“Merci. But I have a friend waiting for me.” It was his way of reassuring the policeman that he respected their earlier agreement, that this was a French capture, and that Hugo wanted neither headlines nor accolades.
Delacroix offered him an escort home, but Hugo declined. He had Tom for the immediate future, and he expected a mass exodus of Dobrescu followers heading east for the border. If they weren't already on their way, they would be as soon as they saw images of their leader clapped in irons all over the front page of Le Monde. They would know they were beaten; they'd been slaughtered once by the North African syndicate, tried a comeback, and been shot up all over again. Hugo guessed that staying in Paris, for revenge or any other reason, was the last thing on their minds.
When he walked into the apartment, he found Claudia sitting on the floor beside the coffee table, the fire snapping and fizzing. A full glass of wine was in front of her.
“Your second or third?” he asked.
“First, actually.” She smiled up at him. “I was waiting for you, though I wasn't going to wait much longer.”
“I got delayed.” Hugo dropped onto the sofa and worked his boots off with his feet. “Where's Tom? He'll want to hear about this.”
“He tried waiting, then went to take a shower.” She pulled herself up and wedged herself in the corner of the sofa, facing him. “Can we talk about something?”
“Sure. What's up?”
“Something's bothering me, and I need you to tell me whether I'm either insane or, well, whether I'm right.”
Hugo nodded.
“It's about my father, the way he died. Something seems not quite right, but I can't explain it. I'm not even sure about it.”
“Try me.”
“When I found my father like that, I—” her voice wavered, then strengthened again. “I stared at him, I couldn't believe it. But part of me, I guess the journalist part, noticed some things. One thing.”
“Which was?”
“Where he was shot. I mean, precisely there, the bullet hole. There was a kind of ring, red or brown, right around it.”
Hugo nodded. He'd noticed it too. And he knew why it was there, but it was a conclusion he was afraid Claudia would not like. “Go on.”
“You knew many things about my father, that he was rich, protective of me, and that he collected books. But there is something else. Did you also notice how trim he was, how fit?”
“Well, he certainly wasn't overweight, and now that I picture him, yes, I can see that.”
“Jean started teaching him judo, probably twenty years ago. He had what he called his sanctuary in a small turret at the back of the house where they would train.”
“Yes, he told me about that. He said he used it for meditation and exercise, I think.”
“Right. No one except them was allowed in.” She looked up, a wistful smile on her face. “I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't like that. Jean was quite one for the ladies. He'd been a martial arts instructor in the army; he was some general's bodyguard. Then papa hired him. But I spent enough time with him to know he had an eye for a pretty girl.”
Hugo squeezed her hand. “I believe it, but either way I don't much care. Keep talking, though.”
“OK, so Jean always joked that my father was fast and aggressive. He said papa was not so strong and not so talented, he'd never win the Olympics, but he was fast and aggressive, those were his words.” Her large hazel eyes held his. “Hugo, that mark around the entrance wound, that means he was shot up close. That the gun was very close to his forehead, right?”
“I would say so. I'm not the expert, and neither are you, so someone else will check that out.”
“But you think I'm right.”
“I think you might be, yes.”
“Then here's what I don't understand. There's no way in the world papa would have let someone hold a gun to his head, not in his own house. When I was a teenager he would make me try and poke him with a letter opener, or a butter knife. He even did it with guests after he'd been drinking, it was embarrassing. But he took the knife away every time.”
“Fast and aggressive.”
“Exactement. Even if he wasn't fast enough, there would have been a struggle, the shot would not have been so clean. It just doesn't seem right, it doesn't add up for me.”
She sat back, and Hugo looked at her, not speaking.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you know, what you think.”
“When we spoke, your father reminded me that the truth can be painful, that revealing it sometimes does nothing but release the ghosts of the past into the present.”
She cocked her head. “What are you talking about? What are you hiding from me?”
“I don't know if it's the truth, Claudia. I am not sure of anything. But I don't think Gravois killed your father.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had no reason to. I thought at first that your father had confronted him about Max, maybe threatened to tell the police what he knew, go public somehow. But your father never called Gravois, he didn't call anyone between the time I left him and the time you found him. As far as I know, he never even left his library.”
“What are you saying, Hugo?”
“I spoke to Capitaine Garcia less than an hour ago. There was nothing on the security tapes, nothing at all. They'd been switched off.”
“Gravois did that.”
“No, it's a sophisticated system. He wouldn't have had time to figure that out. And it hadn't been smashed or obviously tampered with.”
“You're not suggesting Jean, are you?”
“Jean?” Hugo shook his head. “No, I'm not. Do you think he had reason to harm your father?”
“Of course not,” Claudia said. “They were like brothers.”
“Right. That's what I thought.”
Claudia grasped his wrist, her voice urgent. “What are you suggesting?”
“Your father was distraught when I told him about Max, very upset indeed. He knew that the call he'd placed to Gravois had likely sentenced the old man to death. It wasn't his fault, he couldn't have known at the time, but he associates so much death and misery with that book. I think by getting his hands on it your father thought he'd be putting a stop to all that, not starting it all over again. I think, too, that your father knew that Gravois wouldn't care what he said, since he was no real danger. Gravois could kill him, threaten to kill you, even ignore him, and your father couldn't do a damn thing because he had no proof of Gravois's involvement in Max's death.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“That Gravois didn't have a reason or opportunity to kill your father.”
“So who did?”
They looked at each other, Hugo waiting for Claudia to catch up to him, to be at the same point of understanding.
When she got there, she began to shake her head. “No, no, it's not possible.”
“It's possible Claudia, and I think quite likely.”
“You think he killed himself and wanted the police to blame Gravois? That's ridiculous.”
“No, it's not. If you'd seen his face when I told him about Max, you'd know. And then his illness, he told me about that.”
Claudia nodded. “He was terrified of that. He didn't want to lose his dignity or to have me or Jean have to cart him around like a vegetable. His words, not mine. But to kill himself?”
“No one ever thinks their family members capable of it. And maybe I'm wrong, but it adds up. You yourself said he would have fought back.”
Claudia chewed her lip, shaking her head every few seconds. She looked up, triumph in her eyes. “But there was no gun. I didn't see one and the police didn't find one. He can't have killed himself.”