Hugo spun around when he heard the detective behind him. Durand had a frown on his face and dark green eyes watched Hugo intently. “Monsieur, un problème. I have spoken to two people who say that your friend got onto the boat of his own free will.”
Hugo stared at the detective, wondering if he'd misheard or if his mind had somehow mistranslated. “What did you say?”
“Two witnesses, monsieur. They say your friend left of his own free will.”
“Non, that's not possible, it's not…Who are the witnesses?”
“Why? Do you plan to make them change their stories?” It was said lightly, but the watchfulness in Durand's eyes remained.
“Of course not.” Hugo bit back his anger. “Look, the man had a gun, I can give you a description, I can pick him out of a line up. And I can assure you, Max did not go with him voluntarily.”
The detective looked out across the water, a black ribbon in the gathering dusk. “Bien.” He turned to the gendarme. “Make sure you have a full statement, every possible detail. I will go supervise the search. If they are still out there, we will find them.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the officer, flipping open his notepad.
Durand took a last look at Hugo, then turned and walked to his car, the word “if” hanging between them.
Max had been right — the snow began to fall twenty minutes later as Hugo was walking home. He crossed the street into Rue Jacob and paused for a moment, bemused and angry by what had just happened, somehow unwilling to enjoy, perhaps undeserving of, the warmth and comfort of his apartment.
He took off his hat so the flakes could tickle his face and opened his mouth like a child, letting them fizz on his tongue. He walked on, the sense of unreality that had settled around him magnified as the falling snow muffled the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk. He paused again, once, and thought he could hear a hiss as the snow hit the ground and melted. The flakes were large, though, and stuck to his coat and hair, so he knew they'd stick to the ground soon enough.
At the door to his apartment building he stopped and looked up and down the street. A hush had descended, the quiet that comes with the start of a heavy snowfall. He turned, wiped his boots on the large mat, and went into the foyer, nodding at the Cretian concierge who sat at the reception desk with a novel in his hand.
“Salut, Dimitrios.” Hugo took off his hat and batted the snow from it.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.” Dimitrios sprang to his feet. A wiry old man with a brush moustache, he looked after his tenants as though his life depended on it. “How are you? Friday night plans?”
“No, I've had my excitement for this week.” Hugo shook his head and kept moving. “Have a good night, Dimitrios.”
“Merci. Vous aussi, monsieur.”
Hugo trotted up the stairs to his apartment, passing straight through the living room and into his bedroom. He dropped the Rimbaud and the Agatha Christie on the bed and unholstered his gun, a Glock 19, and laid it next to the books. Then he knelt in front of a safe that he'd had specially built. Disguised as his bedside table, it was essentially a steel box with an elegant mahogany facing, and it was bolted to the wall beside his bed. He opened the safe and put his gun on the narrow shelf next to a larger, wooden-handled Smith & Wesson.
Hugo checked the time, six o'clock, so midday in America. A good time to call Christine again, but he had some things to do first. He wanted to call Max's home, go there in person just to prove to himself that what he'd witnessed really happened, that Max hadn't been a party to his own kidnap. But he realized that he didn't even know Max's last name, let alone his address or phone number. A vague recollection that they'd swapped last names, sure, probably over coffee or beer at their favorite dive, Chez Maman, but it wasn't close to the tip of his tongue, and he felt a little ashamed about that. Instead, he dialed the police prefecture and asked for Detective Durand. Three dead-ends later, a man's voice came on the line.
“Monsieur, you are looking for David Durand?”
“Oui.”
“Alors, he is not available. Can someone else help you?”
“Is he on duty and not available, or gone-home-for-the-day not available?”
The voice hesitated. “I'm not sure. Unavailable is all I know. Would you like to leave your name and number?”
“That depends,” Hugo said tautly. “When will he get the message?”
“I can't say for sure. When he is available, I suppose. I know he works on Sundays.”
Hugo hung up the phone, swore under his breath, and thought about calling his boss, the ambassador. But he had no real reason to pull strings, not yet at least. As far as he knew, Durand was out searching for Max, directing a manhunt on both sides of the Seine. But when he pictured the lethargic detective, he couldn't help but doubt it.
Instead, he perched on the bed and took a calming breath. He was not used to being shut out of an investigation, either by intent or through bureaucracy, and it was especially frustrating when his friend was the one who needed help, who needed very badly to be rescued — and soon. He looked at the phone. If he couldn't help Max, he thought, then maybe he could do something positive about the situation with Christine.
He picked up the phone and dialed. When her cell phone sent him to voicemail, for the second time that day, he tried her home number.
A man answered. “Hello?”
“May I speak with Christine, please?”
“Certainly.” The familiar voice paused. “Is this Hugo?”
“That's Mr. Marston to you, doc.”
“Look, I'm glad you called. I never had a chance to explain—”
“There's nothing to explain,” Hugo interrupted. “You had an affair with a married woman who also happened to be your patient. And my wife. Now hand her the phone because there's nothing you have to say that I want to hear, and anything I have to say will be uncivil.”
A moment later, Christine came on the line. “Hugo?”
“Howdy. So is the good doctor a permanent resident now?”
“I'm a divorced woman, remember. You don't have the moral high ground anymore.”
“Funny thing, Christine. Even when I had the moral high ground, you were the one who acted outraged.” He took a breath. “I'm sorry, I didn't call to argue with you.”
“Good, I don't want that either. Your message said something about coming over.”
“Yes, but I can't now. Something's come up.”
A moment's silence. “Well, there's a surprise.”
“Take it easy, Chrissy, it's not my fault.”
“It never is.” She sounded weary now. “That's just how it works in your world.”
“And yet still you blame me.”
“You chose that world, not me.”
“I don't want to rehash old arguments, Chrissy, I'd just like to be able to come over and talk to you. If this…situation gets sorted out.”
“Hugo, no. I'm sorry, I really am. But…I've moved on.”
“Moved on? I suppose I shouldn't blame you for that.”
“Thank you.” He could hear the sadness in her voice, but tempered by a smile. “You always were insufferably understanding.”
“Thanks, but I'd like to know if there's any chance of you moving back.”
“No, there isn't.”
“You're not even willing to talk about it?”
“No, Hugo. I really have moved on, so there's nothing left to talk about. I'm sorry.”
He thought, for a few seconds, about pushing harder, but he knew her well enough to take her at her word. “Well, you can't blame me for trying,” he said. “You were quite a catch.”