He pushed open the heavy wooden door labeled US Embassy Security and stepped in, smiling at Emma when she looked up. He waited for the raised eyebrow, the lingering look, knowing she wouldn't ask about his unscheduled presence directly.
“Surprise, surprise,” Hugo said, closing the door behind him.
“Why, yes it is.” Emma put down a magazine, the Economist. No fluff for her.
Hugo nodded to it. “Nothing to do while I'm away?”
“Plenty. I just don't want to do it.” She held his eye. “Is everything OK?”
“Mostly. I was hoping I'd need the help of the embassy counsel to undo my divorce, but that didn't work out.”
“Oh, Hugo.” Emma's mouth tightened. “I'm sorry.”
“Thanks.” Hugo smiled to let her know it wasn't that bad. “Perhaps later in the week you could arrange for a couple of young ladies to come by my place and make me feel better.”
Emma frowned and tsk-tsked, but Hugo's attempts to be outrageous had become a routine, part of their dynamic and even more reassuring than his smile. “You are a horrible man, Hugo Marston.”
“Thanks, I try. Anything I need to know about?”
“Yes. In the few hours you were away from the office, all of the embassy's weaponry was stolen, the ambassador was eaten by a lion, and immediately after that we were invaded by Martians.” She shrugged. “It happens every time you leave.”
“I see. Well, unless some of those creatures are in my office, I shall get to work.”
Emma tutted again as he went into his office and closed the door. He rounded the desk and sat down, switching on his computer. It wasn't work he intended to do, it was research. First, to learn about bouquinistes. He'd always meant to get the history of this Parisian phenomenon from Max over a drink, but their conversation had always been about other things — mostly books. He hoped he hadn't missed his chance.
The first site he visited, a travel guide, told him the basics. The term bouquinistes came from the Dutch word boeckin, meaning “small book.” Made sense. The first sellers, he read, used wheelbarrows to transport and sell their goods, and fastened trays to the parapets of the bridges with thin leather straps. After the French Revolution, business boomed when entire libraries were “liberated” from nobles and wound up for sale cheap on the banks of the Seine. In 1891, bouquinistes received permission to permanently attach their boxes to the quaysides. Hugo was struck by the line: “Today, the waiting list to become one of Paris's 250 bouquinistes is eight years.”
Hugo's phone rang, and he let Emma pick it up. A moment later, his intercom buzzed. “It's a Peter Kendall. I told him you were on vacation but he said you'd told him to call.”
“I did, thanks Emma. Can you put him through?” The line clicked. “Mr. Kendall, Hugo Marston here.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marston, I have news.”
“Good or bad?”
He heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. “I'd call it good. After you left I got straight onto my friend at Christie's. Been selling books all his life. He asked me to take some pictures and e-mail them to him. I would have walked it over, but with the snow…Well, I just e-mailed him, and you'll never guess.”
“It is a first edition?” That was no great surprise given Kendall's earlier opinion, but Hugo thought he heard excitement in the bookseller's voice.
“Yes, it is. And…and that scribble in the front. It's Rimbaud's signature.” Kendall cleared his throat. “Actually, it's more than that, which is what threw me off.”
“I don't understand,” Hugo said.
“I saw the name Paul written inside the front cover. I assumed that someone named Paul had owned and written his name in the book, but my friend is convinced that Rimbaud inscribed the book to his lover.”
“Paul Verlaine.”
“Exactly, very impressive, Mr. Marston. It turns out that Rimbaud did indeed inscribe three copies of his book for Verlaine.”
“And this is one of them?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Incredible. So what does that mean?”
“It means, Mr. Marston, that your book is worth a great deal of money.” When Hugo didn't respond, Kendall coughed gently. “I am told that at auction you can expect something in the region of a hundred thousand dollars. Maybe more.”
Hugo was stunned. “Are you serious?”
“That's what they told me, Mr. Marston. Unless you wish to keep the book.”
“No.” Hugo almost laughed. “If someone wants to pay that much for a book, Mr. Kendall, then they want it a lot more than I do.”
“In that case, I shall take it over to Christie's myself. There is an auction the day after tomorrow, Wednesday. They normally like to advertise the lots that are for sale in advance, but my friend assures me that a few well-placed phone calls will bring in the right bidders for a piece like this.”
“Not many at that price, I'm guessing.”
“A dozen or more, or so he tells me. You'd be surprised what the idle rich will pay for a book.”
“Yeah, I would. OK, that sounds fine. Is there anything I need to do?”
“If you would be kind enough to fax me handwritten, or at least typed and signed, authorization to handle the sale. I hate to be a pedant, Mr. Marston, but…”
“A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Hugo said. “Give me your fax number.”
Ten minutes later, Hugo had entrusted the most valuable possession he'd ever owned to a secondhand bookseller in a Paris back street. He wondered for a moment why it bothered him so little, but he didn't want to think about bad luck so he dove back into his research on booksellers. A hundred thousand dollars made him a lot more intent on finding Max. Most of that money rightly belonged to the old man.
He began to read more on the history of the bouquinistes and was surprised to see that they were tightly regulated, even today. At least, in theory. From what he was seeing, they were initially prohibited from selling anything but books, but with the advent of international tourism they had banded together to form a semiofficial union, Le Syndicat Des Bouquinistes de Paris, or SBP. With more than two hundred members operating in the most tourist-friendly parts of Paris, and with the weight of history behind them, the government had relented on this rule and allowed them to sell souvenirs — as long as they carried three times as many books as they did mini-Eiffel Towers and postcards. Apparently the SBP had managed to keep their rent low, too, a nominal amount. Hugo was no economist but he knew a good deal when he saw one. Low rent, prime location, and an ever-renewing supply of customers. No wonder there was an eight-year wait to become a bouquiniste. It also explained how the Seine's band of booksellers were able to undercut the book shops and tourist boutiques.
A knock at the door interrupted him, and he stood as Ambassador Taylor came in.
Rotund, balding, and somewhere around average height, one could walk past J. Bradford Taylor on the street and, assuming you noticed him at all, would imagine him to be a bank clerk or accountant. Actually, Hugo had joked with Ambassador Taylor over brandy one night that he'd make a master criminal — utterly unrecognizable and hugely intelligent. Typical of the ambassador, he'd taken the joke as a compliment.
“Morning, sir,” Hugo said.
“Morning to you. Aren't you on vacation?” He gestured for Hugo to sit, and plopped down in a chair opposite him.
“Yes and no. Something came up.”
“So I heard. I got your messages and made a couple of calls.”
“Thank you.”
“Don't thank me, Hugo, I'm not going to be any help.”
“How's that?”
“I talked to a couple of people and they say there's nothing much to investigate. Which confused me. What the hell's going on?”