The Bookseller Read Online Free

the walkway, his hands twitching for his gun, or at least his phone. But he couldn't risk consigning the bouquiniste to the slick graywater, so he did as he'd been told and watched as the boat revved loud and swung away, heading east against the current, passing in the lea of Notre Dame.
    He was a statue on the walkway, turned to stone by the figure at the stern of the boat, the sharp-featured man who stood watch over him and also over his victim, the huddled form of the old bouquiniste at his feet. Hugo glared back, his eyes fixed on the boat until it finally rounded the tip of the Ile de la Cité and disappeared from view.

 
    Â 
    Hugo stood by Max's stall and told his story to the first gendarme on the scene, a waif of a man who spoke no English and kept his pen and notepad busy as Hugo talked. A small crowd gathered behind the policeman, wide-eyed but wary, drawn like moths to the blue light that flashed atop his little white car.
    â€œWait here please, sir,” the policeman said. “There is a detective en route , he will take your statement.”
    â€œLook, forget the statement. Right now I want your river police looking for that boat, maybe a helicopter, too. A man with a gun just kidnapped a friend of mine, in broad daylight and—”
    â€œI heard you, sir,” the gendarme interrupted. He looked over his shoulder as an unmarked car pulled up behind his. “ Voila , the detective. Talk to him about that, I don't have the authority.”
    The detective was tall and lean, with the dark skin and hooked nose that spoke of Arab descent. He wore a green woolen sweater under an open overcoat and a matching ski hat that was pulled low over his ears. He slammed his car door, then looked up at the sky, sighed, and walked slowly over to the gendarme. He stood frowning as he listened to the hurried briefing, his hands deep in his pockets. When the gendarme had finished, the detective nodded and walked over to Hugo. He drew a hand out of his pocket and offered it to Hugo. It was ice cold.
    â€œI'm told you are one of us, mon ami ,” he said. He spoke in French, his voice low and worn as if he'd spent all day smoking the unfiltered cigarettes that Hugo could smell on him. “My name's David Durand.”
    â€œHugo Marston. What do you mean, ‘one of us’?” Hugo asked.
    â€œLaw enforcement.” He nodded toward the gendarme. “He says you work at the American embassy, speak French fluently, and carry a gun.”
    â€œFormer FBI, now security chief at the embassy,” Hugo said. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but—”
    â€œI have given the order for our river police to look for the boat you described. If a helicopter can be found, we'll send one up to help. But it will be dark soon and the pilots complain when we make them fly at night, especially so close to the center of the city. Not safe, they say.” He shivered and looked around. “Can you wait for a few moments? We have some witnesses I need to talk to.”
    â€œOf course,” said Hugo, watching Durand approach a small group of onlookers. Hugo was comforted by the assurances of police boats, and maybe a chopper, but equally irritated by the man's languid attitude, his unhurried walk, as if this were a burglary with the intruders long gone.
    Hugo turned and looked out over the water, picturing Max out there somewhere. He acted the gruff, tough guy, and maybe he once was, but Max was no longer young. Hugo had no idea what the thug Nica had wanted from his friend, but it wasn't some random shakedown. He wanted something specific and Hugo wondered what he would do to get it. His face flushed with anger as he imagined them hurting Max, beating a weak old man. Even if he had the mental toughness to resist, Hugo knew that violence to someone Max's age, even a minor assault, could prove too much for an old heart. Whoever had Max, whoever wanted something from him, could kill him without