“Your daughter is a strong, intelligent woman. She can cope with the truth,” Hugo said. “Look at her career — she hasn't relied on the Roussillon name to get where she is. Of course you should tell her.”
“Maybe. You know, I had thought that I might like to sit down with a writer and explain it all. It would make a fascinating story, don't you think? And sooner rather than later.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Several reasons. Like an alcoholic repenting his ways to those he sinned against, I must in my pursuit of spiritual and religious sobriety repent the sins of my father.”
“So you think that's what the Bible is saying?”
“I have no idea. But it doesn't matter because it's my sin, too. I have been hiding the truth from the world, from my own family even. And the Bible is clear about one thing: I may not continue to sin and also find salvation.”
“That's the why,” Hugo said. “Even if it's not a great one from the atheist's perspective. But why now?”
“It's not only cowardice I inherited from my father,” Roussillon said. “He also blessed me with the genes for early onset dementia. My daughter tells me I have blank moments, that you witnessed one at dinner. I don't notice those so much, but I do know,” he spread his hands, “that I have been forgetting things lately. Small and unimportant things, but my doctor tells me this is how it starts. I need to tell Claudia, and maybe the world, this story before I forget it.” He offered a weak smile. “And after that, well, you know we Europeans are embracing the idea of euthanasia. It does seem like a dignified option, don't you think?”
“I can't say I've thought about it much.”
“Well, I suppose you've had no reason to.”
Hugo let that part of the conversation trail away before asking, “And Max?”
“Ah, yes. I didn't realize that he was your friend. But yes, I spoke to a man called Max. I didn't get his last name and I didn't even know he was a bouquiniste. I don't know why, I thought he had a book store somewhere though, as I think about it now, he never said so explicitly.”
“He called you?”
“Yes. He said he knew I was looking for the book, On War. That was no great secret, collectors like me make it known when they want certain books. I myself have put word out for dozens over the years, On War was just one. The secret, of course, was why I was looking for it.”
“What did Max say?”
“We didn't talk for long. He said he had the book and wanted to meet with me.” Roussillon shrugged. “To try and sell it, negotiate a price I suppose.”
“Where did you meet?”
“We didn't. I didn't have time. I was on my way out of the country for a couple of days, literally on the way to the airport.”
“So what did you do?”
“I asked someone to handle the purchase for me. I authorized him to offer up to two hundred thousand Euros.”
“That's a lot of money,” Hugo said, an uneasy feeling rising. “Who did you ask to handle the purchase?”
“I wanted someone with natural authority, someone I knew would bargain hard. I wanted the book badly, of course, and would have paid a lot more, as I'm sure you can guess. But why pay more if you don't have to?”
“Gravois.” Hugo held Roussillon's eye. “You asked Bruno Gravois to get that book for you.”
They sat for a moment, watching each other. Then Roussillon nodded his head slowly, a frown forming.
“You are right, yes. But now I feel like you are hiding something from me.”
Hugo leaned forward. “What happened after you spoke to Gravois?”
“With the book?” Roussillon shrugged. “Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Gravois said that he called the number your friend gave but that your friend didn't answer and never called back.”
Hugo processed this for a moment. “So you really don't have the book?”
“No. I never even saw it. And I didn't hear from Max again.”
“You wouldn't have,” Hugo said, watching de Roussillon closely. “Max was killed very soon after you spoke to him.”
The Frenchman's head snapped up and Hugo saw the color draining from his cheeks. “Killed? How do you mean?”
“I mean he was murdered.”
“What?” Roussillon's mouth hung open in shock and the hand holding his water began to shake. He put the glass on the table, spilling some in the process. His voice trembled. “What happened? Why would someone murder him?”
“I'm not entirely sure.” Hugo shook his head. “I've been trying to figure that out for a couple of weeks now.”
“You think it has something to do with the book, On War?” Roussillon shook his head. “Please, God no.” He lifted his eyes and looked directly at Hugo. “Hugo, this cannot be. Too many men, good men, patriots and heroes have died because of the cowardly blood that runs in my veins. Please, don't tell me that I, too, have killed an innocent man somehow. That would go against everything I have believed, everything I wanted to do.”
“I don't know, Gérard. But every time Gravois's name comes up, I'm seeing bodies.”
Roussillon started to rise but his legs shook and he sank back into his seat. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “What has Gravois done? What have I done?”
“To be blunt again, I think that by asking Gravois to negotiate your deal, you may have unintentionally sent Max to the bottom of the Seine.” Hugo immediately regretted his choice of words because Roussillon's body seemed to crumple with despair.
When Roussillon looked up, his eyes were wet but his voice was strong. “What can I do to help you? Whatever it is, I will do it.”
“I'm not sure. I am not even sure I'm right about Gravois. But tell me this: What's your connection to him?”
Roussillon shook his head again. “I always thought him an atrocious man, really I did. He reminds me of a zombie, limping around like a corpse. Something about him has always frightened me.”
“So why did you intercede on his behalf?”
“You mean to the ambassador?” Roussillon shrugged. “I owed Gravois a favor and I didn't think, honestly, that it would do anyone any harm.”
“What favor?”
“When he took over from Ceci Roget, I went to him. I told him that I was looking for a few prewar books. I didn't tell him why, but I figured that as the head of the SBP he was in the best position to help me keep an eye out for books moving though the stalls. He agreed to help, not just with the Clausewitz, but he helped me acquire a number of valuable books.”
“And so talking to Ambassador Taylor was just a favor.”
“Yes. And despite my personal feelings about the man, I had no reason to think that his motives were impure.”
“I believe you, Gérard. And it may be that he is entirely innocent.”
“The police will look into him, I assume.”
“There has been some hesitancy, to be honest. As you yourself pointed out, he has political clout.”
“He does.” Roussillon stared at him for a moment. “And you know the ways of law enforcement better than I do, but it seems like an investigation into the man would go a long way into answering some questions.”
“Oh, I agree. But no police agency will just investigate someone unless they are pretty sure it'll lead somewhere, or if they simply have no choice but to do so. Searching someone's home or office, even digging into their background too obviously…” Hugo shrugged. “Policemen are busy people, sometimes when the bit is not yet between their teeth, someone needs to put it there.”