The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  “It’s like a fingerprint,” Rollo suggested. “Just shows someone was there at some time.”

  “Precisely. Except it’s a little more . . .” It hit him like a blast of cold air, and he just sat staring at her as his mind worked. “Fingerprint,” he repeated slowly. “Oh my God.”

  “Hugo, are you OK? You’ve turned white.”

  His eyes gained focus again, and he put his glass down on the table.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “But I have to go.”

  “You do? Things were just getting interesting.”

  “I really do, yes. And don’t worry, they’ll be even more interesting when my friend Tom shows up, believe me.”

  “Well, thank you for . . .” Her voice trailed off and she seemed upset that he was leaving so suddenly.

  “No, thank you. You just helped me solve a mystery, and saved a woman who is charged with the most serious crime there is.” He took her hand, kissed it once, then stood and walked quickly out of the bar, his cell phone in hand and already trying to connect with Lieutenant Intern Adrien Marchand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  At the prefecture the next morning, Hugo was led to a small and windowless room. It was on the first floor, but it felt more like the basement. Or dungeon. The walls were light green from the floor to about waist height, then painted a cream color that had turned to yellow as it aged. The place smelled musty and contained one wooden chair and a rectangular table that took up 70 percent of the floor space. The only modern item in the room was a security camera that trained its beady eye on him from the far corner.

  Hugo thanked the uniformed officer who’d let him in, and looked at the two boxes and three file folders that lay on the table.

  “Please do not touch those yet,” the officer said. “There are instructions you need to be given first. Someone will be here soon.”

  “Soon” in police time, as Hugo well knew, meant within two hours, so he pulled out a copy of Robin Yocum’s A Perfect Shot and made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard but sturdy chair. Twenty minutes later, Lieutenant Intern Marchand threw open the door and strode in. He glared at Hugo.

  “Monsieur Marston. I thought I made myself perfectly clear that you were not to involve yourself directly in this investigation.”

  Hugo pulled a letter from his jacket pocket and handed it to Marchand. “This is from Claudia Roux’s lawyer, Nicola Dumont. As you can see, it confirms that I am a member of the defense team. Their investigator, you might say.”

  “This is preposterous.” Marchand scanned the letter, then waved it angrily at Hugo and threw it onto the table. “Clever, I’ll give you that, but preposterous.”

  “If we’re talking preposterous, we should discuss you arresting Claudia in the first place,” Hugo said mildly.

  “We have. Several times. And not once have you been able to offer a rational explanation for the DNA of Claudia Roux being found on the victim’s hands.”

  “Give me thirty minutes with these files, and assuming you’ve been as thorough in your work as I expect, I will have an explanation for you.”

  “Seriously?” Marchand looked at him in disbelief. “You think you can explain that away?”

  “Yes.”

  “With my own investigation files?”

  “I do. Thirty minutes.”

  “I see.” Marchand stared at him for a moment, chewing his lip. “Fine. I will be back in thirty minutes. But please know the rules for you being in here. Nothing gets photographed or copied in any other way. You may make notes about what you see, although you don’t even seem to have a pad or pen.”

  “Don’t need either,” Hugo said. “I know what I’m looking for, and if I find it I’ll show it to you.”

  “And if you don’t find it?”

  Hugo smiled. “Then your investigation hasn’t been as thorough as I would have expected.”

  It took twenty-five minutes for Hugo to find the pages, and to satisfy himself that he was right. He left those papers on the desk and put everything else neatly back into the boxes and folders, winked at the camera, and picked up his book. When Marchand let himself in, somewhat less enthusiastically than before, Hugo had his feet on the table and was just starting chapter eleven.

  “You found what you were looking for?” Marchand asked. His tone was neutral, but Hugo could see curiosity burning in his eyes.

  “I did.” Hugo swung his feet off the table to the floor. He stood, picked up the papers, and gestured for Marchand to perch on the table beside him.

  “This should be good,” the Frenchman said.

  “I think it is. So, the question is, how did Claudia’s DNA get on the body of Alia Alsaffar, most notably her hands?”

  “That is the question, yes.”

  “And here’s where specifics matter. Specifics I didn’t ask for and you didn’t give. Frankly, it didn’t occur to me to ask until . . .” He waved a hand. “No matter, it occurred to me eventually.”

  “What are you—?”

  “The thing that’s important,” Hugo interrupted, “was that I needed to see the forensic and medical reports to get as much detail as I could. And, as I expected, you have all those in your case file.”

  “Of course.”

  “You were thorough enough to get not just the victim’s medical records but also Claudia’s.” Hugo reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out some folded-up papers. “I brought my own copies in case you hadn’t, so congratulations for making that unnecessary.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “In America, we call these run sheets.” Hugo held up the papers from his pocket. “The standard report from the ambulance crew that tended to Claudia when she fainted. From you, I was able to review the run sheet from the crew that attended the murder scene. They got there before the police, as you know, but found Alia dead.”

  “Yes, of course. I know that.”

  “Well, what you either don’t know or didn’t spot yet, is that the same ambulance that helped Claudia also went to the museum.”

  “I hadn’t made that connection. Yet.” Marchand’s eyes narrowed. “So what?”

  “We’ll get there in a moment. After looking at the run sheets and making that little discovery, I then looked at the forensics reports. Specifically the crime-scene tech who swabbed the victim for DNA. She was very thorough because she swabbed each finger separately, and also the palms of her victim’s hands separately. Each swab went into its own tube and was sealed, and then sent for processing.”

  “Perfectly standard,” Marchand said. “Nothing improper about that at all.”

  “I’m not suggesting there was. Quite the opposite—I’m thrilled to pieces she did it that way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Hugo said, enjoying the confusion on Marchand’s face, “she marked every tube with a number and letter, enabling me to match each one up with the findings of your DNA lab.”

  “Again, standard.”

  “You have great standards, no doubt. My point is that Claudia’s DNA was found not on either of Alia’s palms but on one of her fingers. And only one. Which, if you think about it, is odd if it got there while Alia was defending herself from an attack by Claudia. But, that aside, what’s more interesting is that it was from her index finger.”

  Marchand furrowed his brow in thought, and Hugo gave him a moment. Finally, the Frenchman’s head jerked upright and he snapped his fingers.

  “Mon dieu, I know what you’re saying!” His eyes were wide and he stared at Hugo.

  “Good.” Hugo nodded. “Because I think what happened is that the same ambulance crew that treated Claudia rushed to the museum to attend to Alia Alsaffar, and when they got there . . .”

  “Yes, I see it now.” Marchand nodded. “They had no time to clean their equipment, probably didn’t think they needed to since Mademoiselle Roux declined any real treatment.”

  “Right,” Hugo said. “Except they did use a couple of thing
s, probably without even thinking about it. The blood-pressure machine, a stethoscope . . .” Hugo left the sentence open, letting Marchand finish his thought.

  “And the oxygen monitor, whatever you call it, that they put on Mademoiselle Roux’s finger!”

  “Pulse oximeter,” Hugo said. “And, yes, the very same one that minutes later they put on Alia’s finger.”

  “Merde, show me.” Marchand turned to the papers on the table. He leaned over them as he looked at the ambulance’s two run sheets.

  “Fortunately, they are very thorough,” Hugo said.

  “Yes, yes. It says right here in the notes, both times the pulse oximeter was placed on the index finger of the patient.”

  “Even paramedics have habits, I guess,” Hugo said. “This guy puts the oximeter on his patients’ index fingers and, thankfully, makes a record of it.”

  “Yes, and . . .” Marchand straightened and picked up the forensics report, turning to the back page. “You’re right, it was Alsaffar’s index finger that the DNA was found on.” Marchand put the report down and stood, staring down at the papers, slowly shaking his head. “That fool! How can he not clean his equipment?” He looked up at Hugo, anger in his eyes. “Thanks to his laziness, I charged a woman with murder!”

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Hugo said. “His job is to get to his patients as quickly as possible, and he did so that night. Plus, if not wiping the inside of the pulse oximeter was so obviously a danger, then you, or I, should have figured this out earlier.”

  “Perhaps, yes.” Marchand sighed. “You are right about that, too. It was my error and not his. And now, apart from a possible motive, which,” he looked away sheepishly, “I admit was never very persuasive, this was our main evidence. Our only real evidence.”

  “So you’ll withdraw the charges?”

  “I will have to inform my superiors, but then, yes, immediately. Right away.”

  “One more thing,” Hugo said.

  Marchand cocked his head, then a smile spread over his face. “Ah, but of course. Please, say it.”

  “Thank you.” Hugo cleared his throat dramatically. “I told you so.”

  Marchand nodded his head. “Yes, you most certainly did.” He gave Hugo a wry smile. “You know, you’re quite the boyfriend.”

  “Hang on, I never said I was—”

  Marchand laughed. “I was a fool to miss this evidence. But I am not a fool when it comes to affairs of the heart. She is lucky to have you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The cold nipped at Hugo’s face as he stepped out of the prefecture and headed toward his Saint-Germain-des-Prés apartment on the other side of the river. As he walked away, he felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and even the cold couldn’t suppress the delight he felt. Mostly at knowing Claudia was free from suspicion, and criminal charges; but, to a lesser degree, from the satisfaction of putting together the clues, solving what for him had been at one time an utterly inexplicable mystery. It was true, in Hugo’s experience, that even the most difficult puzzles often had simple explanations, but he refused to chide himself for not spotting it sooner.

  As for Claudia, he’d called her before leaving the prefecture, and she’d echoed Lieutenant Intern Marchand’s sentiments about his worth as a boyfriend, and promised him unnamed but glorious rewards the next time they were alone together. Until then, they agreed to meet right away for an early lunch at a new place that had opened up in the Sixth Arrondissement, not far from Hugo’s apartment. “I’ll get us the best table in the house,” she’d said, laughing. “I’ll leave now. Can you call Nicola and let her know?”

  Even the tough façade of Nicola Dumont cracked a little when Hugo told her the news.

  “That’s fantastic,” she’d said. “Very impressive work, Monsieur Marston.”

  “Thanks, Claudia is happy. And I’m sure you’d have figured it out once you saw the documents.”

  A pause, then the first, and very gentle, laugh he’d heard from her. “I certainly hope so.”

  Hugo started across Pont Neuf, but stepped to one side at the sound of a bell behind him. He watched in amusement as a slender young man dressed in black, but topped off with a brown fur hat with a tail, swept past on a bicycle as spindly and upright as he was.

  Hugo slowed his walk to enjoy the sights and sounds a little more than he had recently, and partway down Rue Dauphine, he slowed even more to watch a burly man about fifty yards ahead of him. The man wore green coveralls and stood on top of his van. He was in animated discussion with a smiling and rotund woman who was wearing a powder-blue robe and leaning over her second-story balcony. As Hugo got closer, the woman laughed at something the man said, twirled her hair in her fingers, and then threw something down, which the man caught with both hands.

  A key? Hugo wondered. He resisted the urge to linger, to see if the man disappeared into the building, and instead he minded his own business and turned down Rue du Pont de Lodi.

  The café Claudia had chosen was almost empty when he got there. One hardy couple was sitting at a sidewalk table outside, hands clasped around bowls of chocolat chaud. Overhead heaters were built into the green-and-gold canopy above their heads and, as at so many cafés, the shift toward customer service was enhanced further by the red blankets folded over the backs of the outdoor chairs.

  A waiter stepped out toward him, hands cupped around a cigarette, and he nodded at Hugo as he moved away from the entrance for his smoke break. Inside, Hugo asked for a table by the large picture window that looked out over the narrow street. He’d barely sat down when he spotted Claudia outside, heading for the door. He stood as she came in, and she threw herself into his arms.

  “My hero!” she said.

  “Why thank you, my lady.”

  “I always knew you were a genius.”

  “That might be a little generous.” He pulled a chair out for her, and she sat. “But I’ll take it.” He sat, too. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Amazing.” She reached across the table and took his hands. “Seriously, Hugo. Thank you. I don’t think anyone else could have figured that out. You saved me from prison.”

  “Possibly. But I think Nicola would’ve got there and, even if not, with no other evidence against you . . . pretty weak murder case.”

  She sat back as the waiter arrived. “Champagne?” she asked Hugo.

  “I’ll take coffee for now. I still have a murder case to solve.”

  “Two coffees, please,” Claudia said to the server, and they waited for him to leave. “So is Marchand letting you back into the fold?”

  “Yes, basically. I think he was upset with himself for arresting an innocent person, and he is now a little more willing to accept help.”

  “Your help, specifically.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good. Whoever killed that poor girl is still out there.”

  “And I got the sense Marchand doesn’t really know where to look next.” Hugo picked up the leather-bound menu. “We should order, then talk. All this freeing innocent damsels has made me hungry.”

  “Get two of everything,” Claudia said with a smile. “It’s all on me.”

  When the waiter returned, Hugo ordered the veal blanquette over basmati rice, and Claudia chose the cod brandade with salad. They stuck with water and coffee to drink.

  “I guess Claudia the journalist has a story to write now,” Hugo said. “Quite the perspective, if you think about it.”

  “I’ll wait until you catch the killer,” she said with a wink. “Like I usually do.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Let me ask you something, though.” She sipped her coffee and peered at him over the rim. “Marchand made a big deal out of you having dinner with Alia. It was my motive, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Be honest with me. Did you have any feelings for her?” She wagged a finger at him. “And it’s perfectly all right if you did. You’re still my hero.”

&
nbsp; “Good.” Hugo laughed, then said, “I suppose I was attracted to her. She was beautiful, smart, talented. Maybe a little young for me, though.”

  “This is France, my dear, we don’t care about those silly things.”

  “Age is just a number, eh?”

  “Unless one of you is a child, then yes.” She sat back. “Have you been seeing other people lately?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” Hugo stirred his coffee absentmindedly. “No time. No real interest.”

  “Don’t you want to . . . I don’t know, settle down with someone? Get married?”

  “Again.” It was his turn to laugh. “I can’t really say that I do.”

  “I guess I want to know if you’re happy,” she said. “I want to make sure you are.”

  “I’m happy. Are you?”

  “Yes. Especially today.” She turned and looked out of the window as a young woman walked past. “She’s pretty. I do love Paris—it’s the only city in the world where you’ll see pretty girls wearing berets.” She waved a hand. “Maybe Lyon, I don’t know, but you get what I mean.”

  “And only in the winter,” Hugo said.

  “Right. If a woman is wearing one in the summer, she’s probably a tourist.” She laughed, then fell silent as their food arrived. When they were alone again, she said, “So, back to business.”

  “Business?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes. The business of murder.” She took a sip of water and asked: “If I didn’t kill Alia Alsaffar, who do you think did?”

  That question was still weighing on Hugo’s mind when he stepped into his apartment building’s foyer. The concierge, Dimitrios, looked up.

  “Monsieur Marston, bon après midi,” he said. Good afternoon. “I have something for you.”

  “You do?”

  “A package. Envelope, I mean.” He bent down and pulled out a yellow, six-by-eight-inch envelope. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” As a matter of habit, Hugo pulled out a handkerchief and used it to take the envelope.