“No. They have the tip of the island cordoned off, but no one expects to find anything there, as it almost certainly wasn't the murder scene. If it was murder. They'll do an autopsy in the morning, we'll know more after that.”
“Of course. Do you know who's going to handle the case?”
“No, but I can find out and let you know. Want me to call you there tomorrow?”
“No. I'm coming back.” He glanced at Tom, who stood watching him, trying to read his face. “I have someone to help me here, my friend Tom, so I'll just head back to Paris tomorrow.”
“OK. Call me when you get in, will you?”
“Sure.” Hugo hesitated. He had two questions he wanted to ask her, but the one about Durand could wait. “Claudia, did you know your father bought Max's book? The Rimbaud he sold to me?”
A sharp intake of breath told him she didn't know. Or was an exceptional liar, which was possible. “No. He didn't tell me.”
“Is there any reason why he would?”
“No, I suppose not. He buys and sells books all the time and doesn't usually mention it unless he's found something he's wanted for a long time. But he didn't say anything about this.”
“OK.”
“Hugo, you don't still think this is about the book, do you? This may be a murder investigation now and I need to know what you know, what you are thinking.” They were both thinking the same thing, but she said it first. “Do you think my father could be involved?”
“I honestly don't know, Claudia. There are a lot of coincidences, an awful lot, but some of them have explanations.” He thought of Roussillon buying the Rimbaud. A gay book collector had every reason in the world to cherish an almost priceless copy of Une Saison En Enfer, especially one inscribed by the author. “Look, I'll call you tomorrow. And Claudia?”
“Yes?”
“Again, I appreciate you getting this news to me, I really do.”
“But of course I would, Hugo.” She sounded almost taken aback, but her voice softened. “I am sorry he's gone, truly.”
“Thank you. Now, get some sleep, and we'll talk when I get to Paris.”
He rang off and handed the phone back to Ceci. Like Tom, she'd been listening to his every word and her eyes were glistening.
“Max is dead, oui?” she whispered.
“Oui,” Hugo said, “il est mort.”
She clutched the phone to her chest and closed her eyes. “What is happening up there? Is it Gravois?”
“I don't know,” said Hugo, “I really don't.”
“Let me at him,” Tom growled, “we'll find out soon enough.”
Ceci gave him a sad smile and shook her head. “If I understand you, I think we've had enough violence.” She walked to the desk and put the phone down, then turned to her guests. “Good night, mes amis. Sleep as late or early as you want. I always wake before dawn to let Sydney out, so I'll make breakfast whenever you get up.”
The two men bade her good night then stayed for a moment, standing on either side of the fireplace.
“I'm sorry about your friend, Hugo.”
“Thanks. At least they aren't assuming it was an accident.”
“That's a start,” Tom nodded. “Of course, you've got a whole new set of problems now, you know that, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your boss already told you to keep a low profile. If you keep poking around and asking questions while there's an official police investigation, word'll get back to him pretty damn quick.”
“Good point,” said Hugo. He looked up at Tom and smiled. “If only I knew someone who was used to operating without anyone knowing.”
“Well shit,” Tom said, “if you're really expecting me to do my thing, I need to hit the sack. Wake me when you get up. And be sure the coffee's made, else I'll kick your ass.”
The next morning, Hugo called the train station in Pau. He'd forgotten it was Sunday, and when he asked about train times he was told that the first one left for Bordeaux at two that afternoon. He wouldn't be back in Paris until the evening.
He used the morning to sketch out a plan of action with Tom. Ceci wanted to help, but they explained that it was best, safest, that she stay out of it. When that didn't work, they promised her that if they could use her help, they would. That didn't wash either, so they put her on the phone, making calls to as many bouquinistes as possible to find out where they were now. “I'm not sure I understand why,” she said, even while agreeing to do it.
“And Tom, when we get back to Paris I'm thinking we make a visit to Roussillon's place and look at that book.”
“Sounds good,” Tom said. “Assuming he lets you see it.”
“He's got no reason to deny me. And if he does, well, you can put on your ninja suit and fly down the chimney.”
“Not sure I'd fit into the suit, let alone the chimney.”
Hugo smiled. “And there's this other book I should tell you about, it may have something to do with all this.”
“Oh, great, another mysterious book. Who's it by, Agatha fucking Christie?”
“Good guess, but no,” Hugo said. “It's by a guy called Clausewitz.”
“The military man? So did you sell this one, too?”
“That's the thing. I have no idea where it is.” But he couldn't help thinking that Max's copy of On War, wherever it was, might just give them some answers.
Chapter Twenty-One
The train drew into the station at Montparnasse just before eight o'clock that evening. The journey had been frustrating, Hugo unable to reach Claudia or get any news about Max's autopsy, and Tom complaining about the food from the dining car.
They did talk seriously about On War but came to no conclusions. Assuming it was of value, Hugo wondered whether whoever took Max also had the book. Hugo cast his mind back to the kidnapping, trying to picture the book at the stall or even in Max's hand in those final moments, but he couldn't see it in that much detail, couldn't resolve the question one way or the other. Even if he could have, though, neither he nor Tom were able to come up with a reason the book had warranted kidnapping or killing Francois and maybe Max, let alone parting bouquinistes from their stalls. And that meant whoever searched Max's place was probably looking for something else.
“So On War is irrelevant?” Tom had asked.
“Could be. Seems like it, don't you think?”
“I do. But let me know if you change your mind on that.”
“I will.” They sat quietly for a moment, and Hugo let himself think about a conversation they'd started earlier, one they needed to finish. “About Durand.”
“You mean about Claudia.”
“Fine. What else can you tell me?”
Tom frowned. “How about you do the telling.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there's some shit that looked linked, but I don't get how.” When Hugo didn't respond, Tom continued. “You've got books that turn out to be extra pricey, a bookseller who gets kidnapped, an old geezer who collects books, and now you're banging the old geezer's daughter.”
“You don't like the coincidences.”
“I got no problem with them as long as you're not so blinded by finally getting laid that you chalk stuff up to coincidence when it isn't.”
“You think maybe Claudia followed me into the café and put her hooks into me?”
Tom grinned. “No fucking idea. But the mere fact the thought has occurred to you makes me happy.”
“Don't worry, I'm rethinking everything that's happened. Now tell me more about her meeting with Durand.”
“Nothing more to it, man, I told you everything. They had coffee, she was making goo-goo eyes. Look, she may be clean or she may be dirty but what I saw her doing is what reporters do, so don't sweat it. I didn't see them passing money or dope or hand grenades under the table. Not even playing footsie. I'm sure she's fine.”