The Bookseller by Mark Pryor Read Free Book Online

about these, if you don't mind.”
    â€œ Bien sur .” Of course. The old man cocked his head and spoke in English. “American?”
    â€œYes,” Hugo said. “You?”
    â€œEnglish. 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.”
    â€œMe too,” Hugo smiled, shaking his hand. “Hugo Marston.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œLet'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?”
    â€œNot at all. I don't know if they are worth much, but I'm sort of curious to know whether I…”
    â€œGot ripped off?”
    â€œGot a good deal, let's put it that way.”
    â€œVery 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.
    â€œA 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?”
    â€œThat's him.”
    â€œI'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.”
    â€œThat's OK.” Hugo nodded toward the Agatha Christie. “I ask because your card was in that book.”
    â€œAh, 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.”
    â€œI'm also asking because Max has disappeared.”
    The smile fell from Kendall's face. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI wish I knew,” Hugo said. “I'm just…concerned about him.”
    â€œI'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?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œGood to know.”
    â€œNow, 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?”
    â€œI didn't. I paid a thousand Euros for both.”
    Kendall leaned over and switched on his computer, picking up