She didn't move. “I know a Max Koche.”
“The bouquiniste.”
“Oui.” She nodded slowly. “Why?”
“I'm a friend of his. I've been buying from him for years.” She waited for him to go on. “Madame, Max is missing.”
“Missing? What do you mean?”
He told her the story. He told her about his kidnap from the walkway, about the Rimbaud book and his meeting with Gravois, and about Francoise Benoit. As he spoke, she moved from the fireplace to the armchair beside him, never taking her eyes from his face, but giving nothing away by her own expression. When he stopped talking, both his tea and the fire were low, but only Hugo noticed. She stared at her hands for a full minute then looked up. “I knew Max well.”
“You did?”
“Many years ago, I helped him get his stall. He was a man with an obsession, did you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” she hesitated. “Do you know about his past?”
“I know he was a Nazi hunter, yes.”
“He was.” She nodded. “Although he got tired of that. Tired of the travel and the stress, not the idea of catching them. And I think he had one or two cases where he felt let down by the judicial system. Anyway, when he came to Paris, he changed his focus, I suppose. He became interested in, and then obsessed by, Nazi collaborators. He was a member of some group that did research to find them.”
“I didn't know that,” Hugo said. “What did they do when they found them?”
“Not much, I think. I mean, mostly they were very old men and women by the time they were discovered. About all they could suffer was the shame of their collaboration being made public.”
“So that's what Max and his people did? They outed the collaborators?”
“Yes. Actually, I think his friends grew weary of it after a few years. As I said, these were old people, and sometimes their young relatives didn't take kindly to the information being revealed. But not Max. As I said, for him it became an obsession.” She smiled sadly. “Do you know why he became a bouquiniste?”
“No,” said Hugo, “he and I never talked about that.”
“Well, you are too young to remember, but you may understand that during the war information was key. For both sides. Whether it was the location of munitions dumps, the routes being used to get Jews out of the country, or who was in the Resistance. But to be useful, the knowledge had to be shared, to be transported. The Gestapo were very good at extracting information, as I'm sure you know.”
Hugo grimaced. “I know of their reputation.”
“Yes. Because they were so good, the Resistance had to think of ways of protecting the information that it gathered. To protect it even as it was being transferred.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, information was smuggled in different ways, so the carrier didn't know what it said. One of the ways was in books.”
“How exactly?”
“A variety of ways. Microdots, or notes pasted under the endpapers were common. Sometimes words or letters were highlighted in invisible ink. Those were probably the methods used most often by the Resistance.”
“And the kinds of information they passed, you're not just talking about munitions dumps and German troop movements, but information about collaborators.”
“Exactly. I think — no, I know, Max believed he could locate more collaborators if he could just search enough books. That's why he became a bouquiniste; he thought it was the best way to search as many old books as possible.”
Hugo pictured Max clinging to the copy of On War by Carl von Clausewitz on that cold, cloudy afternoon. Now he knew why. “Poor Max,” Hugo said. “I had no idea.” He sat back and shook his head. No idea at all.
“Don't feel bad, it did not make him an unhappy man. You know him, so you know that's true. It's almost as if it gives him purpose.”
They sat in silence for a minute, then Hugo looked up. “And you knew Francoise? They are calling her death an accident.”
“Yes, I knew poor Francoise. Frankly, her death could have been an accident. She used to leave her stall and go down by the river to drink. She thought no one would know that way. Perhaps it was inevitable that one day she would fall in.” She smiled sadly. “C'est dommage.” A great shame.
A knock at the door interrupted them and she excused herself. Hugo turned to stare into the fire. He'd not asked about Gravois yet, she needed to process this shock first. And so far she didn't look like being much help. But then why would she? A nice house, a safe business, and hundreds of miles from Paris. No reason in the world to get involved in whatever nasty stuff was happening in and around the Seine.
A man's voice spoke beside him. “Mind if I join you?”
Hugo twisted in his seat, looked up at Tom, and grinned. “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” Tom flopped into the vacant armchair. “I got your message and was in the neighborhood.”
“Marseille is in the neighborhood?”
Tom grinned. “What a good memory you have.”
Madame Roget arrived with a large glass of water, which she handed to Tom. “I'm going to take Sydney out, I'll be back in an hour. Please, make yourselves at home. Would you care to eat here tonight, or will you be going out? I'm happy to cook, if you don't mind peasant cuisine.”
“Let's eat here, if you don't mind,” said Tom. “Just be sure and add it to his bill.”
“Bien. You like pork?”
They told her they did and watched her leave. Tom looked around the room, then back at Hugo. “So did I miss the interrogation?”
“Most of it. She doesn't seem to know much, I'm afraid.”
“The picture's the same, then?”
“Sadly, no. One other bouquiniste is dead for sure.” Hugo filled him in on his encounter with Benoit on the Seine's walkway and on the details of her death. He also told Tom about his being followed and about Roussillon's interference. Then he asked. “Tell me you have good news.”
“I have news.” Tom watched him for a moment, in a way that made Hugo uncomfortable.
“Spit it out.”
“I looked into your unhelpful cop, David Durand. Word I got, he was passing the scene and offered to check it out.”
“OK. And?”
“And, sheesh.” Tom sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Here comes the real news. Your new girlfriend has been hanging out with him.”
“What?” Hugo sat forward, his eyes fixed on Tom.
“They met at a café, played kissy-face like the French do, and were still there when I strolled past twenty minutes later.”
“Doing what?”
“It was a café, what do you think?”
“I don't understand. Were you following Durand or Claudia?”
“Does it matter?”
“Hell yes.”
“Fine. Claudia.”
“Tom, what the hell?”
“You're welcome.” He threw up a sheepish smile. “You have to admit, it's interesting information.”
It was, though Hugo wasn't happy about admitting it. “So they were having coffee. No idea why?”
“Nope.”
“Did you find out who bought the book?”
“I did, actually. Can you guess?”
They locked eyes for a moment, then Hugo spoke. “Roussillon bought it, didn't he?”
“He sure did. Well, not him, but a little girl he has working for him, I forget her name.”
So did Hugo, but no matter. Roussillon again. Did Claudia know about this? “I assume you didn't approach him yet?” Hugo asked.
“Not yet. Did a little digging and saw he was a big shot and figured you might want to handle with care. Glad I did, sounds like he's a thorn.”
“Good assessment.”