He strolled down the normally busy Boulevard Saint-Germain, crowded on weekends with tourists and in the week with commuters. It was at its quietest right now, the lull between the morning rush hour and the lunch-time exodus from offices and stores. He bought a crepe with lemon juice and sugar at the stand beside the Church of Saint Germain des Pres, then passed by the famous cafés of Deux Magots and Café de Flore, where the artists and writers of the previous generations congregated. He kept walking northwest toward the Seine until he got to Rue de Bellechasse, where he turned right and went into Café Rubais. There, the coffee was just as good as anyone's, and it was a few Euros cheaper. It was served quickly and he drank it almost as fast, impatient to begin his day's work. With a few sips left he reached for his phone. Emma answered on the second ring.
“Can you get me the number for a journalist at Le Monde? Name of Claudia Roux.”
“Of course. But would it help if I reminded you that you're on vacation still?”
“Not really.”
“OK. You have a pen?”
“Yes, but can you connect me?”
“I can conference us then hang up,” she said, sweetly, “if dialing a number is too much trouble for your poor little fingers.”
“Much too much trouble.”
“Fine, but you'll have to hold while I call her, if you can stand the inconvenience.” Before he could reply, the line went dead and stayed that way for a full minute. Emma reappeared and said, “Here she is, Your Majesty. Call me if you need anything.”
Claudia was smiling when she said “Bonjour,” he could hear it in her voice. “I hope I didn't wake you when I left,” she said.
“No,” he replied truthfully, “you didn't.”
“Good. And I hope you weren't offended.”
“I'm a big boy, Claudia, it's OK.”
“Can you meet me for dinner tonight?” she asked, before he had a chance to.
“Yes.” He paused. “Hey, can I ask you about that favor?”
“Mais oui, what is it?”
“I have a friend, a bouquiniste. He's disappeared and I'd like some help finding him.”
“Disappeared?”
For no reason he could think of, Hugo didn't want to tell her about the kidnapping. Perhaps because he'd failed to stop it, perhaps because the police had refused to believe him. There was something larger going on, he was sure, but until he knew what it was, he would parcel information sparingly.
“Yes. At least temporarily. I'm going to his apartment later just to check but…well, I'll tell you about it tonight.”
“D'accord. Give me his name and address, I'll see what I can do. We have our own investigators here, they're plugged into all kinds of resources, the same ones the police use.”
“Merci.” He gave her the information and added a physical description, just in case. “I checked the DCRI database but they didn't have anything recent.”
“They probably wouldn't, ours would be better for a missing person. I can check easily enough.” She paused. “So, tonight. Let's eat early, I'll pick up some things and cook at your place, say seven o'clock?”
“Perfect.” Hugo hung up, dropped money on the saucer for the waiter, and picked up his hat. With jobs one and two out of the way, it was time to visit the home of an old friend.
Chapter Nine
Max's apartment on Rue Condorcet was on the upper floor of a four-story building. The only visible entrance was at the top of six granite steps bordered by an iron railing, a black door that looked like it had recently been painted. For the second time in two days, Hugo climbed the steps and pressed the highest doorbell. He cocked his head to listen but heard neither ring nor movement, so he tried again. Still nothing. He tried the lower buzzers, hoping someone might let him in, but again got no reaction. He was digging into his pocket to bring out the little bag of tools he'd brought to his new job from the FBI when the front door opened and an old woman, carrying empty shopping bags in one hand and a cane in the other, let herself out. Hugo retreated down the stairs so as not to startle her.
“Bonjour, madam.” He took off his hat and gave a slight bow.
“Monsieur, bonjour.”
“Excusez moi, je cherche un ami. Max Koche.”
“Oui, monsieur, he lives here. The top floor.”
Hugo smiled. “Yes, I tried but got no answer. Have you seen him lately?”
“Oui.” She put a hand on the iron rail and started down the stairs. “Just last week. Is that recent enough? I don't get out much.”
“It's hard when it's this cold.” He smiled. “Actually, I was hoping you'd seen or heard him in the last day or two.” He tried to keep his voice casual but the old woman was perceptive.
“Heard him? What an odd question, monsieur. Is he alright?”
“That's what I am trying to find out.”
“Well, as I say, I've not seen him this week. Or heard him.” She looked at Hugo and cocked her head. “You have an accent, you are not from Paris.”
“I'm American.”
A smile crossed her face. “Vraiment! J'adore les Americains. After the war, during the Liberation, I had quite a romance with a young colonel.” She winked at him. “At least, he said he was a colonel, I never bothered to check.”
“I'm sure he was.”
“Pah!” She waved a hand. “I'm sure it doesn't matter.” She reached the last of the stone steps and paused. “Talking of accents reminds me. A few days ago I came outside because I heard a dog barking. A man was leaving and he held the door for me.”
“He had an accent?”
“Yes. I thought perhaps he was Italian or Spanish. He was very polite when I thanked him.”
“Do you think he'd been to see Max?”
“That's why I mention it. I live on the ground floor, the one above me is empty, and the couple who live in the apartment above that are in Africa for three months. They do missionary work, you know.”
“I didn't know that. Very noble.”
She waved the hand again. “Non, monsieur, they are in some cult. Nice but…” She shrugged.
“I see. And when did you say this was?”
She frowned. “I have trouble remembering sometimes. But it was probably Saturday, perhaps Sunday. I wanted to go to bed and the noise was stopping me, so about nine in the evening. But I didn't see Monsieur Koche.” She eased past him and nodded at the front door. “I didn't lock it. Go in and knock, if you like. Au revoir, monsieur. If I see him, can I tell him you came by?”
“Of course. Je m'appelle Hugo Marston. Just tell him ‘the big American.’ And thank you for your help.”
“Le grand Américain.” She straightened up, a smile on her lips. “You are welcome, monsieur, and thank you for reminding me.”
She started to shuffle away down the street, but Hugo had one more question. “Madam. Do you remember what the man looked like? The man with the accent.”
“Oui, of course. He looked like a foreigner, monsieur. Small and thin, with dark skin. You know, his face made me think of a rat. And he kept rubbing his chin.” She started to turn away, then looked back. “Ah, mon colonel, how long since I've thought of him.” She smiled wistfully and continued on her way.
Chabot. That bastard had lied. Not only did he know Max, but he'd been to his apartment.
Hugo looked up and down the empty street, trotted up the stone stairs, and went inside. To his right was the door to the old lady's apartment, ahead of him a staircase with a worn runner, faded and dirty, inviting him up. The stairs creaked underfoot and even though he knew the building was empty he moved as quietly as he could. Instinctively he touched the weapon under his arm, a matter of reassurance rather than necessity. At the second-floor landing he passed the door to the empty apartment and kept going until he reached the third floor where, straight ahead of him, was another door. The couple in Africa. He barely paused, crossing the landing and continuing upwards.