He pulled the first volume out, A Study in Scarlet, and admired the gilt embellished pictorial cover plate depicting Sherlock Holmes smoking a pipe.
“First edition, published in 1903,” said a voice behind him. Roussillon. Hugo hadn't seen him slip into the room. He wore dark blue jeans and a white collared shirt. A pale blue sweater was draped around his shoulders.
“You are a fan?” Hugo said, indicating the many Holmes books.
“Oh yes, the finest detective ever created. By far. Brilliant but flawed, a nuanced character that you so rarely see these days. Can you imagine a heroin addict as the hero in a modern novel? Of course not, it would never happen. They are all tall and strong and handsome and shoot like Wild Bill Hickock.” Roussillon ran his fingertips over the spines. “I can say I have read every single one of his adventures, several times, and they still delight me.”
“I agree completely. You have a fine collection.”
“Thank you.” Roussillon straightened a book and then offered a manicured hand to Hugo. They shook and Roussillon thanked him again for saving Claudia's life.
“Come,” Roussillon said. He moved away from the fireplace toward the back of the library, and Hugo followed. A glass cabinet had been built into the wall, rows of shelves from floor to ceiling protected by thick glass. De Roussillon rapped on the glass with his knuckles. “Bulletproof,” he said. “For the stars of my collection.”
Hugo studied the books behind the glass. “L’Étranger, by Camus. Very nice. Softcover?”
“Yes. So only valued at about fifteen thousand of your dollars.”
“Only?” Hugo shook his head. “Paradise Lost, too.”
“I got that for twenty-five thousand. A steal. It's first edition, from 1668. Print run of just thirteen hundred copies. And did you know, Milton himself was paid just ten pounds? Amazing.”
“It is. Clearly the Rimbaud fits into such esteemed company.”
“Oh yes.” Two armchairs had been placed near the cabinet, their backs to it and a low table between them. Hugo now noticed that two glasses of water sat on the table. “Please sit. I will show you the Rimbaud.”
“Wait. Let's talk first, if you don't mind.”
Hugo moved around to the chairs and played host, gesturing for Roussillon to sit. The Frenchman hesitated for a moment, then went to the empty chair and lowered himself into it, eyes on Hugo. “Is this about Claudia?”
“No,” said Hugo. “It's about your father.”
“My father?”
“Yes.” Hugo had thought he'd seen a shadow pass across Roussillon's face, but now the eyes and mouth were smiling.
“What about him?”
It was Hugo's turn to smile. “I think you know, Gérard.”
Roussillon spread his hands. “Non, I'm sorry I don't.”
“Then let me ask you about another book, before we talk about the Rimbaud. It's called On War, and it's by…well, you know who wrote it, don't you?”
“Yes.” There was the shadow again, there and gone in a moment. “Carl von Clausewitz. But then, any respectable book collector can tell you that.”
“I suppose so. Do you own a copy, by any chance?”
“No, I don't. What exactly is this about?” Roussillon's tone was harder now.
“I'm curious about a copy of the book, an early translation, owned by a friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
“A man called Max Koche.”
“I don't know him. Is he German?”
Hugo smiled. “Sort of. You're sure you don't know him?”
“I said I didn't. And what does this have to do with my father?”
“To be honest, Gérard, I don't have all the answers. I'm here to get some of those. But you told me before that you prefer plain speaking, so I hope you will excuse me if I am blunt.”
“I do prefer it, yes.”
“Then I'll tell you what I think. I think that your father was a collaborator. I can't prove it, not right now, but I have several reasons to think this. First, your government's research tools have closed up his file, a file that once existed but has since been erased, moved, or hidden. All I know is that it was closed in 1946. That's just one year after the end of the Second World War, a time when scores were being settled, people were being held accountable. If I remember my history, young women who collaborated with the Germans had their heads shaved in public, am I right?”
“Yes,” said Roussillon, his face impassive.
“I suspect the penalty increased the higher up the social ladder you were. Or maybe not — public damnation is more ruinous to the aristocracy than to the common man. Or woman. Anyway, what I know for sure is that your father's file existed and was shuttered up in 1946. I also know that you received a call from my friend Max two weeks ago, the same day he got his hands on a book called On War. I know, too, that Max was a Nazi hunter at one time, but had moved on to looking for collaborators. And he looked for them in the books that came to his stall. I think, Gérard, that he found such a book and that when he looked through it he found your name, your father's name. I think he found it, called you, and then…” Hugo's voice was soft now, and he shrugged his shoulders. “And then what, Gérard? That's the bit that needs filling in.”
Roussillon was staring at him, eyes unblinking. His face had paled noticeably and he reached slowly for his water glass. He began to raise it to his lips, but his hand shook and he put it down, a rattle of glass on glass.
“Can you prove any of this?” Roussillon's voice cracked. “Can you?”
“Just the phone call. But if I get my hands on the book, and if I can access that closed file…” He smiled. “And I know all sort of tricks to get through red tape.”
“I'm sure you do,” Roussillon said, surprising Hugo with a smile of his own. “In any case, I don't intend to lie to you, Monsieur Marston. The truth is that you are right about my father. Everything you said, it's true.”
“OK,” said Hugo. “Tell me.”
“First, let me ask you this. Do you believe in God? No, wait, let me be more specific. Do you believe in the Christian God and his Bible?”
“No, I don't. I don't believe in any God. Or any collection of them, for that matter.”
“I see. Well, many do, as you know, and I have come around to their way of thinking in recent years. Anyway, the Bible speaks of the sins of the father being visited on the son. Are you familiar with the concept?”
“Only as a cliché.”
“You know, even the Bible isn't sure about the answer. Exodus says, ‘I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children.’ Deuteronomy I like, it's very cheerful, listen: ‘Fathers shall not be put to death for their sons, nor shall sons be put to death for their fathers; everyone shall be put to death for his own sin.’ Much better, but then one is left wondering, which is it?”
“No clue.” Hugo shook his head. “And I'm not sure I care all that much.”
“I do.” Roussillon stood. “And I'll tell you in a moment, but first you wished to see this Rimbaud book, so you will see it.” He pulled a key from his pocket and Hugo twisted in his chair to watch as the Frenchman unlocked the cabinet, reached in, and retrieved the Rimbaud. He stood there for a moment staring at the cover. “It's not an irony, I suppose, that I would go to such lengths to get this book.”