by Mark Pryor
“Fire away.”
“Well, you solved this business here. But I’m still wondering about the Severin collection. Is there anything to the stories about her and the Resistance? Or did that little mystery have you stumped?”
Hugo gave her a tired smile. “We may have to wait until the old lady dies to figure that one out. There’s a dagger and a box of her stuff that’ll stay under wraps until she passes, but I don’t know whether those are love letters or secret Resistance papers.”
“You should help that girl pay Severin another visit. On the record this time.”
“Feel bad for arresting her?”
“I didn’t, I just questioned her,” Lerens responded. “But yes, a little. I think she knows how it goes, this song and dance that we do. Sometimes we hit the right notes, sometimes we don’t. I’m sure she understands.” When Hugo didn’t respond, her tone was quizzical. “Hugo, you’re thinking about something. What did we miss?”
Hugo looked up. “Nothing. Keep going here, I’ll catch up with you later. And if it makes you feel any better, you may have just given Miki Harrison a proper apology. One she can actually use in her book.”
That night they celebrated with, appropriately, pizza.
Hugo ordered the same three again, and paid the delivery man at the door as Merlyn, Miki, and Tom sat around the coffee table, downing some of the cheap wine Merlyn had sprung for. Hugo’s eyes lit up as Claudia appeared behind the departing delivery man, clutching three bottles of Chateau Pichon Longueville.
“That’s nice wine for this crowd,” Hugo said, putting the bottles in the kitchen and wrapping both arms around her.
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Claudia said.
“Pichon Longueville?” Hugo laughed. “I hope so.”
“You know, they have a very nice hotel there,” she said, nudging him gently.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” he said.
“Get a room, you two,” Tom called from the living room.
“We’re working on it,” Claudia said.
Hugo uncorked a bottle, and he and Claudia watched Tom slide two large pieces of pizza onto his plate. She looked up at Hugo. “What’s wrong?”
“Tom’s a little subdued,” he said quietly.
“With two pretty girls at his disposal? That’s not good.”
“Precisely.”
“Any idea why?”
“No. Well,” he frowned. “No, I don’t.”
“What are you not telling me?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “I know I can trust you with anything, tell you anything. And I will. I think maybe something from our past has popped up, and I promise that I’ll tell you all about it. Just not tonight.”
She nodded and kissed him gently on the lips. “D’accord. I can wait.”
“Go see if you can cheer Tom up. Some of that good wine should do it.”
Hugo leaned against the kitchen counter and watched as Claudia walked over to the gathering in the living room. Merlyn shifted over to give her space at the coffee table, and Claudia sat next to her, cross-legged.
Miki stretched her arms over her head and looked over at Hugo. He inclined his head. Come here.
She hadn’t wanted to come tonight, had even called him that afternoon to say she was giving up on the Severin project and going home. There was something in her voice, anger or resentment, as if Hugo had been the one interrogating her. He’d reminded her, in his gentle way, that he’d been the one to ensure she was no longer a suspect, that he’d solved a riddle that threatened to ensnare her. She’d acceded finally, but not out of gratitude.
Now, she got up and walked over to him. “I’m glad you made me come tonight,” she said.
“Good,” Hugo replied. “Did you bring the Josephine Baker letters? The sheet music?”
“In my bag.” She indicated a large purse on the floor by the front door.
“Bring them into my office. Which also happens to be my bedroom, now that Tom’s here taking up space in my spare room. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” She winked exaggeratedly, and somehow it came across as less salacious than before, just funny. She grabbed her bag from the floor and followed him into his room, ignoring the quizzical looks from the others and the low whistle from Tom. Hugo didn’t.
“We’re gonna make sweet music in here, please excuse us,” he said with a grin. In his room, Hugo closed the door.
“What’s this about?” Miki said. “Like I said, I’ve looked at the letters, there’s nothing there. Just talk of her schedule and those sheets of music.”
“Are you musical? Have you tried playing them?”
“Yes, and yes.” She dug in her bag and handed over three thick envelopes.
“And I’m guessing it sounded pretty bad, right?”
“I wasn’t sure if it was me or the music—I’m pretty rusty.”
“I’d bet it was the music.” Carefully, he took the pages out of the envelopes and spread them on his desk. “I’m not very musical myself. Learned as a kid, dabbled as a young adult, and tried more recently to get back into the piano.”
“Maybe you can play this better than me, then,” Miki said.
“It wasn’t meant for playing,” Hugo said. “You notice how each letter has just three pages of sheet music?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I think you’ll find that the notes were code,” Hugo said. “And it’ll be decipherable in one of two ways.”
“Code?” Miki’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“It’s going to be a nice little puzzle for you to solve. The dates and places of the letters, who sent what to whom, and then what they said.”
“Wow!” She turned to look down at the music. “Wait, you said there were two ways to solve this?”
“If I’m right, it’s called a musical cryptogram. The musical notes translate into letters to relay a message.”
“But musical notes are only A through G,” she said.
“Right. So she used either the French or the German method. The French . . .” He held up a hand. “Anyway, now isn’t the time or place to go into how each one worked, it can get a little complicated. You’ll have to research it and take the time to decode any message, but you could have quite an interesting little twist to this tale.”
“If you’re right,” she said with a wry smile.
“Indeed. But that’s the fun of history, isn’t it? All the digging around and finding stuff. A few dead ends never hurt.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Hugo smiled. “I know.” They looked up as someone tapped on the door. “Come in,” he said.
The door opened. “Only me,” Tom said.
“Holy crap, you actually knocked. What’s wrong?” But the look on Tom’s face told Hugo that something really was up. “Tom?”
“You lovebirds done? I need a word with the gentleman of the house.” The flatness of his tone didn’t match the levity of his words, and Hugo’s stomach sank.
“Yeah, we’re done,” Hugo said.
They watched as Miki gathered up the letters and sheet music. “Thanks, Hugo. If this turns out to be something, well, it’ll be amazing. Just amazing.”
“You can put me in the acknowledgments,” he said.
“Most definitely.”
Tom stood aside as she left the room, then he closed the door. “You’re pretty smart for figuring this mess out,” he said. “Nice job.”
“Thanks. But you’re welcome to say that out there, in front of everyone.”
“Not a chance.”
Hugo perched on the edge of his desk. “So what’s up?”
“What’s up is that while you’re busy getting things right, I got one thing wrong. Very wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our little chat the other day. I just got a call from a friend in Houston. Our buddy Rick Cofer just got paroled.”
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“Are you serious?”
“For once in my life, I am.”
Hugo stared at his friend for a moment and couldn’t help but ponder the parallels. Two cases, one recently solved and one much older, not closed exactly but out of sight, buried. In the new one, Michael Harmuth’s past came back to haunt him, pushing him to commit further atrocities just to keep his ill-gotten freedom. And in the old one, starring Rick Cofer and his brother Steve, small-time hoodlums with big ambitions, itchy trigger fingers, and a startling lack of conscience.
“What are you going to do?” Hugo asked eventually.
“Nothing. Don’t worry.”
“Then it’s no big deal. He’ll be out on parole, screw it up, and get sent back to prison.” Hugo shrugged. “Or he’ll be a good boy and leave everything well alone.”
Tom snorted. “He ain’t gonna do that, my friend. The Cofer brothers never flew straight a day in their lives.”
“Then he’ll end up behind bars again.”
“He’s smarter than that. If he does go back to what he was doing, he won’t get caught this time.”
“How’s that your logic?” Hugo asked. “He got caught before.”
Tom held Hugo’s eye. “We know why and how, don’t we? Can’t see that happening again.”
“Look, what happened, happened. If he’s not coming here and you’re not going there, we have nothing to worry about. It’s not like he’s writing his memoirs; and even if he did, he’s a murderer and a thief. So let’s just go back to the wine and pizza. Especially the wine.”
“I’m just saying, some secrets are best left buried.”
“That was Michael Harmuth’s view of the world,” Hugo said. “And look where that got him.”
Tom grunted. “He was hardly a pro.”
“Drop it, Tom.”
“Fine. Wine and pizza it is.” Tom turned and, without another word, opened the door and walked back into the living room. Hugo pushed himself up from the desk and followed him.
“There you are,” Claudia said. She was seated on the floor, her back to the couch. She smiled up at him, but worry sat in her eyes. “Join us?”
Hugo slid in behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. She kissed his hand, and Merlyn nudged Miki. “If it’s massage time, you do me first.”
“Some chance,” Miki laughed. “I’ll need more wine first.”
Hugo looked over at Tom. On any other day, he’d be the first to offer a massage to Merlyn. And Miki. Tom caught Hugo looking, and rallied himself. He reached for the wine and topped everyone up. “Get a room, you two,” he said. “Or did I say that already?”
Claudia smiled at him. “We have several to choose from. Maybe later.”
“You foreigners,” Merlyn laughed. “One-track minds.”
“From the kinkiest woman in the room,” Miki said, smiling and raising a glass. “Anyway, here’s to Hugo.”
“What’s that for?” Tom asked.
“Being a brilliant detective, and helping me with my little project,” she said. “May the secret life of Isabelle Severin be as exciting as her public life.”
They all raised their glasses and clinked them together over the coffee table and the remnants of their pizzas. Hugo gave Claudia’s shoulder another squeeze and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I was going to invite you to the Normandy coast for a few days,” he said. “But thanks to this wine I’m wondering whether a trip to the Loire would be even better.”
She tilted her head back and kissed him. “You treat me to one, I’ll treat you to the other.”
Tom smiled finally. “I need to find me a girlfriend like that. Rich and beautiful.”
“Yeah, don’t we all?” Merlyn laughed. She picked up another slice and spoke through a delicate bite. “Still, sharing pizza and wine in Paris with friends will do for now. Very nicely indeed.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d first like to thank the people who made my visit to the real American Library in Paris such a treat: Charles Trueheart, Abigail Altman, and Audrey Chapuis. I’m sorry I had to reveal your secret door and coopt the atelier for my murderous purposes, but they were too good to ignore!
I should also thank my wonderful friends and readers who play the name game with me, letting me use their names as characters in the books. I hope it’s as much fun for you as it is for me.
Many thanks to the two people who helped me with my medical and chemical concerns, Doctor Kenneth Youens and Dr. Lee Ann Grossberg.
Also much gratitude to my wonderful cadre of readers: Patricia De Méo, JoAnne Bagwell, Nancy Matuszak, Nan Martin, and (as ever) Jennifer Schubert.
I am ever grateful to so many people in the book world, especially my agent, Ann Collette, and the wonderful folks at Seventh Street Books: Dan Mayer, Jill Maxick, Jon Kurtz, Jade Zora Scibilia, and Jake Bonar. Also the amazing booksellers at BookPeople, Murder by the Book, Poisoned Pen, and MacIntyres, to name just a few.
I’d also like to thank a family of new friends whom I’ve never met, but hope to. The Harmuth family, who were led into my life by the late and very great Michael, for whom a major character in this book is named and dedicated. Your family’s strength in the face of adversity and your love for each other has been an inspiration.
I also want to thank you, the reader, and I truly hope that you enjoyed The Paris Librarian. There is no greater reward for a writer than to know that his or her work is enjoyed by the reader. If you did enjoy it, or any other Hugo story, please tell others and like it on Facebook, or perhaps review it online—for the greatest support you can give any author is your word-of-mouth-recommendation. Thank you!
Finally, my love and thanks to the four people who continue to encourage and inspire me every single day: Nicola, Henry, Natalie, and Sarah.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Pryor is the author of The Bookseller, The Crypt Thief, The Blood Promise, The Button Man, and The Reluctant Matador —the first five Hugo Marston novels—as well as the stand-alone Hollow Man. He has also published the true-crime book As She Lay Sleeping. A native of Hertfordshire, England, he is an assistant district attorney in Austin, Texas, where he lives with his wife and three children.