swiped at them once more, then turned and headed for the door.
“Shit,” Tom said.
Hugo tried to push off, to chase him, but his leg wouldn't move and he fell sideways onto the desk. Tom hesitated, Hugo could see he didn't want to leave him alone with the doubled-over man. “I'm fine,” Hugo said. “Go get him.”
Tom kicked the burly man once and then leapt over him. He winced from his bruised shin as he landed but kept going. Hugo could hear him cursing as he moved as fast as he could through the apartment. Hugo tested his own leg, flexing it as he leaned against the desk. Feeling returned and he pushed himself up slowly, able to put weight on it.
“Fuck.” Tom appeared in the doorway. “He got away. Sorry man, I'm not much for chasing these days.”
“That's OK, we have this one.”
The burly man looked up at them, hate written all over his face. The guy would charge a cattle prod or a wooden club, Hugo thought. Probably both. Not so happy, though, to charge Tom's gun.
“What do you want to do?” Tom asked.
“Call the police.”
“Dammit, Hugo.” Tom never took his eyes from the man on the floor. “Let's just ask him a few questions.”
“No.”
“I promise it won't take long.”
“That's what I'm afraid of,” Hugo said. “I can't do things that way, Tom, I'm sorry.”
“Why don't you just run out and buy some bread or something?”
“I'm not hungry.” Hugo shook his head. “Sorry Tom, we've gotta do this by the book. You call the cops, tell them to look for the other guy on their way over.” He opened the window and looked up and down the street. “That Renault is gone.” He looked at their captive. “You get here in a blue Renault?”
The man spat on the floor and growled.
Tom walked to the desk and dialed 17, the emergency number. As he spoke to the dispatcher, he perched on the edge of the desk, his gun angled toward the man's groin. Hugo went into the living room and dialed Claudia on his cell phone. When she answered, he told her what had happened. She listened without interrupting, and he noticed she quickly switched into journalist mode, dispensing with the “Are you OK?” formalities in favor of learning what had happened.
“Did they take anything?” she asked.
“I haven't checked yet, but I don't think so.”
“And no idea what they were after?”
“No. I'm guessing they were just nosing around and then were going to smash the place up. Warn me off.”
“What makes you say that?”
“First of all, they weren't armed to kill. Second, for the five seconds they were in charge, one of them wanted to know which one was me. I'm guessing to deliver a message.”
“Be interesting to know who from.”
“Yeah.” Hugo chuckled. “Tom's dying to ask him.”
“You should let him.” She sounded angry.
“No, I told him not to. Your cop buddies can interrogate him all they like. Hell, they can borrow Tom, if they want.”
“Maybe I'll tell them to,” she laughed. “Merde, Hugo. I'm sorry about all this. I just don't understand what's happening. And I'm glad you're OK.”
“That makes two of us.” Thank god for Tom and his visit. “Do you have any news on Max?”
“You want to talk about this now?” she asked. “I'd rather come over to tell you in person.”
“Honestly, Claudia, once the police take this sack of crap away, I'm getting drunk with Tom. You better tell me now.”
“Fine, yes, OK.” She paused. “They did the autopsy this morning. You're not going to believe this, but they are telling me that Max died of an overdose.”
“An overdose? Of what?”
“Cocaine.”
“That's ridiculous, Claudia. Max didn't use cocaine.”
“How do you know that, Hugo?” It was a sensible question. He didn't know it, not for sure, but it irritated him all the same.
“Look,” he said, “I've been around drug addicts all my working life. You've seen your share, I bet. We both recognize junkies quicker than we recognize our friends, and Max was no junkie.” He had a thought. “Do you know if the cops searched his flat today?”
“Yes, they must have.”
“Did they find any cocaine?”
“I don't know, Hugo. I have good contacts, but I'm still just a reporter.”
“But they would have told you if they'd found drugs there, no? They would have mentioned it, surely.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Probably only if they'd found a lot.”
“But you could ask some questions for me, right?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“OK.” Hugo could hear sirens coming down Rue Jacob. “I have to go, the cops are here.”
“You sure you don't want me to come over?”
“No, really Claudia, thanks. By the time we're done giving statements the only thing we'll be in the mood for is scotch.”
“Bien,” she said. “If you have any trouble with the cops, let me know straight away. In fact, I'll make a call, let them know who you are.”
“Thanks, I'd appreciate that.” His phone beeped. He didn't have call waiting, so it went straight to voicemail. He rang off and dialed his messages.
“Salut, Hugo, this is Ceci. I called thirty people today. Or tried, it's like they don't answer the phone on Sundays. I talked to a few bouquinistes I know, three. They all took money from Gravois and the SBP to give up their stalls. But they don't know why he was paying them. They took the money without asking questions. And Hugo, I talked to the brother of another bouquiniste. Pierre is one of the old-timers, I've known him forever. This man said that Pierre has been missing for five days. He said that someone else is working Pierre's stall now. He reported him missing straight away, but the police weren't interested, he said. Then he saw the news about Max and he's terrified.
“Hugo, he wants to know if his brother is floating in the Seine, too.”
The police were at the apartment for an hour, taking photographs a
nd statements, and drinking coffee. Hugo had left his front door open, waiting for them, but had been disappointed when he saw which detective was assigned to the incident. For his part, Capitaine Raul Garcia shook hands with Hugo and acted as if they'd never met. A different bow tie, Hugo noted. Red polka dots this time.
Garcia moved about the apartment taking in everything, not letting his crime scene technicians touch anything until he'd taken a mental photo. When he was done looking, he stepped out of their way and watched from a corner of the room with Hugo and Tom as his men dusted and snapped the evidence into place. He declined the scotch that the Americans were drinking but took a cup of coffee, black, one sugar.
Hugo watched a man in green scrubs dust the front door. Everything had happened so fast after Hugo had discovered it unlocked, he'd not had time to wonder how the men had got in.
“Tom, come with me.” He put his drink down and Tom followed suit. “Excuse us, capitaine.”
Garcia raised an eyebrow.
“I need to check on someone,” Hugo said.
“You need one of my men to come with you?” Garcia asked. It was very close to not being a question.
“No, thanks,” Hugo smiled, “they are all busy. This won't take a moment.”
They headed down the hallway and past the tech, careful not to touch anything.
“What's up?” asked Tom.
“I'm wondering how they got in.”
Tom stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down mournfully. “You gonna make me climbs stairs, after all I've been through?”
“Think about it.” Hugo was halfway down the first flight, but he stopped and turned. “They didn't kick it in and I didn't leave it unlocked.”
“You sure about that?”
They both knew the answer. Neither of them would leave an apartment unlocked when they were inside, let alone away for a few days. It was second nature. “They had to have used a key.”
Hugo watched as Tom understood. “You wouldn't have left one lying around, so they must have gotten it from someone else. The concierge.”
“Exactly. He wasn't here when we got in, so let's go find him.”