“Who the fuck is Nica?”
“The bastard who kidnapped Max.”
“Oh? What makes you say he's Italian?”
Hugo cocked his head. “The name, of course.”
“You dumb shit. You think that's short for Nicolas or something, don't you?”
“And you know better, of course.”
“Damn right. Nica isn't Italian or a first name, not in this case. It's an Eastern European surname.” Tom sat back, a smug grin on his face. “Romanian, to be specific.”
“I should have known.” Hugo shook his head. “A man like Dobrescu isn't going to shop abroad for his muscle. Too paranoid.”
“No shit,” Tom said. “A kingpin who's seen his men hacked to death, and maybe had his own hand and foot chopped off, he's gonna be pretty paranoid. And pissed. I bet after all that shit, knocking off bouquinistes is like downing hors d'oeuvres for him and his boys.”
They locked eyes and Hugo smiled. “I know what you're going to say next,” he said.
“You mean about having an awesome theory but no fucking evidence?”
“Something like that.”
“Let's go get some. I'd be happy to go pluck a few hairs off the bastard's head for a DNA match. Oh fuck, he doesn't have any.” Tom rubbed a hand over his face. “You're right, he is a smart guy.”
“I'm afraid so. A great combination, smart and psycho.”
“And if he's willing to come back and fight those who hacked off his foot, I'm guessing even I couldn't persuade him to talk.”
“Fair assumption.”
The floor beneath their feet started to vibrate, and the boat's engine changed pitch as the captain maneuvered toward the dock. Hugo looked out of the window, up toward the Quai de Conti. “I wonder. Maybe we can get someone else to talk.”
“Let me at him, whoever the hell he is.” Tom rubbed his hands together. “You got someone in mind?”
“Actually,” Hugo said, “I do.”
They opted for the subtle approach. Hugo left the dock and headed east along the Port des Saintes-Peres, while Tom trotted up to the Quai de Conti and sidled up to Max's old stall. He'd borrowed Hugo's hat and pulled it low down over his eyes. The plan was simple: a brief note for Jean Chabot to show up at a café in thirty minutes, signed “B. G.” delivered with enough time for Chabot to get his stall closed up but, hopefully, not enough time to figure out whether the note really was from Bruno Gravois.
Hugo walked as far as Rue du Bac and then cut south, heading for the rendezvous point, a bar called Le Sanglier that sat yards from the Place Saint-Thomas d'Aquin. This was a quiet piece of Paris, a peaceful and relatively tourist-free section of narrow streets and old houses that Hugo discovered on one of his many wanderings. The square itself was home to the church of Saint-Thomas d'Aquin, an unremarkable building from the outside, certainly nothing to compare with the grandeur of Notre Dame or the ornate Church of Saint Chappelle. No, the beauty of this church was in its austere lines, its bare interior, and the cloak of tranquility that settled around the shoulders of the few visitors who crossed its ancient threshold.
Hugo looked at the church's entrance, tempted to spend a few minutes inside. He was, unashamedly, one of the many agnostics to appreciate, and sometimes need, the sense of peace and serenity that enveloped visitors to these old monuments. He thought hard for a reason not to go in, and found one: the church was reliant on natural lighting, which meant that The Transfiguration on the ceiling above the altar, the church's only original decoration, and also the painting of Ste. Étienne Preaching to the Angel, lost much of their luster after the morning light had passed. He would come back.
He turned and went into the bar.
Tom arrived three minutes later and peered into its dark recesses. Hugo sat at a table in the back, tucked into a corner. He had three bottles of beer open in front of him.
“He knows you.” Tom said. “You better make yourself scarce until he sits down. If he sees you when he comes in, he might run.”
“Good thinking. Have him sit where I am, so he has his back to the two walls.” Hugo looked around the bar. “I'll be by the window with my back to the door. And give me my hat, I'll drop my head when I see him.”
Chabot scurried into the bar five minutes later, checking his watch and looking around the dark interior. Hugo watched from under the brim of his hat as Tom waved him over. Chabot licked his lips before looking around once more and moving to the back of the room. As soon as he sat down, Hugo stood and walked quickly to the table, blocking him in.
Chabot's jaw dropped. “You!” He looked at Tom. “And who are you? You said Gravois—”
“Imagine that,” Tom said. “I lied.”
Chabot started to get up but Hugo put his hand against the front of the bouquiniste's knee and forced him back down. “We have some questions for you,” Hugo said.
“I don't care,” Chabot hissed. “You don't know what you are doing. Let me go and maybe I won't tell Gravois about this.”
“We know who he is, Chabot,” Hugo said. “We just want to give you a chance to come clean.”
Chabot visibly paled. He stared at Hugo and then Tom. “Look, if you know who he is, then you know who I am. My background. You know that I am not…that I break the law, oui, but I don't kill. I don't.”
“That's good,” said Hugo. “The thing is, someone did kill Max.”
“It wasn't me.” Chabot licked his lips again.
“You were at his apartment,” Hugo said. “Which means you lied to me once already.”
“Bien. I was there.” Chabot's eyes widened. “But only because I was afraid. I was told that Max had agreed to move out, but…” He shook his head.
“You didn't believe that,” Hugo said.
“I didn't. He was one of those who had resisted. Several times.” Chabot started to rise but Hugo pushed him down again. “Please, messieurs, I was expecting Gravois at my stall this afternoon, he's supposed to be coming by. That's why I thought I should come here.” He looked at his watch. “Merde, you have to understand. If I'm not there when he arrives, if someone tells him I was with you…”
“Come with us to the police,” Hugo said, “they can protect you if you'll let them.”
“Sure.” Chabot's lip curled. “And if I testify against Gravois,” he said.
“Right,” Tom said, “and if you don't, maybe Gravois will hear about our little tête-a-tête.”
“This is not a game.” Chabot leaned forward and his eyes narrowed. “If he suspects that you know, you won't get within a mile of him. Not alive, anyway.”
“Monsieur Chabot.” Hugo took off his hat and placed it on the table, then sat with his hands open. “It's a matter of time. If you won't help us, then I'll go talk to my friend at the prefecture, the man looking into these murders. You know what he'll do? He'll come and talk to you. And he won't pass you a note, he'll show up with half a dozen police cars, sirens blazing and lights flashing. Then he'll take you into custody and you'll spend a day or so in jail. Now, it doesn't really matter whether or not you tell him anything at that point, does it? Because when you get out, if you get out, Dobrescu will be waiting for you. Is he the kind of man who'll take your word that you didn't say anything? Or is he the kind of man to kill you just in case?”
They watched as the truth settled over Chabot, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it. When he looked up at Hugo his eyes were damp. “I want American custody.”
“Why?” Hugo said. “I'm not sure I can promise you that. We're not officially involved and the French would almost certainly object.”
“Gravois has people in the prefecture,” he implored. “If I go there I am no safer than staying on the street.”