“Non.”
“Un moment, s'il vous plait.” She got up, walked to Gravois's office, and knocked lightly, a definite request for permission rather than a formality. A muffled “Oui” from inside and she disappeared, closing the door behind her. She was in there for a full minute, and when she reappeared she just nodded and held the door for them to enter.
Gravois was, as before, presiding over an office devoid of clutter. His gloved hands were folded on the desk top, his gaunt face a blank. He did not rise when they came in, and he looked directly at Hugo. “You brought un flic to make me answer your questions, monsieur?” If it was a joke, there was no humor in the man's eyes.
“He is not a journalist,” Garcia said, “Monsieur Marston is working with the police on a matter of extreme importance.”
Gravois's black eyes bored into Garcia and then Hugo, as his right hand clenched and unclenched. “And what matter is that?”
“Murder,” said Garcia. “Three bouquinistes have turned up dead in a week, and we don't think they were all accidents.”
“Three?”
“Yes.”
“I don't know anything about this.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Garcia said. “But you are the head of the SBP and, I am told, took some extreme measures to remove each of these people from their stalls.”
“I would hardly call a severance package an extreme measure, capitaine.”
“Severance package or bribe, monsieur?” asked Hugo.
“You chose your words, American, I will choose mine.”
Capitaine Garcia sat down unasked. “Do you have records of those you offered severance packages to?”
“I offered them to all bouquinistes.”
“Why?”
“Because the current system is not a good one. We have a group of ancient alcoholics selling trashy books to tourists. I would like to see the old bouquinistes replaced by a younger and more vibrant group. Return the banks of the Seine to its former glory and attract more tourists, sell more quality merchandise.”
“And you get a cut from the new bouquinistes?” Garcia asked.
“Not at all. Ask any of them. Not one Euro.”
Hugo walked to the man's bookcase then turned. “Do you have a current list of bouquinistes?”
Gravois stared at him. As much as he doesn't like Garcia asking him questions, Hugo thought, he sure as hell hates me doing it. Gravois rubbed his left wrist and answered slowly. “Yes. I assume you would like to see it.”
His cancer must be bothering him, thought Hugo, as he watched Gravois reach over and open a draw on the left side of the desk with his right hand. Gravois pulled out a leather binder and opened it. He looked over the rows of neatly typed names and placed it on the desk for Garcia to see. “I can't think what you are trying to learn, gentlemen. Do you have any specific questions for me, or just veiled accusations?”
“We can unveil them if you like,” Hugo said mildly. He ignored a look from Garcia. “Actually, I do have a question. Have you heard of a book called Une Saison En Enfer?”
“No. Who is it by? Perhaps I know the author.”
“Arthur Rimbaud,” Hugo said. “Mean anything to you?”
Gravois looked back and forth between Hugo and the capitaine. “No, it means nothing. What does this have to do with me? With those bouquinistes?”
“You have never heard of the book, monsieur?” Garcia repeated.
“No. Not the book, not the author. I am not a bouquiniste, gentlemen, you probably know that already. Instead, I am their voice, a resource for them.”
“What about Gérard de Roussillon?” Hugo asked. “How do you know him?”
“Roussillon?” The eyes blinked once. “I am not a policeman. I think that if I were,” he said, “I would try and ascertain the truth. I would not go barging into the offices of public servants. I see your smirk, capitaine, but yes, I regard myself as a public servant. As I was saying, I would not go barging in and asking cryptic questions and making such unpleasant allegations. In fact, let me ask you a question, capitaine. Do you have any evidence, any evidence at all, that connects me to the deaths of any one of those bouquinistes?”
“If you were a policeman, Monsieur Gravois,” Garcia paused as he stood, “you'd know that my suspects find out about the evidence after I put on the handcuffs.”
“Ah, is that so?” Gravois smiled and held up his wrists. “I don't see handcuffs, capitaine, so I am assuming you have no evidence.” He put his right hand on the desk and pushed himself up. “You may see yourselves out. And please do not trouble to come back. If you do, I may have to call a real policeman.”
Hugo turned and walked out of the office and Garcia followed. They nodded to the secretary, who got up as soon as they passed her desk. As they descended the stairs, Hugo heard the click of Gravois's door shutting.
Outside, Hugo turned to Garcia. “Did you notice his accent?”
“Yes. Not much of one, but he wasn't born and bred here.”
“I hadn't noticed it before. Spanish maybe?”
“I don't know,” Garcia said. “But I think you're right, it's one of the Romance languages.” They walked down the street toward the police car in silence. When they got to the car, Garcia stopped and looked at Hugo. “Do you really think the book has something to do with this?”
“I don't know, capitaine. I really don't.”
“We have no motive for these bouquinistes to be murdered. We have suspicions, yes, but no real evidence or motive, especially for Max Koche, assuming that what you told me is true. As Gravois seems to know. We need to be careful, Monsieur Marston, both of us need to be careful. I did not know about the involvement of le Comte d'Auvergne. That makes me both curious and also very concerned. He is well-connected in this city, as I'm sure you know. Not just to Claudia Roux, but to some very powerful and influential people. I am happy to lean on a thug like Gravois, but less happy to dirty the rug of someone like Gérard de Roussillon.”
“I understand.” Hugo grimaced as he thought of the ambassador. “I am in much the same position.”
“Did you believe Gravois when he said he didn't know about the book?”
“Yes,” said Hugo, “as a matter of fact I did. Did you see the way he looked back and forth between us? He was unsure of himself. Specifically, he was unsure what the answer should be. I think he was telling the truth.”
“A wasted trip, then?”
“Not necessarily. I think we found out something quite important.”
“And what is that?”
“It seems to me that one of two things is true. Either the Rimbaud book is somehow connected to the murders and Gravois is not, or—”
“Or,” Garcia interrupted, “the book has nothing to do with their deaths, and Gravois does.”
“I hope to look at the book this afternoon, capitaine. After that, maybe we'll know more. Gravois, though,” Hugo grimaced. “He is a little harder to read.”
As they climbed into the car, Garcia's phone rang. He put the key in the ignition and answered with his other hand. “Oui?” He looked at Hugo as he listened. “Address?” He nodded. “Got it. I'll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up and looked out of the windshield, shaking his head. “Merde. They think they found your intruder.”
“They think?”
“Hard to tell. Half of his head is blown off.”
“Where is he?”
“My colleagues went to his apartment and saw him leaving. They followed him to a restaurant in the Nineteenth Arrondissement. As soon as he got there, he pulled a submachine gun from his bag and opened fire on a table of patrons. He killed all of them but one. The survivor removed the top of his head with a bullet.”