The Bookseller (5 page)

“
Non
,” said Hugo. “Tell me, where is Max?”

“Max?” Something closed down in the seller's eyes. He took a step back and began to caress his chin. “I don't know any Max, monsieur.” The man picked up a stack of postcards from a battered card table and began to sort through them.

“No? You're working at his stall.” Hugo looked around. “He is your
patron
,
non
?”

“I am my own boss.” The man's tone was brusque, and he stopped what he was doing to look at the American. “
Alors
, who are you?”

“A friend of Max's.” Hugo took a step forward. “And you know who he is. This is his stall.”

“
Non
, this is my stall.” The seller was not to be intimidated, despite the difference of a foot and fifty pounds. “You are not the police, are you?” He moved closer to Hugo and his thin mouth drew into a slight smile. “I think not, and I also think I do not have to answer your questions, monsieur. So unless you want to buy a book or maybe some postcards, please leave.”

Hugo took off his hat and brushed the brim.
Fine, then we'll do it this way
. He looked at the man and took a step back.

“I apologize for my rudeness,” Hugo said. “I am tired, and a little disappointed not to find
mon ami
.” He flashed his most disarming smile. “I have many friends looking for books, I will be sure to refer them to your stall, monsieur…?”

The man shifted from foot to foot, his suspicions softened by the charm and sincerity of a student of behavioral sciences. “Chabot. Jean Chabot.”

“
Alors
, Monsieur Chabot, thank you for your time and please accept my apologies for any rudeness.” Hugo executed a quick bow and turned on his heel before Chabot could respond.

Ten yards from the bouquiniste Hugo's path was blocked by another pedestrian, a tall, thin man in a trench coat carrying a bone-handled cane. He wore gloves but no hat, and stared at Hugo without moving. It was an unusual moment of aggression, asserted passively in a city where people moved out of each other's way as a matter of course.

Unable to help himself, Hugo took a moment to appraise the fellow. Many years ago, while at the bureau, he had taken a course that touched on phrenology, a technique premised on the idea that you can tell something of a man's nature by his skull. Had it not been a discredited pseudoscience, the guy on the sidewalk could have been the instructor's first slide.

He had, Hugo thought, one of those faces that you couldn't help but stare at, and not because it was beautiful. He was completely bald with large and very round eyes, set in deep, dark circles beneath a broad forehead. Below a prominent nose, his wide mouth dipped down at the edges as if he'd grown used to frowning at life's disappointments. Actors had made their livings with this face, Hugo thought, playing the gaunt and chiseled crook whose head made you think
skull
.

Hugo stepped around the man, but close enough so their coats brushed, the American unwilling to give ground completely. Once past him, Hugo smiled at his own machismo.
Christine would have rolled her eyes and made some comment about dick measuring
, he thought.

He reached Pont Neuf and looked back at the stall, surprised to see the bouquiniste pointing toward him. The man with the cane stared in his direction while the bookseller spoke animatedly. Hugo hesitated, wondering if he should go back. Maybe the seller was asking who Max was, which meant this guy might know. But as he watched, the tall newcomer drew back his hand and slapped the seller across the face.
The response was as surprising as the blow: Chabot held up both hands as if he were apologizing.

Hugo forced himself to keep walking. As curious as he was, he had no desire to insert himself into whatever dispute existed between these men. And, more importantly, he needed information before risking a confrontation with either one. Despite his earlier clumsy attempt with Chabot, blundering into a situation was not the way he usually worked.

He looked across the street, but Max's colleague, the red-faced woman with the bottle, had not opened her stall, perhaps put off by the previous day's encounter or, maybe, by the cold. He wanted very badly to talk to her about her “
affaire domestique
,” to find out if that confrontation had anything to do with Max, and to see if she'd been one of the “witnesses” who gave a false story to the police. He'd come by again later and, hopefully, see her then.

As Hugo crossed the street and walked away from the river, a darkness settled about him and the traffic, the people, faded from his immediate consciousness. All he could think about was a friend taken from him, literally, a friend no one seemed to know or care about, and a crime that wasn't even close to being in his jurisdiction.

 

 

The bookstore was further than Hugo had thought, partly because he opted for the more interesting walk down Rue Saint-Jacques over the busier Rue Monges, where the snow would be gray slush already. It took an hour, with a quick stop at a timbered café for to-go coffee and a
pain au chocolat
, to reach Rue Barrault.

A bell jingled quietly as he walked in, and as the door closed the familiar and distinctive aroma of once-loved books swept over him, the musty smell of paper and dust like incense, a welcoming cloud of calm and serenity. Hugo looked around. Heavy wooden book cases lined the side and back walls, filled with a colorful array of mostly leather-bound books that looked like they had been arranged by size rather than subject. Several small tables took up floor space, each bearing one or two glass cases in which the more valuable tomes were displayed under lock and key. The two ceiling-high bookcases at the back of the room sat on either side of a closed door. Hugo walked around the shop, looking at the books on sale.

“
Bonjour, monsieur
.” The door at the back opened and a man stood there smiling. He was short and probably fifty years old, with a full round belly and a closely trimmed white beard. “I thought I heard someone come in,” he said. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His movements were precise, careful, as if he were maneuvering in a tiny library where the books were in precarious stacks, not tucked away on shelves. He wore a pair of baggy corduroy pants and a paisley vest over a shirt that Hugo assumed had once been white. On his feet, a pair of slippers. When he spoke, he crinkled his nose so that his tortoise-shell spectacles shifted upwards and he was able to see
his subject. His voice was as delicate, and his diction as precise, as his movements. He spoke in French. “Are you just browsing, or may I be of assistance?”

“
Bonjour
.” Hugo held up the two books. “I wanted to ask you about these, if you don't mind.”

“
Bien sur
.” Of course. The old man cocked his head and spoke in English. “American?”

“Yes,” Hugo said. “You?”

“English. Couldn't stand the weather so I popped over here and started a book shop.” The man walked over and offered his hand. “Peter Kendall. That was thirty-two years ago, and I still hate the English weather.”

“Me too,” Hugo smiled, shaking his hand. “Hugo Marston.”

“I think you've been here before. So, what do you have there?”

Hugo showed Kendall the covers, looking to gauge the man's response. It was minimal. “I wondered if you'd seen these books before.”

“Let's have a look.” Kendall took them and walked over to the window where the light was better. “Mind if I take them out of their plastic covers?”

“Not at all. I don't know if they are worth much, but I'm sort of curious to know whether I…”

“Got ripped off?”

“Got a good deal, let's put it that way.”

“Very good. Follow me.” Kendall started toward the door at the back of the room and Hugo followed him into his office, which was half as big as the store itself and dominated by a large mahogany desk. As Kendall rounded it and sank into his chair, Hugo picked one of the two wing-backed seats opposite. Kendall opened a desk drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass and a letter opener. “Do you mind if I ask where you bought them?” he said.

“A bouquiniste,” Hugo said. “I know one of the sellers pretty well and sometimes buy from him.” Hugo watched the man closely, teeing up his question and waiting for a reaction. “Do you know a bouquiniste called Max?”

Kendall furrowed his brow, but his hands never moved and his eyes showed nothing. “I might. By Pont Neuf?”

“That's him.”

“I've bought a few things from him, yes. Can't say I know him well, but I will say he seems like one of the few out there who gives a hoot about the books he sells.” Kendall sat back and looked at the ceiling. “Just sold him a few books about the war, come to think of it. Old, rather dry tomes, though I'm buggered if I can remember what they were.”

“That's OK.” Hugo nodded toward the Agatha Christie. “I ask because your card was in that book.”

“Ah, yes,” Kendall smiled. “She's one of my favorites and her books are a specialty of mine, you might say. She was friends with my mother, you see, back in the old country.”

“I'm also asking because Max has disappeared.”

The smile fell from Kendall's face. “What do you mean?”

“I wish I knew,” Hugo said. “I'm just…concerned about him.”

“I'm sorry.” He spread his hands wide. “I don't know what to tell you, I haven't seen him in weeks.”

Hugo believed him. His body language, his open face, both rang as true as his words. So: dead end.

Hugo looked at the books. “Can you tell if they're worth much?”

“I can hazard a guess.”

Hugo watched as Kendall wielded the letter opener like a scalpel, opening the wrapping of the Agatha Christie with deft flicks of the wrist. “Well, this is a first edition, as I'm sure you know. Like the ones I have out there. I'd guess it'd sell for about three hundred Euros. Give or take. It's a nice copy for sure, and being an Agatha Christie it should sell fast enough.”

“Good to know.”

“Now, let's have a look at this one.” He picked up the Rimbaud and eased it out of its sleeve and onto the desk. He reached for his magnifying glass and studied the book, front and back, for a moment. “That's odd.” He looked up at Hugo. “Did you say how much you paid?”

“I didn't. I paid a thousand Euros for both.”

Kendall leaned over and switched on his computer, picking up a pair of thin white gloves as he turned back to the book. He put them on and opened the front cover, leaning over it with his glass. “Well, that's something.”

Hugo remembered Max's words. “There's some scribble in the front.”

“There is.” Kendall hunched closer over the inside cover. “I assume it's scribble, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he tell you it was a first edition?”

“What?” Hugo leaned forward. Max had said it wasn't, surely he'd have known.

“I agree that it seems unlikely,” Kendall said pensively. He turned to his computer and spent a minute browsing and clicking. “You know, I think it is. And from what the Internet tells me, a good quality first edition of this book will sell for between twenty and forty thousand US dollars. I imagine thirty thousand is realistic.”

“Seriously?” Hugo said. For some reason, he couldn't help but picture the boots he would like to buy Max. Hell, for that money he could fly him to Fort Worth, first class, and let him choose his own.

“Now then.” Kendall held up a finger. “Your copy is in good condition but it appears to be missing the original box in which it was sold. You don't happen to have it, do you?”

“I don't.”

“Shame.” Kendall stroked the front of the book with his gloved fingers. “Even so, Mr. Marston. Well, let me do some research but I think you have a treasure here.”

“Look,” said Hugo, “any chance you could do your research and then handle the sale for me?”

It was a snap decision, the kind Hugo rarely made. But suddenly the books seemed like bad luck. Since he'd laid hands on them, Max had been kidnapped and Christine had closed the door of their marriage in his face, forever. His urge to get shot of them was a gut reaction,
not a logical decision, and he knew that. He simply didn't want to see these books, touch them, ever again.

“Me?” Kendall chuckled. “I run a book shop, Mr. Marston, not Fort Knox. The most valuable thing I have here is worth less than a thousand Euros. I just don't have the security to house this sort of gem. Now, I do know people at the auction houses, so I could put you in touch, if you like.”

“Honestly, I'm happy to trust you with them. Your store is as secure as my apartment, which is where I'd be keeping it.” Hugo pictured his specially-made gun safe, knowing that security wasn't the issue for him, not really. “And I'm not that worried about the money side of things, even though it's a lot. If you handle it, I'm happy to pay you a good commission.”

“Well, it might be fun.” Kendall stroked his beard with his fingertips. “And it's not like people break into used book stores very often. It's only happened here once and they raided the cash register, not the books.”

“Perfect, just hide it in plain sight on one of the shelves.”

“Very well then,” Kendall said. “I'll have to consult with a fellow I know at Christie's, but I do think an auction is your best bet.”

“I'll leave it to you.”

“Very good, let me just get you a receipt.” A minute later, he handed the receipt, containing a full description of the book, the date, and his own signature, to Hugo. “I hope that will suffice. If it's of any consolation, I don't just do this job for a living, Mr. Marston. I do it because I enjoy seeing book lovers get the books they want.” His eyes twinkled. “What I am trying to say, is—”

“That my book is safe in your hands. I understand.” Hugo smiled. “I appreciate your assistance, although I would be more comfortable if you would take a decent percentage.”

Kendall thought for a moment, then reached for the receipt. “I shall add here that I may deduct expenses and keep a fee of…shall we say one hundred Euros?”

“You can say a lot more than that, if you like,” Hugo said.

“A hundred Euros it is,” Kendall said, finishing with a flourish of the pen. He looked at Hugo and smiled. “Just to handle a book like this is its own reward, I really mean that. Do you want me to put the Agatha Christie on sale, too?”

“Yes, please. I assume that won't go to auction.”

“Probably not.”

“Thank you.” The men shook hands and Hugo reached into his wallet for a business card. “This has all my contact information.” He rose. “Let me know how it goes.”

“I will. And Mr. Marston?”

“Yes.”

“Please, if you get news of Max I'd be grateful for a phone call. Like I said before, I don't know him well but he's…I don't know. A dying breed, perhaps. One of a kind. You know what I mean?”

“I do,” said Hugo. “He is. And when I find him, I'll call you.”

Hugo spent the rest of Saturday trying to find Max's house. Tom was still not answering his phone, but one of the other bouquinistes gave Hugo Max's last name, or what he thought it was: Cloche. But four hours on the Internet, running free searches and using pay sites, gave him nothing.