“So what's the plan?”
Hugo stretched his feet toward the fire, pushing away thoughts of Claudia meeting with a detective he didn't trust. “Let's ask madame about Gravois when she gets back,” he said. “We'll see if she has any more insight into that guy. And then we'll have a nice peasant dinner.”
Chapter Nineteen
She cooked supper in the pot, a shank and several thick cuts of roast boar that had baked in its own juices and red wine for a good two hours — time that Hugo and Tom spent by the fire. They talked about Max and the book, but found themselves coming up with more questions than answers so they turned to old times and frequently just stared into the flames. Ceci moved back and forth from the kitchen, bringing fresh drinks and slices of local brebis cheese, and dropping new logs on the fire when the two men forgot to do it themselves.
Once, as she was cooking at around six o'clock, Hugo wandered back to the kitchen to see if he could help, and when she declined with thanks, he stood and watched approvingly as she added onions, potatoes, and handfuls of whole garlic to the pot. When he went back to his chair by the fire, he carried the rich aroma with him.
The meal was served at a battered oak table in the kitchen and Ceci ate with them, a small wood stove pumping heat into the room. She'd put a bottle of wine and three glass tumblers on the table, and the men decided it would be impolite not to partake. A second bottle, with Ceci keeping pace, saw them through to a circle of pastry covered in crème patisserie and layered with strawberries. Night closed in around them but they didn't notice, and if they had, they would have welcomed it. No reason to go out and every reason in the world to stay in.
After they'd eaten, they moved back into the living room. Ceci offered to open another bottle of wine, but Hugo had turned pensive and his mood seemed to color theirs. He knew they had more talking to do. Or, he hoped, Ceci did. He asked what she knew about Gravois.
She frowned and thought for a moment, then told them that the man had come out of nowhere. After twelve years heading the SBP, she'd thought about retiring but didn't have enough saved and so settled in for an unopposed election and another four-year term as the union's leader. But as the election drew near, she began to hear rumblings. Not so much of discontent, she said, but of concern. And then Bruno Gravois paid her a visit.
“He was nice enough,” she said. “Polite but in that way some people have, the way that lets you know they are not always so gentlemanly. He told me that some of the bouquinistes had asked him to throw his hat into the ring.”
“Wait, was he a bouquiniste himself?” Hugo asked.
“No. That's what was odd. That was always the tradition. I'd only run a stall for a few years, then gotten myself a part interest in a bookshop in the Third Arrondissement. But I had been a bouquiniste.”
“Interesting,” said Tom. “Did you ask him about his background? Why he of all people should be any good at the job? Or want it?”
“Of course. He told me that he was well-connected, that he could give the bouquinistes a louder voice. No, wait. ‘A bigger stick to wield,’ that's the way he put it.”
“Nice image,” Hugo muttered. “Go on.”
“I remember after that he did something odd. We'd been talking with my office door open, but he got up and closed it. He came to my desk and half-leaned over it. Have you seen him? Then you'll know what he looks like. To a woman, messieurs, he can be quite frightening.”
“I can see that,” Hugo said. “Did he threaten you?”
“No, I don't suppose I can say that he did.” She laughed gently. “That face, the look he had, that was threat enough. He didn't use any words that, when I repeat them now, sound threatening, but after he'd closed the door like that, walked so slowly to my desk…” She looked at Hugo and shuddered. “You've seen the limp? Then you know. Anyway, he offered me money. I remember his voice, so clear and cold. It's almost funny, he offered me money the way a robber demands it. You feel like you have no choice but to go along.” She waved a hand at the living room. “And this is what I did with it.”
“And some gites,” said Hugo.
“Yes. It was a lot of money.”
“Didn't you wonder, though? Wonder why?” asked Tom. “Or go to the police, even?”
“And say what? That a scary man had offered me lots of money? ‘Take it!’ they would have said, ‘take it, you foolish woman!’ So that's what I did.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Hugo spoke. “Did you know he offered other bouquinistes money to quit?”
“No.” She looked up. “Why would he do that?”
“I don't know,” Hugo said. “For the same reason he offered you money, whatever that is.”
“You know, I have some files here,” she said. “They may be out of date, but you are welcome to them. They'd tell you who had stalls when I left Paris, maybe you could see who has left and find out why.”
“I think that's exactly what we should do,” said Hugo.
“I can take care of that pretty easily,” said Tom. “I'll get the names, find contact info, and start calling.”
“I'll go get them,” Ceci said. She stood and went to a heavy desk at the far side of the living room. She opened a file drawer and spent a few minutes looking through it. She returned with a manila folder containing half a dozen sheets of paper and handed it to Tom. “Not much more than a list of the bouquinistes, but it's something.”
“Merci,” Tom said. “I'll get started first thing tomorrow. Now, what do you say about just one more little bottle of vin de table?”
Ceci smiled and headed into the kitchen. Hugo looked at his friend, sprawled out in his chair, disheveled and bleary-eyed. Good to be working with you again, Tom.
When Ceci returned, Hugo was glad to see she carried a jug of water along with the bottle, and all three of them paid more attention to it than they did the wine. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed ten times. As Hugo stood to excuse himself for the night, the house phone rang. Ceci answered it, her eyes on Hugo. “Oui. Il est la.” Yes, he's here. “It's for you. A woman.”
Tom stirred in his chair and mumbled, “At this time of night? Don't bother ordering one for me, I'm turning in.”
Hugo took the phone. “Hello?”
“Hugo, it's me, Claudia.” Her voice was strained.
“Claudia, are you OK?”
“Yes, I'm fine. Been trying to get hold of you for hours.”
“Sorry, no cell phone coverage here.”
“So I gather. You didn't tell me where you were staying so I had to call the embassy, get your secretary's home number, and have her tell me where you were.”
Poor Emma. “So what's going on?”
“Hugo, I'm really sorry.” He could hear her take a breath, steadying herself. “I got a call from one of my contacts at the prefecture, they found another bouquiniste in the river. I'm so sorry, Hugo. It's Max — he's dead.”
Chapter Twenty
Hugo pressed his head against the cool stone of the wall and closed his eyes. “Where exactly, Claudia?”
“Some tourists found him at the tip of Ile Saint-Germain this afternoon. He'd been in the water for some time. The cops are not sure how long, or how far he was carried downstream, so they can't say where he went in. Or how. I'm sorry.”
“It's definitely him?” A question other people used to ask him, and he heard the same desperation in his own voice.
“Yes. There's no doubt.”
“OK. Thanks for finding me.” He shouldn't have been surprised, and really he wasn't. A man isn't taken like that only to pop back up, all happy and well. But, dammit, he'd hoped. Really hoped. “Tell me they're not treating this as an accident,” he said.