The Bookseller by Mark Pryor Read Free Book Online Page B

Euros?”
    â€œYou can say a lot more than that, if you like,” Hugo said.
    â€œA 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?”
    â€œYes, please. I assume that won't go to auction.”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œThank 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.”
    â€œI will. And Mr. Marston?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œPlease, 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?”
    â€œI do,” said Hugo. “He is. And when I find him, I'll call you.”

    Hugo spent the rest of Saturday trying to find Max's house. Tom was still not answering his phone, but one of the other bouquinistes gave Hugo Max's last name, or what he thought it was: Cloche. But four hours on the Internet, running free searches and using pay sites, gave him nothing.

 
    Â 
    On Sunday morning, Hugo stationed himself on the busy Boulevard de Palais, near the exit to the metro stop closest to the Prefecture de Police. He walked in large circles, the police station always in view, hoping that the mid-morning tourist traffic and his hat and coat collar would give him the element of surprise.
    He saw his man as soon as he emerged from the metro, the thin figure sporting the familiar heavy overcoat and woolen ski hat. Hugo hurried across the street and caught up to him at the front steps of the prefecture.
    â€œ Excusez moi , Detective Durand,” he said.
    The detective turned, his hooded eyes taking a moment to make the connection. “Ah, Monsieur Marston. How can I help you?”
    â€œA progress report would be nice.” Hugo decided to gauge Durand's response before mentioning the so-called hoax/mistake investigation.
    â€œNot much to say, sadly.” Durand frowned and looked down, as if thinking. “We searched the river that night but found no boat matching the description you gave. No one of the alleged victim's description turned up, either, in the hospitals or morgue.” He turned his eyes onto Hugo. “And of course, we still have those witnesses who say your friend went onto the boat voluntarily.”
    â€œI suppose you're not willing to give me the names of those witnesses,” Hugo said, forcing himself to remain calm.
    â€œI cannot, I'm sorry.”
    â€œYou can,” Hugo said. “I'm one of us, remember.”
    â€œ Non. Je m'excuse .” Durand started to turn away but Hugo gripped his sleeve.
    â€œSo the investigation is over?”
    â€œ Non . The description of your friend, and the boat, remains with our men on the street. If an unidentified person shows up in an ambulance or hearse, that person will be checked to see if it is him. Now, unless you know something you are not telling me, I don't quite see what more I can do.”
    â€œYou can start by changing the designation of the investigation. It's neither a hoax nor a mistake.”
    Durand raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”
    â€œWhat difference does it make?”
    The detective stepped closer and Hugo smelled the stale cigarettes on his breath, saw the little flecks of gold in the angry green eyes. “Monsieur. I appreciate you are not used to being in this situation and that usually you are in my shoes. However, I have done my job and will continue to do it. Now, please let go of my arm. Right now.”
    A new voice snapped out behind Hugo. “What's going on here?”
    Durand stiffened, his eyes wary now.
    So the newcomer is your superior . Hugo turned to look at the man who'd spoken. He was short and