“Me too,” Hugo smiled, shaking his hand. “Hugo Marston.”
“I think you've been here before. So, what do you have there?”
Hugo showed Kendall the covers, looking to gauge the man's response. It was minimal. “I wondered if you'd seen these books before.”
“Let's have a look.” Kendall took them and walked over to the window where the light was better. “Mind if I take them out of their plastic covers?”
“Not at all. I don't know if they are worth much, but I'm sort of curious to know whether I…”
“Got ripped off?”
“Got a good deal, let's put it that way.”
“Very good. Follow me.” Kendall started toward the door at the back of the room and Hugo followed him into his office, which was half as big as the store itself and dominated by a large mahogany desk. As Kendall rounded it and sank into his chair, Hugo picked one of the two wing-backed seats opposite. Kendall opened a desk drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass and a letter opener. “Do you mind if I ask where you bought them?” he said.
“A bouquiniste,” Hugo said. “I know one of the sellers pretty well and sometimes buy from him.” Hugo watched the man closely, teeing up his question and waiting for a reaction. “Do you know a bouquiniste called Max?”
Kendall furrowed his brow, but his hands never moved and his eyes showed nothing. “I might. By Pont Neuf?”
“That's him.”
“I've bought a few things from him, yes. Can't say I know him well, but I will say he seems like one of the few out there who gives a hoot about the books he sells.” Kendall sat back and looked at the ceiling. “Just sold him a few books about the war, come to think of it. Old, rather dry tomes, though I'm buggered if I can remember what they were.”
“That's OK.” Hugo nodded toward the Agatha Christie. “I ask because your card was in that book.”
“Ah, yes,” Kendall smiled. “She's one of my favorites and her books are a specialty of mine, you might say. She was friends with my mother, you see, back in the old country.”
“I'm also asking because Max has disappeared.”
The smile fell from Kendall's face. “What do you mean?”
“I wish I knew,” Hugo said. “I'm just…concerned about him.”
“I'm sorry.” He spread his hands wide. “I don't know what to tell you, I haven't seen him in weeks.”
Hugo believed him. His body language, his open face, both rang as true as his words. So: dead end.
Hugo looked at the books. “Can you tell if they're worth much?”
“I can hazard a guess.”
Hugo watched as Kendall wielded the letter opener like a scalpel, opening the wrapping of the Agatha Christie with deft flicks of the wrist. “Well, this is a first edition, as I'm sure you know. Like the ones I have out there. I'd guess it'd sell for about three hundred Euros. Give or take. It's a nice copy for sure, and being an Agatha Christie it should sell fast enough.”
“Good to know.”
“Now, let's have a look at this one.” He picked up the Rimbaud and eased it out of its sleeve and onto the desk. He reached for his magnifying glass and studied the book, front and back, for a moment. “That's odd.” He looked up at Hugo. “Did you say how much you paid?”
“I didn't. I paid a thousand Euros for both.”
Kendall leaned over and switched on his computer, picking up a pair of thin white gloves as he turned back to the book. He put them on and opened the front cover, leaning over it with his glass. “Well, that's something.”
Hugo remembered Max's words. “There's some scribble in the front.”
“There is.” Kendall hunched closer over the inside cover. “I assume it's scribble, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he tell you it was a first edition?”
“What?” Hugo leaned forward. Max had said it wasn't, surely he'd have known.
“I agree that it seems unlikely,” Kendall said pensively. He turned to his computer and spent a minute browsing and clicking. “You know, I think it is. And from what the Internet tells me, a good quality first edition of this book will sell for between twenty and forty thousand US dollars. I imagine thirty thousand is realistic.”
“Seriously?” Hugo said. For some reason, he couldn't help but picture the boots he would like to buy Max. Hell, for that money he could fly him to Fort Worth, first class, and let him choose his own.
“Now then.” Kendall held up a finger. “Your copy is in good condition but it appears to be missing the original box in which it was sold. You don't happen to have it, do you?”
“I don't.”
“Shame.” Kendall stroked the front of the book with his gloved fingers. “Even so, Mr. Marston. Well, let me do some research but I think you have a treasure here.”
“Look,” said Hugo, “any chance you could do your research and then handle the sale for me?”
It was a snap decision, the kind Hugo rarely made. But suddenly the books seemed like bad luck. Since he'd laid hands on them, Max had been kidnapped and Christine had closed the door of their marriage in his face, forever. His urge to get shot of them was a gut reaction, not a logical decision, and he knew that. He simply didn't want to see these books, touch them, ever again.
“Me?” Kendall chuckled. “I run a book shop, Mr. Marston, not Fort Knox. The most valuable thing I have here is worth less than a thousand Euros. I just don't have the security to house this sort of gem. Now, I do know people at the auction houses, so I could put you in touch, if you like.”
“Honestly, I'm happy to trust you with them. Your store is as secure as my apartment, which is where I'd be keeping it.” Hugo pictured his specially-made gun safe, knowing that security wasn't the issue for him, not really. “And I'm not that worried about the money side of things, even though it's a lot. If you handle it, I'm happy to pay you a good commission.”
“Well, it might be fun.” Kendall stroked his beard with his fingertips. “And it's not like people break into used book stores very often. It's only happened here once and they raided the cash register, not the books.”
“Perfect, just hide it in plain sight on one of the shelves.”
“Very well then,” Kendall said. “I'll have to consult with a fellow I know at Christie's, but I do think an auction is your best bet.”
“I'll leave it to you.”
“Very good, let me just get you a receipt.” A minute later, he handed the receipt, containing a full description of the book, the date, and his own signature, to Hugo. “I hope that will suffice. If it's of any consolation, I don't just do this job for a living, Mr. Marston. I do it because I enjoy seeing book lovers get the books they want.” His eyes twinkled. “What I am trying to say, is—”
“That my book is safe in your hands. I understand.” Hugo smiled. “I appreciate your assistance, although I would be more comfortable if you would take a decent percentage.”
Kendall thought for a moment, then reached for the receipt. “I shall add here that I may deduct expenses and keep a fee of…shall we say one hundred Euros?”
“You can say a lot more than that, if you like,” Hugo said.
“A hundred Euros it is,” Kendall said, finishing with a flourish of the pen. He looked at Hugo and smiled. “Just to handle a book like this is its own reward, I really mean that. Do you want me to put the Agatha Christie on sale, too?”
“Yes, please. I assume that won't go to auction.”
“Probably not.”
“Thank you.” The men shook hands and Hugo reached into his wallet for a business card. “This has all my contact information.” He rose. “Let me know how it goes.”
“I will. And Mr. Marston?”
“Yes.”
“Please, if you get news of Max I'd be grateful for a phone call. Like I said before, I don't know him well but he's…I don't know. A dying breed, perhaps. One of a kind. You know what I mean?”