The Bookseller

by Mark Pryor

“On her, no. But Max Koche, yes.” He went through what he'd found, starting with the bruising. “That must have come right before he died, not after. Possibly boats, I grant you, but probably not. Look how it's just his chest and back, not his legs or his face.”

  “You think he was beaten?”

  “Sure looks that way to me.”

  “Go on.”

  Hugo pointed to the drug reports and explained that the high concentration of cocaine meant the substance had been pure, very pure. “And if you look at the rest of the autopsy report, you'll see it's consistent with him not being a drug user. No signs of damage to his nasal cavities or any internal organs, including his brain. And,” he held up a finger, “you'll see that no cocaine was found at his home or at his stall. There's just no reason to think he was a user.”

  “After I talked to you last time I looked at his file again,” Garcia said, wiping his mouth. “I also noted that no evidence of prior drug use was found. I did not appreciate those toxicology figures, though. How about Desmarais?”

  “Harder to tell with him, but I think these photographs are enough to at least cast doubt on his death being an accident.” He laid three of them on Garcia's desk. “See these bruises?”

  “From when he fell in?”

  “Well, water doesn't bruise, obviously. So the theory must be that he fell on the ground, then into the water. Right?”

  “Oui.”

  “But think about how that works, practically.” Hugo stood and moved the two chairs out of his way. He stepped back by the wall and then let himself fall forward, arms extended. He caught himself in the push-up position on the floor. Garcia stood and leaned over the desk to watch. “If I fall on my front, onto something hard, how do I end up in the water? With difficulty. Now, if I'd fallen on my side, then maybe I would roll. Maybe. But not my front.”

  “I see. Not definitive, but interesting.”

  Hugo jumped up. “And look at the photos again. See how his forehead is bruised, and his chin messed up?”

  “Yes, I see that,” Garcia said. He picked up the photos and looked closely at them. “I know what you are thinking. If he'd fallen, he'd have hit either his chin or his forehead. Not both.” As if to convince himself, he put his face on the top of his desk. “You can't do both at the same time.”

  “Exactly. And if he'd hit one then the other, which is theoretically possible, then only one would be badly damaged. Here he has a major contusion on his head and I bet the autopsy report will show his jaw was broken, too.”

  Capitaine Garcia spread his hands. “I am impressed. And, more importantly, I think you may be right.” He held up a warning finger. “And I mean, you may be right.” He smiled. “I'm guessing it's not a serial killer, though.”

  “No,” said Hugo. He returned the smile. “Not in the traditional sense, I don't think so.”

  “Then who?”

  “The only thing that makes sense to me is Gravois. He is replacing bouquinistes with his own people.”

  “For kickbacks?”

  “Maybe. But I can't help feel like there's more to it than that. Murder is just too extreme.” Hugo picked up the toxicology report on Max. “And why go to all the trouble of making Max's death look like an overdose?”

  “Because three accidental drownings is more suspicious than just two?” Garcia shrugged and looked at Hugo, as if for an answer.

  “Three drowned bouquinistes so close in time would be pretty odd, that's true,” said Hugo. “And if it is Gravois, how does he have access to such pure cocaine?”

  “I don't know that either, but I intend to find him and ask,” said Garcia. He rounded his desk and reached for his coat, then stopped and looked at Hugo. “Are you coming?”

  “What do you mean he wasn't there?” Hugo asked. He'd called Tom when Capitaine Garcia stopped at the front desk to speak to one of his junior officers.

  His friend had answered from the sidewalk in front of Roussillon's house. “Look,” said Tom, “he told you he's happy for us to look at the book, no big deal. I'll just come back another time.”

  “Did he call you?”

  “No, man, I showed up at his fucking palace. The beefeater said he'd left earlier and hadn't come back.”

  “It's a butler, not a beefeater.”

  “Whatever. He wasn't there so I didn't look at the book.”

  “OK. I'll call him.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the prefecture. I identified our intruder, so it's just a matter of time before they pick him up. Hopefully.”

  “Yeah, hopefully. The frog police haven't been too impressive up until now.”

  Hugo glanced up as Garcia came down the front steps and reminded himself to keep the two men apart. “They're working with me now. Garcia and I are off to find Gravois.”

  “Awesome, where do I meet you?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit. Why not?”

  “Because I'm going to have to deal with Gravois and Garcia. I don't want you needling one or both of them while I'm doing it.”

  “Fuck off, then. Call me when you're done.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “More sightseeing. You prefer the Louvre or the Musee d'Orsay?”

  “Go to the d'Orsay. I'll take you to the Louvre myself; I haven't been there in a while.”

  He hung up and turned to Garcia. “Sorry. How do we get there?”

  “I have a car in the garage,” Garcia said, “let's go. But let me say something first.”

  “I won't shoot him,” Hugo said, with a half-smile.

  “No, it's not that.” Garcia was serious, troubled even. “I owe you an apology, a very sincere one.”

  “It's OK, I know what you're going to say.”

  “Then let me say it.” He put a hand on Hugo's shoulder. “I wish I had listened to you, believed you. I wish I had acted on what you saw. I think it's possible we could have saved your friend.”

  “I appreciate that. But I suppose you had to go with what your detective told you.”

  “Ah, yes. Durand. I would like to tell you the full story, but I can say that I've had my eye on him. Believe me when I say that he won't be getting promoted any time soon.”

  Hugo waited for more but Garcia looked away, ending the conversation. If it was that confidential, Hugo thought, it must be serious. Was Durand just lazy or incompetent, or was he on the wrong side of the law? He couldn't help but wonder about Claudia and her connection to the man. Was she charming a story out of the detective that he'd later regret? Hugo could only hope she knew what she was doing and exactly who she was dealing with.

  The drive to Rue Nollet took fifteen minutes. On the way, Hugo told Garcia about his previous visit, a little embarrassed at his role play as a journalist. Garcia just smiled and nodded that he understood. Hugo told him more about the book he'd bought from Max, its progression from the Pont Neuf to Kendall and into the hands of Roussillon. Garcia's face tightened when he heard Roussillon's name, but he didn't say anything.

  At Hugo's suggestion, they parked away from the entrance of the SBP building, wanting to ensure a surprise visit.

  The street outside the office was empty and the note about the broken bell was still attached below the SBP sign. They climbed the stairs quickly, and when they reached the top the beehive secretary looked up at them, eyes wide.

  “Bonjour,” said Garcia. “Capitaine Garcia for Monsieur Gravois.”

  “Capitaine…He is expecting you?” Her eyes rested on Hugo, and he knew she was wondering why a journalist accompanied this policeman.

  “Non.”

  “Un moment, s'il vous plait.” She got up, walked to Gravois's office, and knocked lightly, a definite request for permission rather than a formality. A muffled “Oui” from inside and she disappeared, closing the door behind her. She was in there for a full minute, and when she reappeared she just nodded and held the door for them to enter.

  Gravois was, as before, presiding over an office devoid
of clutter. His gloved hands were folded on the desk top, his gaunt face a blank. He did not rise when they came in, and he looked directly at Hugo. “You brought un flic to make me answer your questions, monsieur?” If it was a joke, there was no humor in the man's eyes.

  “He is not a journalist,” Garcia said, “Monsieur Marston is working with the police on a matter of extreme importance.”

  Gravois's black eyes bored into Garcia and then Hugo, as his right hand clenched and unclenched. “And what matter is that?”

  “Murder,” said Garcia. “Three bouquinistes have turned up dead in a week, and we don't think they were all accidents.”

  “Three?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don't know anything about this.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” Garcia said. “But you are the head of the SBP and, I am told, took some extreme measures to remove each of these people from their stalls.”

  “I would hardly call a severance package an extreme measure, capitaine.”

  “Severance package or bribe, monsieur?” asked Hugo.

  “You chose your words, American, I will choose mine.”

  Capitaine Garcia sat down unasked. “Do you have records of those you offered severance packages to?”

  “I offered them to all bouquinistes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the current system is not a good one. We have a group of ancient alcoholics selling trashy books to tourists. I would like to see the old bouquinistes replaced by a younger and more vibrant group. Return the banks of the Seine to its former glory and attract more tourists, sell more quality merchandise.”

  “And you get a cut from the new bouquinistes?” Garcia asked.

  “Not at all. Ask any of them. Not one Euro.”

  Hugo walked to the man's bookcase then turned. “Do you have a current list of bouquinistes?”

  Gravois stared at him. As much as he doesn't like Garcia asking him questions, Hugo thought, he sure as hell hates me doing it. Gravois rubbed his left wrist and answered slowly. “Yes. I assume you would like to see it.”

  His cancer must be bothering him, thought Hugo, as he watched Gravois reach over and open a draw on the left side of the desk with his right hand. Gravois pulled out a leather binder and opened it. He looked over the rows of neatly typed names and placed it on the desk for Garcia to see. “I can't think what you are trying to learn, gentlemen. Do you have any specific questions for me, or just veiled accusations?”

  “We can unveil them if you like,” Hugo said mildly. He ignored a look from Garcia. “Actually, I do have a question. Have you heard of a book called Une Saison En Enfer?”

  “No. Who is it by? Perhaps I know the author.”

  “Arthur Rimbaud,” Hugo said. “Mean anything to you?”

  Gravois looked back and forth between Hugo and the capitaine. “No, it means nothing. What does this have to do with me? With those bouquinistes?”

  “You have never heard of the book, monsieur?” Garcia repeated.

  “No. Not the book, not the author. I am not a bouquiniste, gentlemen, you probably know that already. Instead, I am their voice, a resource for them.”

  “What about Gérard de Roussillon?” Hugo asked. “How do you know him?”

  “Roussillon?” The eyes blinked once. “I am not a policeman. I think that if I were,” he said, “I would try and ascertain the truth. I would not go barging into the offices of public servants. I see your smirk, capitaine, but yes, I regard myself as a public servant. As I was saying, I would not go barging in and asking cryptic questions and making such unpleasant allegations. In fact, let me ask you a question, capitaine. Do you have any evidence, any evidence at all, that connects me to the deaths of any one of those bouquinistes?”

  “If you were a policeman, Monsieur Gravois,” Garcia paused as he stood, “you'd know that my suspects find out about the evidence after I put on the handcuffs.”

  “Ah, is that so?” Gravois smiled and held up his wrists. “I don't see handcuffs, capitaine, so I am assuming you have no evidence.” He put his right hand on the desk and pushed himself up. “You may see yourselves out. And please do not trouble to come back. If you do, I may have to call a real policeman.”

  Hugo turned and walked out of the office and Garcia followed. They nodded to the secretary, who got up as soon as they passed her desk. As they descended the stairs, Hugo heard the click of Gravois's door shutting.

  Outside, Hugo turned to Garcia. “Did you notice his accent?”

  “Yes. Not much of one, but he wasn't born and bred here.”

  “I hadn't noticed it before. Spanish maybe?”

  “I don't know,” Garcia said. “But I think you're right, it's one of the Romance languages.” They walked down the street toward the police car in silence. When they got to the car, Garcia stopped and looked at Hugo. “Do you really think the book has something to do with this?”

  “I don't know, capitaine. I really don't.”

  “We have no motive for these bouquinistes to be murdered. We have suspicions, yes, but no real evidence or motive, especially for Max Koche, assuming that what you told me is true. As Gravois seems to know. We need to be careful, Monsieur Marston, both of us need to be careful. I did not know about the involvement of le Comte d'Auvergne. That makes me both curious and also very concerned. He is well-connected in this city, as I'm sure you know. Not just to Claudia Roux, but to some very powerful and influential people. I am happy to lean on a thug like Gravois, but less happy to dirty the rug of someone like Gérard de Roussillon.”

  “I understand.” Hugo grimaced as he thought of the ambassador. “I am in much the same position.”

  “Did you believe Gravois when he said he didn't know about the book?”

  “Yes,” said Hugo, “as a matter of fact I did. Did you see the way he looked back and forth between us? He was unsure of himself. Specifically, he was unsure what the answer should be. I think he was telling the truth.”

  “A wasted trip, then?”

  “Not necessarily. I think we found out something quite important.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It seems to me that one of two things is true. Either the Rimbaud book is somehow connected to the murders and Gravois is not, or—”

  “Or,” Garcia interrupted, “the book has nothing to do with their deaths, and Gravois does.”

  “I hope to look at the book this afternoon, capitaine. After that, maybe we'll know more. Gravois, though,” Hugo grimaced. “He is a little harder to read.”

  As they climbed into the car, Garcia's phone rang. He put the key in the ignition and answered with his other hand. “Oui?” He looked at Hugo as he listened. “Address?” He nodded. “Got it. I'll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up and looked out of the windshield, shaking his head. “Merde. They think they found your intruder.”

  “They think?”

  “Hard to tell. Half of his head is blown off.”

  “Where is he?”

  “My colleagues went to his apartment and saw him leaving. They followed him to a restaurant in the Nineteenth Arrondissement. As soon as he got there, he pulled a submachine gun from his bag and opened fire on a table of patrons. He killed all of them but one. The survivor removed the top of his head with a bullet.”

  “He was shooting at people who carried guns?”

  “Oh yes,” said Garcia. “He killed two organized crime bosses and their bodyguards.”

  “Organized crime?”

  “Les Pieds-Noirs. Which means we definitely have a new player in town.” He looked at Hugo. “We may even have a war on our hands.”

  Garcia offered to drop Hugo at the metro station at Place de Clichy. He wouldn't be needed at the restaurant, the policeman told him, as they'd have to identify Alex Vacher's body through fingerprints.

  Outside the station, Hugo shook hands with Garcia and promised to call later if he found any new information about the book. Hugo thought that the capitaine was a little embar
rassed, or uncomfortable, at leaving that line of questioning to an outsider. But with no evidence to suggest a link to the book, and given Roussillon's privileged position, they both knew that even the suggestion of a police investigation would be unwelcome.

  Hugo also felt that by leaving Roussillon to him, Garcia was intentionally showing his trust, perhaps even an apology for the way Hugo had been treated early on in the investigation, for Garcia's own brusque tone at the prefecture. For his part, Hugo had never really minded Garcia's suspicious nature and he appreciated that the capitaine had been willing to revise his opinions. Not many senior cops were so open minded, Hugo thought, and such flexibility of mind showed Garcia's confidence and intelligence. And having spent a few hours with Garcia, there was an honest charm to the man that Hugo liked.

  From the street, Hugo called Roussillon's house. One of the servants answered and politely asked him to wait. After a minute, Roussillon came on the line.

  “Monsieur Marston, how are you?”

  “I'm fine. I went by to see Claudia this morning, she looked good.”

  “She does, doesn't she? The doctor said that just being shot is enough to make the body shut down, even a minor flesh wound like hers.” He sighed. “I can't help but feel very lucky. And grateful. I just got back from the hospital myself, they are releasing her today. I have arranged for an ambulance to bring her home.”

  “Good. She's a tough one, I'll say that much. And I guess we both got lucky.” He cleared his throat. “Gérard, the other reason I'm calling is to come by and see the book.” And to ask how you know Gravois, he thought. “My friend Tom came by earlier but you were out.”

  “Yes, I'm sorry. I went to the hospital and then had a sudden business matter, nothing important to me, but it was to my colleague. You know how people can be.”

  “I do,” said Hugo. “May I come by now?”

  “If you want.” He wasn't sure, but Hugo thought he detected a note of hesitancy in Roussillon's voice.

  “I don't want to impose, but it's important.”

  “To you, I see that.”

  “Thank you.”

  A few minutes later Hugo tried calling Tom from the platform at Place de Clichy, but got no answer. With any luck he had his nose in a Monet. Hugo smiled at himself; he felt like a parent now that Tom was around. When they were together his old friend was fun, interesting, and excellent company, but when he had the run of the city, Hugo could never quite shake the feeling that Tom was up to something.