The Bookseller Read Online Free Page A

meaning to. Without even trying.
    Hugo spun around when he heard the detective behind him. Durand had a frown on his face and dark green eyes watched Hugo intently. “ Monsieur , un problème . I have spoken to two people who say that your friend got onto the boat of his own free will.”
    Hugo stared at the detective, wondering if he'd misheard or if his mind had somehow mistranslated. “What did you say?”
    â€œTwo witnesses, monsieur. They say your friend left of his own free will.”
    â€œ Non , that's not possible, it's not…Who are the witnesses?”
    â€œWhy? Do you plan to make them change their stories?” It was said lightly, but the watchfulness in Durand's eyes remained.
    â€œOf course not.” Hugo bit back his anger. “Look, the man had a gun, I can give you a description, I can pick him out of a line up. And I can assure you, Max did not go with him voluntarily.”
    The detective looked out across the water, a black ribbon in the gathering dusk. “ Bien .” He turned to the gendarme. “Make sure you have a full statement, every possible detail. I will go supervise the search. If they are still out there, we will find them.”
    â€œ Oui , monsieur,” said the officer, flipping open his notepad.
    Durand took a last look at Hugo, then turned and walked to his car, the word “if” hanging between them.

    Max had been right—the snow began to fall twenty minutes later as Hugo was walking home. He crossed the street into Rue Jacob and paused for a moment, bemused and angry by what had just happened, somehow unwilling to enjoy, perhaps undeserving of, the warmth and comfort of his apartment.
    He took off his hat so the flakes could tickle his face and opened his mouth like a child, letting them fizz on his tongue. He walked on, the sense of unreality that had settled around him magnified as the falling snow muffled the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk. He paused again, once, and thought he could hear a hiss as the snow hit the ground and melted. The flakes were large, though, and stuck to his coat and hair, so he knew they'd stick to the ground soon enough.
    At the door to his apartment building he stopped and looked up and down the street. A hush had descended, the quiet that comes with the start of a heavy snowfall. He turned, wiped his boots on the largemat, and went into the foyer, nodding at the Cretian concierge who sat at the reception desk with a novel in his hand.
    â€œ Salut , Dimitrios.” Hugo took off his hat and batted the snow from it.
    â€œ Bonsoir, monsieur .” Dimitrios sprang to his feet. A wiry old man with a brush moustache, he looked after his tenants as though his life depended on it. “How are you? Friday night plans?”
    â€œNo, I've had my excitement for this week.” Hugo shook his head and kept moving. “Have a good night, Dimitrios.”
    â€œ Merci . Vous aussi, monsieur .”
    Hugo trotted up the stairs to his apartment, passing straight through the living room and into his bedroom. He dropped the Rimbaud and the Agatha Christie on the bed and unholstered his gun, a Glock 19, and laid it next to the books. Then he knelt in front of a safe that he'd had specially built. Disguised as his bedside table, it was essentially a steel box with an elegant mahogany facing, and it was bolted to the wall beside his bed. He opened the safe and put his gun on the narrow shelf next to a larger, wooden-handled Smith & Wesson.
    Hugo checked the time, six o'clock, so midday in America. A good time to call Christine again, but he had some things to do first. He wanted to call Max's home, go there in person just to prove to himself that what he'd witnessed really happened, that Max hadn't been a party to his own kidnap. But he realized that he didn't even know Max's last name, let alone his address or phone number. A vague recollection that they'd swapped last names, sure, probably over coffee