The Paris Librarian

by Mark Pryor

  “So either one of them could tell you.”

  She snorted. “Could, maybe.”

  “What about Isabelle Severin herself? I went out there to talk to her yesterday morning. She’s a little forgetful but seems in good health.”

  Miki’s eyes widened. “You did? You were able to talk to her?”

  “Well, I went unannounced, which turns out to be a bad idea. But you can call and make an appointment.”

  “She still sees people?”

  “Not everyone, but I think so sometimes. It’s worth trying.” Hugo smiled. “Imagine that, a cozy visit to the old woman and she spills her guts in person to you over tea.”

  Miki nodded. “Now that would be something.”

  “A book, I imagine.”

  Miki laughed, then hiccupped. “So, what were you doing out there?”

  “Same interest as you, to be honest. Trying to figure out if there’s anything to the Severin legend.”

  “Why do you care? I mean, that sounds harsh, but . . . why?”

  “Two people are dead, one of whom was curating her collection of papers. If there is a secret hidden away, maybe it’s related somehow.”

  “How?”

  “No idea.”

  “Some detective you are.” She winked exaggeratedly and took a gulp of champagne. “So did you find anything out?”

  Hugo pictured the letter opener. “Maybe, hard to say at this point.”

  “Ah, can’t reveal anything from an ongoing investigation?” She slurred the last word, and Hugo looked up gratefully as Tom and Merlyn returned. Merlyn nipped ahead of him and took his seat, beside Hugo.

  Tom plonked down next to Miki and rubbed his hands together with delight as the waiter wheeled up a three-tiered cheese cart.

  “So, are you and Tom looking into the deaths of those two people?” Merlyn asked.

  Hugo nodded. “We were just talking about that.”

  “And?” Merlyn looked back and forth between Hugo and Miki.

  “And it’s too early to say much. Paul may have committed suicide and it looks likely that Sarah had some help meeting her maker.”

  “Delightfully put,” Tom said.

  “He didn’t have a heart attack?” Merlyn asked.

  “He had a drug in his system. One that would have made it look like he’d had a heart attack.” Hugo held up a hand. “And before you ask me which one, I can’t say.”

  “Wow,” Merlyn said. “Poison in the library. But you said suicide, and who the hell poisons themselves?”

  “Ahem.” Tom rattled the remains of his scotch and ice. “I’ve been trying pretty hard for the past fifteen or so years. Is there anyone on the planet who doesn’t put some bad shit in their system?”

  Miki Harrison laughed, but added, “Michael Harmuth might qualify. Guy doesn’t drink, smoke, and he’s into all this alternative medicine.”

  Hugo glanced across. “He told you about that?”

  “He was proud of it. We were taking about Isabelle Severin living so long, and he said it’s probably because she’s avoided bad food, drugs, that kind of thing.”

  “Does he know her personally?” Hugo asked.

  “Oh, no, it sounded like he was speculating. And when I say drugs, I mean pharmaceutical stuff, the ones doctors prescribe.” She popped a square of cheese into her mouth, chewed, and then pointed to her plate. “He doesn’t eat animal products, drink caffeine, and he told me he has a little herb garden behind his place where he makes his own medicines.”

  “Is he some kind of weirdo?” Tom asked.

  “No, he’s not,” Hugo said. “Lots of people agree with him, about the food stuff and medicine. I doubt he’s too radical, he’d have his appendix surgically removed if need be. But for headaches, upset stomachs, that kind of thing, a lot of people are turning to more natural remedies. I can see the appeal of it, frankly.” And that explains why he wants the ground-floor apartment, so he’d have access to a garden.

  “Goddam hippy,” Tom scoffed.

  “No,” said Merlyn, leaping to Hugo’s defense again, “it’s true. When I had sleep problems, my doctor gave me all kinds of drugs. I hated taking them.”

  “Did they work?” Tom asked.

  “Yes, they did. But I felt groggy the next day, and I didn’t like the idea of being reliant on . . . whatever they were. Anyway, I stopped taking any pills and took melatonin.”

  “Those are pills,” Tom said.

  Merlyn shot him a look full of daggers. “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure, I do,” said Tom, clearly enjoying needling her. “And if he gets cancer, he’s gonna make bat-wing soup and drink it with a spoon carved from a virgin’s leg bone?”

  “Actually,” Miki snapped to Merlyn’s defense, “he did know someone with cancer. He said they cured it with, oh shit, I don’t remember. ‘Di-menthol sulfate’ or something.”

  “What the hell’s that?” Tom asked.

  “No clue. Can’t even pronounce it, but he said it was on 60 Minutes, that American show. That’s how they knew to try it.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s a natural cure for cancer,” Hugo said. “It’d be on more than one episode of 60 Minutes. I’d bet whoever it was also had chemotherapy.” He felt bad undermining Miki and Merlyn, but the words were out before he could stop himself.

  Merlyn, on her fourth or fifth glass, wasn’t backing down. “Sure, but who knows which one was the main cure? Maybe they helped each other. And how can a natural remedy be bad, even if you’re having conventional medicine?”

  “Oh, it can’t,” Hugo said hurriedly, “I’m sure. I was just saying . . . Never mind.”

  They sat in an awkward silence for a moment, then Miki Harrison spoke up. “So where are we going after dinner?”

  “Bed,” said Hugo.

  She batted her eyelashes. “You think I’m that easy?”

  “Oh, please,” Merlyn said. “Hugo goes to bed at nine or he turns into a pumpkin. Plus, he has a rich girlfriend.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why isn’t she here tonight?” Miki asked. “Which is to point out, she’s not here tonight.”

  “I was under the impression you’d met someone here,” Hugo countered.

  “Not that way.”

  “Weren’t you with him all day?” Merlyn asked. “And last night?”

  Miki shook her head, a big smile on her face. “No. Not like that, anyway.”

  “Anyone we know?” Tom asked. Hugo got the distinct impression Tom was both disappointed and hopeful. He clearly had a thing for Miki Harrison.

  “I told you, it’s not like that. At all.” Now Hugo detected a hint of disappointment in her voice, but she rallied. “I was busy working on the Severin story, last night and all today.”

  Hugo looked down as his phone buzzed. Camille Lerens showed on the screen. “Excuse me, guys,” he said, “this could be important.” He stood and walked to the café’s entrance. “Camille, what’s up?”

  “How’s your weekend off?” she asked, humor ringing in her voice.

  “Yeah, good one. Something happened?”

  “You could say that. Have you been drinking?”

  “Like any good French policeman, of course. One Americano and one scotch.”

  “Well, don’t drive. Where are you? I’ll send a car.”

  “If you hurry, I won’t have to pay my bill. So where am I going?”

  “Paul and Sarah’s apartment.”

  “Oh, no. What now?”

  “Don’t worry, no one died,” she said. “But someone broke in and searched the place.”

  “Any idea if they took anything?”

  “None. That’s why I need you here.” She barked an order at someone, then spoke to Hugo. “Bon, order yourself a coffee. But quickly, a car will be there in ten minutes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The driver whom Lerens sent was a uniformed flic in his midforties, with a bald head and a friendly smile. He drove an unmarked police car, a black Peugeot, and when Hugo s
lipped into the front seat he was surprised to hear the man introduce himself in English.

  “Paul Jameson. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Hugo shook his hand. “You’re English?”

  “God no,” Jameson said with a wink. “Scotsman.”

  Hugo laughed. “Sorry for the offense.”

  “Just don’t let it happen again,” Jameson said. He checked his mirrors and looked over his shoulder before pulling away from the curb.

  Hugo was curious about his driver, and asked, “How does a Scotsman become a Paris policeman?”

  “Always loved the city, used to come here as a kid with my dad and brother. Served ten years in naval intelligence, where I learned French, Italian, and some Mandarin. Once I got out of the forces I thought I’d spend some time over here, work in a bar or something. Then I met a beautiful woman, fell in love, and she wanted me to have a real job. I’d thought about being a cop back home in Toryglen, but she suggested I apply here. They’re all about diversity and really welcomed a French-speaking Scot, so here I am.”

  “You like the job?”

  “Aye, love it. Started working for Lieutenant Lerens about two months ago, best officer I’ve ever met. Tough, smart, and treats her people well.”

  Jameson had clearly learned to drive as well as speak three foreign languages, and had probably spent years behind the wheel of a car. He weaved expertly through the nighttime traffic, not using lights or sirens but quick signals and even quicker lane changes. In less than ten minutes, Hugo was following the policeman up to the Rogers apartment and shaking hands with Camille Lerens. They got straight down to business.

  “Who reported it?” Hugo asked.

  “Madame Rogers, actually.”

  “She was up here?”

  “No, she thought she heard footsteps and, of course, knew the place was supposed to be empty. She called the police and we got lucky. It took a little while, but the operator connected this address with the Gregory and Rogers investigation, sent units as soon as she realized.”

  “Smart operator.”

  “Right, I wouldn’t have put money on her making that connection. You can bet she’ll be getting some praise from me in her file.”

  Hugo recalled Jameson’s words: She treats her people well. He looked around, but the apartment looked almost exactly the same as the last time he’d been here. If this was a burglary, it was a targeted one, not a ransacking. “When did Madame Rogers call this in, exactly?”

  “Not even an hour ago. The first responding officers cleared the place, then staked out the front and back entrances to the building and waited for me.”

  “Good. Do you know what was taken?”

  “No. I don’t know whether anything was, actually. It could be the intruder heard sirens and fled.”

  “No, I don’t think so. There would have been several minutes between him getting in here, Madame Rogers calling the police, and the sound of sirens. If it was a random burglar, the place would be at least partially wrecked. But I think he knew what he was looking for, and most likely went straight to it.”

  “You said He.”

  “Yes.” He bounced on his toes. “These floors were redone a couple of years ago, they’re not the old, creaky originals. For Madame Rogers to have heard footsteps, they’d either be from a man or from a woman wearing loud shoes.”

  “And women don’t wear heels to a burglary.”

  “They might, but I’ve never seen it.”

  Lerens smiled. “I know I wouldn’t. So if this was a targeted burglary, what was he after?”

  “It has to be related to either the deaths, or the Severin collection. Or both.”

  “Evidence of one or access to the other,” Lerens said.

  “Well put.” Hugo walked over to the fireplace. On the floor lay a broken plastic orb. “Is that a camera?”

  “It was. Mine, actually.”

  “Explain,” said Hugo.

  “I’ve begun a habit of putting motion-sensing cameras at crime-scenes like this, ones that are supposed to be secured. According to a paper written by someone I consider an expert, around ten percent of criminals return to the scene of the crime, either for the thrill of it, or to remove or plant evidence. This seemed like a good candidate for a camera like that, wouldn’t you say?”

  Hugo was grinning. “You consider that guy an expert, eh?”

  “I understand he had a pretty good clearance rate for his cases and, given my broken camera, it’d be hard to argue that he’s wrong.”

  “Well, I’m flattered.” And impressed. Hugo had written that paper almost ten years ago for a conference in Milan. It hadn’t been particularly revolutionary, more a synthesis of his and his colleagues’ experiences, combined with interviews of captured criminals and an application of logic. But the fact that Lerens had read it and then acted on it showed a willingness to learn, to think outside the normal parameters of police work. “So how does it work? Any chance it caught the intruder before he destroyed it?”

  “A good chance, yes. I’m waiting to hear from my people. Saturday night isn’t the greatest time to get the techies on the phone. But unless he’s wearing a mask, the camera should’ve caught him coming through the front door.”

  “Great. I assume it was locked?”

  “We’re not sure. We assume so, too, but I’ve not figured out who was the last person here to check. It would be pretty bad police work to leave it unlocked, but sometimes, as you know, one cop assumes another cop is taking care of it.”

  “So either he had a key or he found himself an open door.”

  “Right. I’m thinking he had a key anyway, though.”

  Hugo thought the same thing, but he was curious to know if Lerens’s reasoning was the same. “Why?” he asked.

  “Whether he was here because of the murders or the Severin collection, this is a murder scene, it’d be a huge risk coming here. I doubt someone would take such a risk on the off chance that the door would be left open.”

  “Agreed.” Hugo thought for a moment. “Speaking of keys, have you found any?”

  Lerens shook her head. “No, but I’ve not looked specifically for them. What are you thinking?”

  “Let’s check, see if we can find a set. Paul’s keys would’ve been given to Sarah, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she died here, so hers should be somewhere in the apartment. We need to find two sets of keys, at least.”

  “Bon, let’s look.” Lerens gestured for Jameson to help them, and the three pulled on latex gloves and began methodically searching the apartment. Hugo stayed in the living room, the Scotsman went into the kitchen, and Lerens tackled the bedroom. They worked quietly, just the thunk of furniture being moved, the scrape of drawers being opened and closed. Hugo started in the most obvious places, the clay pot on the stand beside the front door, followed by the drawer underneath it. Both were empty, except for the thin spider’s web in the pot that told Hugo it wasn’t a place they kept keys, or anything else.

  Hugo looked up as Jameson appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Monsieur. J’ai trouvé des clés.” He jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. I found some keys.

  Hugo and Lerens converged on the kitchen, looking into the open drawer separated by compartments. The keys sat in a compartment between an empty one and one filled with rubber bands and coins. Lerens pulled out her phone and took pictures before picking up the keys and inspecting them.

  “Given the pink key ring, I’d say these were Sarah’s,” Lerens said. “And I’m wondering if that empty compartment was for Paul’s.”

  “Let’s keep looking. If we don’t find them, I’ll be inclined to agree with you,” Hugo said.

  The three went back to their search, more painstaking this time, less urgent. But after thirty minutes they met in the living room, no more keys found.

  “Voyons,” Lerens said. Let’s see. “Did either of you find anything else disturbed or obviously missing?”

  “Not m
e,” Hugo replied. They looked at Jameson.

  “Rien,” he said. Nothing.

  “In that case,” Lerens said, “Assuming he had a key to this place already, I think I know why he needed Paul’s set.”

  “His key to the library,” Hugo said, and Lerens nodded.

  Jameson caught on quickly. “I’ll get on the radio and have a unit sit outside, keep an eye on the place.”

  “Good. And let me just check something.” He took out his phone and dialed Michael Harmuth, who answered quickly.

  “Hugo, is that you?”

  “Yes, sorry to bother you. A couple of quick questions.”

  “Sure, fire away.”

  “I’m assuming Paul had keys to the library, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know whether the library ever got his keys back after he died?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. I can check on Monday, but I’d be surprised if we did now that you mention it. It wouldn’t have been a priority for anyone.”

  “Who else has keys?”

  “Well, I have a set. Paul did, of course. Michelle might, I don’t know.”

  “What about Nicole Anisse?”

  “I doubt it. But it sounds like I should do an inventory.”

  “The sooner, the better,” Hugo said.

  “Did something happen? Why are you asking about his keys?”

  “I can’t really say at the moment, sorry.”

  “Do I need to worry about the library being secure?”

  “We’re taking care of that right now,” Hugo said. “Do you have an alarm system?”

  “Yes and no. We do for the basement but not for the main level or upstairs lounges.”

  “Can I ask why not?”

  “You saw the sloping glass roof over the teen lounge area?” Harmuth asked.

  “I did.”

  “For some reason, pigeons like to fly into it. Through it. Once a month we’re replacing broken glass and responding to the alarm going off. In fact, they told me that two years ago someone from the neighboring apartment threw himself out a window and went through our roof.”

  “Quite the mess,” Hugo said.

  “Right. And we’ve not had permission to get a real wall and roof put in. Partly it’s a money thing, but since it’s the outside of the building, we need permission from seven different bureaucracies and you know how that goes. So for now we’re stuck with cleaning up glass every so often. Paul had the upstairs alarm disconnected because of that and, when we talked about it at the time, he pointed out that anything worth stealing is either in the safe, which no one’s moving without a crane, or in the basement.”