“And this is how we'll know the truth, if I'm right.”
“What do you mean?”
“You father was a huge Sherlock Holmes fan, yes?”
“Oui. So what?”
“Well, so am I. Or I used to be. I read them all when I was in high school and college. I think they fueled my desire to get into law enforcement, to solve mysterious crimes and catch ruthless bad guys. Anyway, as I remember it, one of his stories is about a man who is found dead on a bridge. The murder weapon, a gun, is found in the possession of his mortal enemy. Open and shut case of murder. Except that Holmes sees a bit of the bridge's stonework chipped off. He does some thinking and some measuring, and he realizes that the gun the police found was one of a pair. The other was missing. The police couldn't find it and didn't much care, and no one else knew where it had gone. So Holmes jumps into the stream beneath the bridge and fetches it out.”
“Hugo, I don't understand.”
“The dead man had shot himself. He'd tied the gun to a rock, which he'd dangled over the edge of the bridge. When he pulled the trigger and fell to the ground, the weight of the rock pulled the gun into the water, chipping the stonework of the bridge in the process. Suicide designed to look like murder.”
“The pond outside the library window.”
“Yes, you remember that the window was open. Not what you'd expect on a freezing winter day. If I'm right, the pond is where the gun will be.”
They sat in silence for a minute, and Hugo noticed Tom standing in the hallway near his room, listening. He walked in and sat down, saying nothing.
“But if you're right, why would he do that? My father was all about the truth, wasn't he?”
“Yes,” Hugo said, “he was. And maybe he knew that sooner or later we'd figure out the truth. And remember that he was also about justice, and he wanted to make sure Gravois saw justice for what he did to Max. He told me that himself.” Hugo smiled. “This time, maybe he was putting justice ahead of truth, just for a little while.”
Claudia sat quietly for a moment, staring into the fire, before looking up. “One thing. You said yourself that there was no evidence pointing to Gravois, not directly.”
“No, but once someone gets their interest, the police don't need direct evidence to investigate. He believed that once a spotlight fell on Gravois they would find some pretty ugly stuff.”
“And he was right,” said Tom. “That creepy fucker.”
“He was trying to do the right thing,” said Hugo, “and he was dealing with the guilt and the dementia at the same time. I'm sorry, Claudia, I really am.”
Claudia folded herself over and lay down in Hugo's lap. Tom stood and moved to the whisky bottle, pouring three generous servings, which he handed out. “So Sherlock,” he said, “now you just have to find the book and, if you're not too busy, Gravois. Together under a bridge somewhere?”
“No,” smiled Hugo. “Not the book, anyway. That's at my office.”
Claudia and Tom reacted at the same time. “What?”
“Max mailed it to me at the embassy. I didn't know until tonight because I've been on vacation and didn't check my mail. Emma only told me about the urgent stuff. She didn't know the book was important, so she didn't tell me.”
“Why would he do that?” Claudia asked. “Why mail it to you?”
“I'm not entirely sure.” Hugo frowned and shook his head. “Maybe because he knew it was valuable and would be safe with me.”
“He could have given it to you in person, no?”
“I think he looked at it between the time I first saw it and the time I went back with the money I owed him.”
“Why not just give it to you then?”
“Remember something about Max. He'd been dealing with Nazi hunters, collaborators, and then Gravois's men. He was probably pretty paranoid and he wouldn't have wanted to risk losing the book. And if he knew he was going to have to deal with Gravois, as your father said, he'd probably have known the bastard would take the book for his own ends and as soon as possible. Maybe he'd seen Nica lurking and was trying to protect me. There's a post office close to his stall, it would have been easy for him to run across the street and mail it off, make it good and safe immediately.”
“But why not tell you?” asked Tom.
“I'm afraid I don't know,” said Hugo, “but the unpleasant thought occurred to me that Max was going to play hardball with your father, to extort a significant amount of money for the book and for his silence. Retirement money. I'm just guessing, of course, but his mood did change in the hour between our meetings. And if I'm right about that, he wouldn't have wanted me to know about the contents of the book or his plans; he'd have wanted some time to think up a reason for mailing it to me. Maybe we'll never really know.”
They sat quietly, all eyes on the fire, the ballet of orange heat entertaining them for a full minute, the crack and hiss of burning wood and occasional sips of whisky the only sounds.
Claudia sighed and slid to the floor, her back against Hugo's shins. He began to gently rub her good shoulder. Then she looked back at him.
“So why did you take so long to get here? You said Tom would want to hear about it.”
“Yeah, and I'm next with the back rub,” Tom said. “Where the hell were you? If I'd known you were going to be gone two fucking hours, I'd have taken her to bed.”
“Somehow I don't think you'd last two hours with me,” Claudia said.
They laughed, grateful for some humor, and Hugo began to tell them about his trip home. As he talked, Claudia turned so she could see him. The news that Gravois was in custody, and that Hugo had been the one to grab him, set off a round of toasts and hearty, soon drunken, congratulations.
After the fifth or six toast, Tom pulled himself to his feet. “I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. But before you go to bed, please make sure I haven't choked in my own vomit.”
“Delightful,” Hugo said. He pulled Claudia up off the floor onto the couch beside him. She draped her legs over his and snuggled in close.
“You know I couldn't tell you about Durand, right?”
“Of course, please don't worry about it.” They sat quietly for a moment. “I'm sorry about your father, you know that.”
“I do.” She sighed. “He'd be pleased that I have my front-page story.”
“About Gravois? He sure would.”
“You know, I do have something else to write about now. I think that will be a whole book, though.”
“Really? What's that?”
She looked at him. “You're tired, we can wait until tomorrow to talk about it.”
“No, tell me now. What's the story?”
“It's about the Second World War,” she said. “About the Resistance and the men who betrayed our French heroes to the Nazis.”
“Ah, I see.” He played along as she nuzzled him, her eyes closing. Hugo spoke softly. “You sure you don't want to stick to the Gravois story? There are already so many Word War Two tales that have already been written.”
“No, this one has not been done yet.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she said. “This one has it all. Intrigue and secrecy, trickery and deception. It features one of the most powerful men in French society, a count from one of the noblest of French families. It's a tale of great bravery and great cowardice, the tale of a terrifying secret that lay hidden for decades in the pages of a very old book.”
“Wow,” he whispered. “That's quite a story.”
“If you're good, you might get a mention in the acknowledgments section.” She settled deeper on the couch and her eyelids drooped.
“And when it's published,” Hugo said, “I want a first edition signed by the author.”