Towering over the man, Hugo decided to employ one of the most powerful tools of the interrogator — silence. Hugo ignored him as he scrutinized the stall, leaving the little man to flit around, trying to appear busy yet available to serve at the same time. “Vous avez choisi, monsieur?” You have chosen something? His accent, Hugo thought, was not Parisian. He rolled his Rs almost like a Spaniard.
“Non,” said Hugo. “Tell me, where is Max?”
“Max?” Something closed down in the seller's eyes. He took a step back and began to caress his chin. “I don't know any Max, monsieur.” The man picked up a stack of postcards from a battered card table and began to sort through them.
“No? You're working at his stall.” Hugo looked around. “He is your patron, non?”
“I am my own boss.” The man's tone was brusque, and he stopped what he was doing to look at the American. “Alors, who are you?”
“A friend of Max's.” Hugo took a step forward. “And you know who he is. This is his stall.”
“Non, this is my stall.” The seller was not to be intimidated, despite the difference of a foot and fifty pounds. “You are not the police, are you?” He moved closer to Hugo and his thin mouth drew into a slight smile. “I think not, and I also think I do not have to answer your questions, monsieur. So unless you want to buy a book or maybe some postcards, please leave.”
Hugo took off his hat and brushed the brim. Fine, then we'll do it this way. He looked at the man and took a step back.
“I apologize for my rudeness,” Hugo said. “I am tired, and a little disappointed not to find mon ami.” He flashed his most disarming smile. “I have many friends looking for books, I will be sure to refer them to your stall, monsieur…?”
The man shifted from foot to foot, his suspicions softened by the charm and sincerity of a student of behavioral sciences. “Chabot. Jean Chabot.”
“Alors, Monsieur Chabot, thank you for your time and please accept my apologies for any rudeness.” Hugo executed a quick bow and turned on his heel before Chabot could respond.
Ten yards from the bouquiniste Hugo's path was blocked by another pedestrian, a tall, thin man in a trench coat carrying a bone-handled cane. He wore gloves but no hat, and stared at Hugo without moving. It was an unusual moment of aggression, asserted passively in a city where people moved out of each other's way as a matter of course.
Unable to help himself, Hugo took a moment to appraise the fellow. Many years ago, while at the bureau, he had taken a course that touched on phrenology, a technique premised on the idea that you can tell something of a man's nature by his skull. Had it not been a discredited pseudoscience, the guy on the sidewalk could have been the instructor's first slide.
He had, Hugo thought, one of those faces that you couldn't help but stare at, and not because it was beautiful. He was completely bald with large and very round eyes, set in deep, dark circles beneath a broad forehead. Below a prominent nose, his wide mouth dipped down at the edges as if he'd grown used to frowning at life's disappointments. Actors had made their livings with this face, Hugo thought, playing the gaunt and chiseled crook whose head made you think skull.
Hugo stepped around the man, but close enough so their coats brushed, the American unwilling to give ground completely. Once past him, Hugo smiled at his own machismo. Christine would have rolled her eyes and made some comment about dick measuring, he thought.
He reached Pont Neuf and looked back at the stall, surprised to see the bouquiniste pointing toward him. The man with the cane stared in his direction while the bookseller spoke animatedly. Hugo hesitated, wondering if he should go back. Maybe the seller was asking who Max was, which meant this guy might know. But as he watched, the tall newcomer drew back his hand and slapped the seller across the face. The response was as surprising as the blow: Chabot held up both hands as if he were apologizing.
Hugo forced himself to keep walking. As curious as he was, he had no desire to insert himself into whatever dispute existed between these men. And, more importantly, he needed information before risking a confrontation with either one. Despite his earlier clumsy attempt with Chabot, blundering into a situation was not the way he usually worked.
He looked across the street, but Max's colleague, the red-faced woman with the bottle, had not opened her stall, perhaps put off by the previous day's encounter or, maybe, by the cold. He wanted very badly to talk to her about her “affaire domestique,” to find out if that confrontation had anything to do with Max, and to see if she'd been one of the “witnesses” who gave a false story to the police. He'd come by again later and, hopefully, see her then.
As Hugo crossed the street and walked away from the river, a darkness settled about him and the traffic, the people, faded from his immediate consciousness. All he could think about was a friend taken from him, literally, a friend no one seemed to know or care about, and a crime that wasn't even close to being in his jurisdiction.
Chapter Five
The bookstore was further than Hugo had thought, partly because he opted for the more interesting walk down Rue Saint-Jacques over the busier Rue Monges, where the snow would be gray slush already. It took an hour, with a quick stop at a timbered café for to-go coffee and a pain au chocolat, to reach Rue Barrault.
A bell jingled quietly as he walked in, and as the door closed the familiar and distinctive aroma of once-loved books swept over him, the musty smell of paper and dust like incense, a welcoming cloud of calm and serenity. Hugo looked around. Heavy wooden book cases lined the side and back walls, filled with a colorful array of mostly leather-bound books that looked like they had been arranged by size rather than subject. Several small tables took up floor space, each bearing one or two glass cases in which the more valuable tomes were displayed under lock and key. The two ceiling-high bookcases at the back of the room sat on either side of a closed door. Hugo walked around the shop, looking at the books on sale.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” The door at the back opened and a man stood there smiling. He was short and probably fifty years old, with a full round belly and a closely trimmed white beard. “I thought I heard someone come in,” he said. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His movements were precise, careful, as if he were maneuvering in a tiny library where the books were in precarious stacks, not tucked away on shelves. He wore a pair of baggy corduroy pants and a paisley vest over a shirt that Hugo assumed had once been white. On his feet, a pair of slippers. When he spoke, he crinkled his nose so that his tortoise-shell spectacles shifted upwards and he was able to see his subject. His voice was as delicate, and his diction as precise, as his movements. He spoke in French. “Are you just browsing, or may I be of assistance?”
“Bonjour.” Hugo held up the two books. “I wanted to ask you about these, if you don't mind.”
“Bien sur.” Of course. The old man cocked his head and spoke in English. “American?”
“Yes,” Hugo said. “You?”
“English. Couldn't stand the weather so I popped over here and started a book shop.” The man walked over and offered his hand. “Peter Kendall. That was thirty-two years ago, and I still hate the English weather.”