He realized that he'd been hoping, despite everything he'd seen, that Max had been taken against his will but was staying away of his own accord. That hope now seemed ridiculous. The stale bread and sour milk made it clear that Max had been away from his apartment for several days at least, and the luggage and clothes still in the closet meant he'd not gone away of his own accord.
But what to do? He couldn't very well call the police. “Bonjour. Hugo Marston here. I just broke into someone's apartment and would like to report someone breaking in a day or two before me.” Hardly.
There was one person he could call. He pulled out his phone and dialed Emma.
“Hey, it's me,” he said.
“Well hello me, everything alright? You sound tense.”
“I'm fine.” How did she always know? She was better at reading people than he was. “Can you connect me with that journalist again? Claudia Roux.”
She sighed, and he knew what she was thinking. I don't believe that everything's fine, but if you won't tell me what's going on, I won't push it. “I should have the number written here somewhere. Got it. Hold on and I'll connect you.”
Twenty seconds later, Hugo heard two clicks and Claudia's voice.
“‘Allo? Hugo?”
“Claudia, I know you're busy today, I'm sorry to bother you.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes. Listen, I'm at Max's place.”
“He's there? You found him?”
“No. I found his cat.”
“His cat? I don't understand.”
“Neither do I. I let myself in and—”
“You broke into his apartment?”
“Claudia, ça va. It's OK. I had a key.”
“A key. Since when?”
“That's not important. Listen, someone was here before me, they went through his books. But all his personal things are here like he just stepped out to buy bread. Claudia, I didn't tell you everything before. Max was kidnapped, I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What? Why didn't you—”
“I know, I know. I'll fill you in later, but the point is, I was hoping that whoever had taken him had let him go, then told him to clear out of the city. But his stuff is here, clothes and suitcases, and his bread is stale and his milk sour. He hasn't been back.”
“Merde, I'm sorry, this is terrible. Why would someone break into his place?”
“I'm not sure. Did you find anything out?”
“Oh, Hugo. I'm sorry. I haven't had time. That new drug task force I mentioned, I've been meeting with them all day. But I'll do it before I come over tonight, I promise.”
“Thanks.” Hugo swallowed his disappointment. Max's kidnapping hadn't worried the detectives at the prefecture, and a man gone from his apartment for a couple of days in Paris wasn't going to register with even the lowliest gendarme. He shouldn't be surprised that Claudia hadn't gotten to it. “No problem,” he said. “I was just here so I thought I'd call. I'll see you tonight, OK? You remember the way?”
She laughed. “If I get lost, I'll ask a policeman.”
“I'm going to take one more look around here, then I'll head home.”
“Bien. Oh, Hugo. Feed him, will you?”
“Who?”
“The cat. Feed him before you go. Just in case.”
Chapter Ten
At seven that evening Claudia appeared with a shopping bag in each hand and a peck on both cheeks for Hugo. He took the bags and she followed him into the kitchen where they started to unpack.
“You like snails?” she asked.
“Mais oui,” he said. “As long as the garlic is pressed not diced and is just as fresh as the bread.”
“Then you're in luck. Open some wine and watch me cook.”
She must have gone home to change before coming over, Hugo thought, because her tight jeans were not made for field work, even for a journalist. Her top was simple, black and silky, dipping low down her back. As he watched her glide about the kitchen his appetite increased, but it was her that he wanted, not the food. He moved behind her and closed his arms around her waist. She laughed. “I see it's not just the bread and garlic that are fresh.”
“They can wait a few minutes.”
She dropped the butter and snails into the already-hot frying pan, turned the heat to low, then swiveled in his arms and put her lips against his ear. “I'm hungry too,” she whispered.
He carried her into the bedroom as they kissed, and they left the snails to simmer for longer than any real chef would.
When they finally ate, they did so in the kitchen, both half-dressed and ravenous. They spoke little but smiled a lot, comparing snails for size and then devouring them, tearing each other hunks of bread from the rapidly shrinking baguette.
As Hugo got up to open a second bottle of wine, Claudia let out a small burp. “Pardon.” She held out her glass. “Before we finish this one, we should talk about your friend Max.”
Max. Hugo hadn't mentioned him, but the old man had been with him all evening, a gnawing in his gut and a hollow echo in his mind. He'd wanted to ask what she knew the moment she stepped through the door but didn't want her to think he was using her, a childish thought and maybe an excuse for being overtaken by her presence. But now he was all ears.
“You found something?”
“No, that's just it. Nothing. I checked hospitals, morgues, and even the jails.” She shrugged. “No Max Koche. Can you please tell me what's going on?”
He poured the wine and started with Max's kidnapping, with the bizarre response from the police on scene. She sat wide-eyed and unmoving as he filled her in on the old man's history, and how they'd become friends.
“The whole thing is…crazy. And what do you think is going on?” Claudia said. “That someone kidnapped him because of his past?”
“I have no idea.”
“What about that book, the Rimbaud? You said you'd only just bought it from him.”
“Yes, not even an hour—” Hugo stopped talking as his mind went into overdrive. No. It couldn't be. The book?
“I don't know everything you know,” Claudia said. “But is it possible the book has something to do with it?”
“It crossed my mind originally, but it didn't make any sense. No one gets kidnapped over a book, and if that was what the man wanted Max didn't even have it. I did. All Max had to do was tell me to hand it over, no?”
“Maybe. Maybe he thought if he played dumb the guy would leave him alone. Was there anything unusual about it, or him selling it to you?”
“No, I don't think so.” Hugo shook his head, then looked up. “All I can think is that…he didn't know the book's true value.”
“Maybe someone else does,” Claudia said. “Maybe that's what they want?”
“A book?”
“Sure, a valuable one. People have been killed for a lot less. But like you said, when he was kidnapped Max didn't have the book. You did.” She lowered her wine glass and put a hand on his. “That means whoever took him knows that he doesn't have it, especially now that they searched his apartment. But they might know he sold it to you.”
“Yeah, that just occurred to me.”
“Don't play the hero, Hugo, you might be in danger.”
“Possibly. Look, I don't have jurisdiction here, not officially. Do you think one of your cop buddies would open a missing person's file and go talk to that bouquiniste Chabot?”
“I will ask tomorrow, sure,” she said. “But why would they shut down an investigation like that?”
“They found people who said nothing happened. Two or three Parisians versus one American.” Hugo shook his head. “I don't know, maybe they thought I was drunk?”