“Consider it done.”
“Thanks. Also, you recently bought a copy of Une Saison En Enfer.”
Silence. Then, “How did you know that?”
“I can't tell you right now. But I need to see the book.” Hugo decided to take a chance. “I'm the one who sold it.”
“Non, you are mistaken. I bought it from an English dealer.”
“Yes, I know. I bought it from a bouquiniste and took it to a dealer to sell it for me. Peter Kendall.”
“Yes, that's him. But if you sold it, why do you need to see it?”
“I wish I knew exactly. Look, there's a chance that the book has something to do with your daughter's shooting.”
“What? How?”
“Again, I'm not sure. That's why I want to see the book.” He looked at Tom. “To be more specific, I want a friend of mine to look at it.”
“As you know, the book cost a lot of money,” de Roussillon said, “but as long as it stays here, your friend is welcome. It's the least I can do. I'm here tomorrow morning, if that suits your friend.”
Hugo thanked him and rang off.
“How is Claudia?” Tom asked.
“Resting. She lost some blood but I don't think any major harm was done.”
“Well that's good news.” But Tom was biting his bottom lip and staring intently at Hugo.
“What?”
“So you randomly decided Roussillon is on the side of right and justice?”
“You told me to ask him about the book.”
“Yeah, that's all I said, you fucking dolt. You didn't need to open your heart and confess everything.”
“Come on, Tom, I can't imagine he had anything to do with that shooting.”
“Bullshit. Yesterday men with clubs and a cow poker do a shitty job, so today he sends someone with a gun. He doesn't know you're meeting with his daughter at the café, so yeah, he's upset when she gets shot.” He stood and went to the drinks cabinet. “If he is behind this, I wouldn't want to be the clown on the bike who pulled the trigger.”
“If he is behind this, maybe you shouldn't go look at the book.”
“No shit. But now you've opened the door, I'd be an idiot not to go take a look around, wouldn't I?”
“I don't know, Tom.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Now you've got me second guessing myself.”
“Maybe a drink will help. Tea is only good for holding you together until five o'clock. Whisky is better for you after a shock like that.”
“If people keep trying to kill me, I'm going to turn into an alcoholic.”
“Way ahead of you,” said Tom. “Come join the party.”
“Fine. A small one. And tell me about your visit to the SBP.”
“Good man.” Tom poured a large scotch and handed it to Hugo. “You know, they were closed for lunch by the time I got there.”
“Nice timing.”
“Very. You've been inside Gravois's office, right? Obsessive-compulsive, if you ask me.”
“I noticed that. But he told me he had cancer, so maybe it's something to do with keeping germs out. Lots of cleaning.” Hugo held up his drink. “Thanks for this, but if you keep me in suspense much longer, I'm going to fall asleep.”
“Then go ahead and fall asleep. The only interesting thing about him is that he has no personal mementos or information stored anywhere on that premises.”
“That's interesting?”
“Of course. Think about it, Hugo. You go to anyone's office in the world and you'll find a pic of their wife, kid, dog, or favorite centerfold.”
“That's not allowed anymore.”
“It just seemed too sterile, and I don't mean in the medical sense.”
“You think he's hiding something?”
Tom frowned. “You know, it could be the opposite.”
“Tom, for crying out loud.” Hugo pointed to his glass and then himself. “Large whisky. Shot at. Tired. Now, stop being cryptic.”
“Fine. Maybe it's nothing, maybe he's a friendless, petless, family-free freak. But it reminds me of something I saw once before. This guy, it wasn't that he was hiding anything, it's that he didn't exist. Not as the person he made himself out to be. What I'm saying is, if this is the same kind of thing, Bruno Gravois isn't real. He's an invention, a character created for a reason. Did you check into his background?”
“Yes. On the DCRI database. Nothing.”
“At all?”
“At all. Shit, you may be right.” Hugo swallowed the rest of his scotch. “No criminal history, no driver's license, no applications for government permits. Just a birth certificate and nothing since.”
“Everyone has a history, Hugo. Everyone leaves a footprint for the government to follow.”
“Except people who don't exist,” nodded Hugo. “And CIA operatives.”
“Well he ain't one of them, I can tell you that.”
“Interesting. Our Bruno Gravois appears to be a ghost.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The nurse told Hugo when he called the next morning that he wouldn't be allowed in until eight. But he'd woken early and didn't want to spend an hour pacing his apartment, so he set off toward the hospital soon after seven.
He walked with his collar turned up against the sharp morning breeze, enjoying the emptiness of Paris's side streets at that time of day. Occasionally a student would scurry past, winding a long scarf around her neck or balancing books on the handlebars of a bicycle, woolly hats pulled over chilly ears. Puffs of coffee and warm air punctuated his walk, a meandering wander toward the hospital Hôtel-Dieu. After half an hour he stopped and bought a croissant and coffee, eating and drinking as he strolled along the Boulevard Saint-Germain, window shopping to kill time, watching Paris come alive minute by minute.
He dropped his cup into a trash can as he started across the bridge to the Isle de la Cité, the tiny island that was the foundation of Paris and sat in its geographical center, roughly a one-mile walk from Hugo's apartment. One of two natural islands in the River Seine, Hugo knew it to be perhaps the most expensive patch of real estate in the city. Half a dozen bridges spanned the island, bringing in tourists and Parisians alike to one of the greatest of Paris's attractions, the Cathédrale de Notre Dame.
Behind Notre Dame sat the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, founded by Saint Landry in 651 CE. And behind the hospital was Hugo's second stop, the Prefecture de Police, where Capitaine Garcia would be waiting with a stack of photos and a skeptical frown, Hugo knew.
Claudia was sitting in bed reading Paris Match when the policeman stepped aside to let him in. She looked up when Hugo entered and he was pleased to see color in her cheeks and a smile on her face. Her left arm was bandaged and resting in a sling.
“My hero,” she said. “Come for your reward?”
“I don't think they allow that here.”
“Good, I'm exhausted.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, but she turned her head so their lips brushed. “Seriously, Hugo. You saved my life.”
“Actually, I'm not so sure,” he said. “If they were trying to hit me, then I'm the one who put you in danger.”
“Semantics.” She put a hand on his as he sat beside the bed. “Are you OK?”
“Oh yes. On my way to give a statement at the prefecture.”
“Good. My father is coming by later. I think he likes you now.”
“Well if I saved your life, he has to.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “So are you getting out of here anytime soon?”
“Today. I lost some blood but they put some back in. No harm done.”
“Makes for a good news story.”
“Yeah.” She grimaced. “Only when you're the one who gets shot, you don't get to write it.”
“That doesn't seem fair.”
They talked for an hour, about the shooting some, but mostly not. When her head started to nod and her eyes droop, Hugo kissed her forehead and took the magazine from her lap, putting it on the side table. He watched her for a few seconds, sleep taking over a tired body, then let himself out of the room as quietly as possible.