“Are you saying I should have hired a professional, Monsieur Marston?” Roussillon said, more amused than concerned that his ruse had been unearthed.
“Perhaps.”
“But my other guests would have wanted an explanation for a stranger's presence.” He leaned in to Hugo. “They do like to gossip, you know.”
“Most people do.” Hugo drank more of the port and wondered why he'd never bothered to seek it out before. “I assume it was done for your daughter's benefit more than mine,” he said.
“Two birds with one stone. Although jealousy can be a powerful agent, don't you think?”
“No doubt.” For all his money and his title, because of them perhaps, Roussillon was proving to be a manipulative and controlling man. “I guess I'm wondering what happens if I say no to young Jenny?”
“Then the next one I send will be younger.”
“And if I still say no?”
“Then the one after that will be younger still. And if that doesn't work, I can always send boys. I have found that while one never knows the predilections of one's friends and acquaintances, one can be sure that they have them.”
“Perhaps, monsieur,” said Hugo, draining his port, “you should not judge others by your own standards.” He set the glass down on the table and extended his hand. “Thank you for a delicious meal. I have an early start tomorrow so will excuse myself.” Hugo didn't wait for the response, suddenly unsure of his ability to remain polite. And a senior member of the US Embassy didn't need to be throttling French nobility, no matter the provocation.
As he let himself out of the library he looked toward the main room. The flames from the fireplace cast flickering shadows on the white wall and he could see clusters of women standing and sitting, the conversation subdued after the large meal. Gossip still to be swapped, but the good stuff was out of the way. He thought about raiding the room for Claudia, but that might indicate a disagreement with the host, and it would stir up gossip for sure.
He walked into the reception hall and went straight to the closet to fetch his hat and coat. He stepped to the front door, willing no one to see him, but paused by the circular table when he realized that he didn't know how to contact his driver. No matter, that's what taxis were for; he'd find one sooner or later. If not, he could always call Emma and have her send one. Or Claudia. He opened the front door silently, closed it quickly behind him, and trotted down the steps, the cold night air surprising him with its bite, a pleasant contrast to the suppressed anger that warmed his face.
He walked down the gravel driveway to Boulevard D'Argenson and looked up. The moon was a thin sliver and the evening breeze had pushed the day's clouds out of sight. The homes around him sat in curtained darkness, blankets of trees softening their glow and allowing the stars their moment.
He started down the boulevard and had gone less than a hundred yards when a black Mercedes pulled up beside him. The window came down and Jean's face appeared. “Can I drive monsieur home?”
Hugo hesitated, but not for long. “Oui, Jean, merci.”
Jean hopped out and opened the rear door. Hugo thanked him again and started to climb in, suddenly wondering whether it had been Claudia who'd sent Jean, whether she might be in the car herself. He plopped down into the seat and found the car empty. He wasn't sure whether the sharp twinge in his stomach was relief or disappointment.
Chapter Fifteen
Hugo awoke early on Friday to a Paris that twinkled after a long night's frost. The clouds that had sat over the city for two days had finally descended across the streets, buildings, and trees, clinging to them before disappearing with the dawn, leaving the city bright and glazed under a clear blue sky. He left Tom to sleep in and stepped out of his apartment, the crisp air and faint smell of wood smoke making the previous night's soiree seem like a fairy tale, a bizarre and unlikely fantasy wiped away by the stroke of midnight and made unreal by the bright light of morning.
His plan was to find the neighboring bouquiniste, and even though she'd not been there on previous occasions, he felt an urgency as if she was already in place, waiting for him. He was hungry but didn't want to spend time ordering in a café, so he stopped instead at a bakery to pick up a croissant and coffee to go. As he left the shop, he narrowly missed spilling the hot liquid on a man in a cloth cap who hurried past the store's entrance. He tried to apologize, but the man hunched his shoulders and kept going.
Hugo walked on, turning onto Rue Bonaparte, where he glanced into the window of a wine shop. Roussillon may have been an ass, but he sure had good port. Another time, thought Hugo. He continued walking north up Rue Bonaparte, and when he got within sight of the Seine he turned left, keeping the busy street between him and the stalls. He kept his head down, not wanting Chabot to spot him. When he did glance up, the little weasel was busy setting up for the day and not yet on the lookout for customers.
A hundred yards down the street, Hugo waited for a break in the traffic. When it came, he trotted across the road and turned right when he got to the sidewalk. The woman he wanted to talk to, the bouquiniste who'd been harassed the day he'd bought the Rimbaud from Max, was also setting out her wares.
He slowed as he approached her stall, not wanting to startle her, and out of habit removed his hat when he greeted her. She was struggling with a stack of books, the slippery plastic covers making them hard to hold with the woolen mittens that covered her hands. She smiled and gave Hugo a friendly “Bonjour.” Her wind-chapped face glowed red in the cold and was the only part of her body not covered in swathes of clothing. A nose crisscrossed with broken blood vessels and watery red eyes suggested her affinity for strong drink. An unashamed appraisal of his cashmere coat and obviously American boots suggested an affinity for ways to obtain it.
“Madame,” he said. He picked up and shuffled through a stack of postcards, picking out two that were sepia photographs of well-dressed couples, one holding hands in front of the Eiffel Tower, the other taken alongside the Seine in roughly the spot they were standing now. She asked for two Euros for the cards, but he gave her five and waved away the change. A narrowing of her eyes told Hugo that the old woman knew there was a reason for the tip. He pocketed the postcards and decided to try a straightforward approach. “I am looking for a friend, a bouquiniste. His name is Max Koche.”
“Max?” A look crossed her face that fell between wariness and fear. “He's a friend of yours, did you say?”
“Yes,” said Hugo. “I've known him a long time. I work at the US Embassy and have bought many books from him.”
“Yes, I've seen you talking to him before.” She turned her back to him and straightened a few books. Hugo let her think about it. “I haven't seen him for a week,” she said, then looked over her shoulder. “One day he was there, the next…” She shrugged.
“Were you working here last week?”
“Oui, all week.”
“Non, your stall was closed for a while.” Hugo stepped closer. “But you were here to see what happened to him.”
She stared for a moment, her watery eyes crisscrossing his face as she considered the question. She shook her head and turned to her stall.
“Non.”
“You told police that he got onto a boat with some people, voluntarily.” It was a guess, he knew she'd been working that day and that if she'd returned to her stall she couldn't have missed the fracas. “But you saw what really happened, didn't you?”