The Paris Librarian Page 6

  “I’ve only done this once or twice, so bear with me.” A few more clicks and the hallway outside the atelier popped onto the screen. “Let me select the date and time . . . yesterday, starting when?”

  “Let’s start at eight.” He waited while she used drop-down boxes to start the playback at the right time. “How long do you save these, do you know?”

  “I think six months,” Juneau said, “but we can download onto an external drive if there’s something specific we want to keep. Do you want to do that?”

  “I brought one in case. It’ll depend on what’s on there. Hopefully nothing.”

  She looked up at him with a frown. “Hopefully?”

  “Presumably.” He flashed the smile again and moved aside as she stood.

  “I’ll leave you to it. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  Hugo peered at the screen. “I see there’s a fast-forward button, if I use that, maybe an hour at the most.”

  When Juneau had left, Hugo fished into his pocket for a small notebook and pen, then clicked the play button and watched for a few seconds. He checked the timer and clicked the fast-forward arrows, making the tape run at four times normal speed. He sat back to watch, eyes glued to the screen.

  At 8:32, Paul Rogers walked under the camera and into the frame, and Hugo leaned forward to slow the action down. Rogers looked normal, healthy, and in his own world, slowly heading to the little room with a laptop under his arm and a water bottle in his other hand. Hugo thought back to the room as he’d seen it. He rewound the tape and let it play through Paul’s appearance again, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

  He watched as Rogers unlocked the door, and made a mental note to find out who had access to a key to the little room. He hit fast-forward again, watching the screen, seeing nothing but the empty hallway. He was about to check his watch when movement caught his eye.

  At the bottom of the screen, a head appeared, then a figure walked slowly down the narrow aisle toward the room where Rogers was working. Hugo sat forward, eager to see who it was, whether he’d recognize the person. He did. Right outside the atelier’s door, Michael Harmuth, with something under his arm, stopped. He turned away and put the object down, leaning it against the wall next to the door. The book about weapons. The picture wasn’t clear enough to read the title, but the cover colors and the size looked right.

  Hugo sat, barely breathing, watching to see what happened next. Harmuth straightened and knocked on the door, two taps. He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked in the direction he’d come, back toward the camera.

  Ten seconds later, the door opened and Paul Rogers poked his head out. He looked down the aisle, then to either side before spotting the book. He stepped out to retrieve it and went immediately back into the room, closing the door. That was at 9:19. Hugo watched the rest of the video, until he and Harmuth returned around 11:30. Nothing.

  So, sometime between 9:19 and 11:30, Paul Rogers had died. No one had gone in or out of the room or, except for Michael Harmuth, so much as passed by. Hugo found it odd that Harmuth hadn’t mentioned dropping off the book, but since he’d not seen or interacted with Rogers in any way, perhaps that was why. He must have assumed Rogers was working and didn’t want to disturb him.

  He left the tape running as he thought about the timeline, watching idly as he himself walked away, having given instructions to Harmuth not to let anyone enter. He sat up a little straighter when the assistant director went to the door and stopped. The man’s hand rested on the handle, and then Harmuth opened the door, stepping halfway in.

  What’s he doing? Hugo wondered. Harmuth stood half in and half out of the doorway for about two seconds, then gently closed the door and walked up the hallway, shaking his head.

  Hugo thought for a moment, resolving to talk to Harmuth as soon as possible. Then, out of curiosity, Hugo rewound his way to where the tape started that day, just after 8:00 a.m. He watched the thirty minutes speed by until Rogers appeared, but no one else showed up on the screen.

  He then found the surveillance from the previous day, surprised but impressed that the library was open on Sundays. He scanned through the last hour. Nicole Anisse, Michael Harmuth, Michelle Juneau, and Paul Rogers all came and went from the little room, but nothing looked out of the ordinary to Hugo. But then how would I know? he thought.

  Hugo took out the thumb drive he’d brought and, after a few false starts, figured out how to download the parts of the tape that he wanted. As he was finishing up, Michelle Juneau reappeared in the doorway.

  “Vous avez fini?”she asked. You’ve finished?

  “Oui, merci bien.” Hugo stood. “Tell me, is there someone in particular who closes up the basement at the end of each day?”

  “Oui. Messieurs Rogers and Harmuth usually have that job.” She looked down, as if embarrassed. “This will sound silly to you but . . . some of the women don’t like it down there. It’s so quiet and there are no windows. The last person down there has to use a flashlight because the switch isn’t near the door, so . . . either Paul or Michael took on that job.”

  “Don’t worry, Nicole said the same thing and I’ve been down there, it definitely has its own special atmosphere. Thanks again.” Hugo offered his hand and then headed into the main part of the library. He stopped in front of the circulation desk, where Nicole Anisse was typing on her phone. She looked up and smiled.

  “Oui, monsieur?”

  “Je cherche Monsieur Harmuth,” Hugo said. “Is he here today?”

  “Oui, I think so. He should be restocking the teen lounge.”

  “You have a special area for teens? I didn’t know that.”

  She smiled. “That’s because grown-ups aren’t allowed in there. Even staff here have a five-minute limit.”

  “I like that idea. I’d have appreciated that as a teenager.”

  “Me too,” Anisse said. “It’s on the second floor, above the children’s section. There’s a window by the door so you can look in and see if he’s there.”

  “Merci.” Hugo started to turn away, but he had one more question for her. “Who would be responsible for the Severin papers now? Madame Juneau?”

  “Her or Monsieur Harmuth, I’m not sure.”

  “Thanks again, I’ll see if I can track him down,” Hugo said. He walked the length of the main floor, wishing Bonjour to a couple of men shelving books, and then started up the short staircase to the teen lounge. He peeked through the window by the door and saw Harmuth standing with his hands on hips, looking at a dozen or so books piled on a cart. He looked up when Hugo walked in.

  “Mr. Marston, how’re you?”

  “Fine. Please, call me Hugo.” He looked around at the space, filled with more couches and bean bags than books. A large television screen was mounted to the wall, and two computers sat on a desk. “Am I allowed in here?” he asked, with a smile.

  “Normally, no, but there are no kids here today so you’re safe for a few minutes. Plus, it’s pretty much soundproofed up here, so no one will know,” Harmuth joked back. “Are you here for the sale?” He sighed, his eyes now sad. “Or something to do with Paul?”

  “The latter. Quick question for you. I looked at the surveillance tapes just now.”

  “Oh, good. Anything interesting?”

  “Not really,” Hugo said. “The only people on them yesterday before I arrived are Paul and you.”

  “Me?” He looked surprised, then seemed to remember. “Oh, the book he wanted. Yes, I left it outside the room. Someone had checked it out and he asked us to let him know when it came in. He was using it as a reference tool for his own novel, and so when I saw that it was checked in, I thought he might want it.”

  “You just left it outside the door?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt, make him feel like he had to chit-chat with me.” He gave a sad smile. “My mother was a writer, or an aspiring one, and she’d get very annoyed if I interrupted her while she was working. Plus, you know, always bus
y around here. So yes, I just tapped on the door and left it outside for him in case he wanted it.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “I still can’t believe it.” Harmuth shook his head slowly, then looked up at Hugo. “Paul died of natural causes, didn’t he?”

  “If that’s what the medical examiner says, yes. I’ve no reason to doubt it.”

  “Seems like you do, though.”

  Hugo gave him a wry smile. “Comes with doing my job for too long. Suspicious nature, I guess.” He looked over Harmuth’s shoulder as Nicole Anisse came through the door, and Hugo couldn’t help but notice what a striking young woman she was. Worry was etched on her face, though, and she didn’t seem to be noticing the people around her.

  “Monsieur Harmuth, un moment, s’il vous plait.”

  “Bien sûr, what’s going on?”

  Her eyes flicked to Hugo but she didn’t hesitate for long. “It’s Laurent.”

  “What about him?” Harmuth asked.

  “He’s . . .” Her voice cracked. “I think he’s dead.”

  Hugo’s head snapped up. “Who’s Laurent? Are you saying someone just died here?” Someone else, he thought.

  Anisse looked stunned, but she replied: “He’s the janitor, Laurent Tilly.”

  Hugo turned to her. “Tell me what happened exactly. Where is he?”

  “He was helping Jorge reshelve some books. Jorge Tacao, he’s a volunteer,” Anisse said, “I went to help, too. He said he wasn’t feeling well and went into the bathroom. I asked Jorge to check on him.” Anisse covered her mouth to stifle a sob. “He was lying on the floor, not breathing.”

  “Is he still there?” Hugo asked insistently.

  “We didn’t know what to do. We called for an ambulance, but it’s not here yet.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But he’s dead, I’m sure he is. I saw him through the open door and he looked . . . just dead.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hugo followed Nicole Anisse and Michael Harmuth to the hallway by the bathroom, where Laurent Tilly lay inside. The door was closed, and when Anisse and Harmuth paused outside, Hugo pushed his way in. On the floor in front of him a stocky man crouched over Tilly, pressing repeatedly on his chest. Hugo assumed he was Jorge Tacao, the volunteer. When he looked up Tacao’s face was red, and he was out of breath.

  “Is he alive?” Hugo asked in French.

  “Je ne sais pas,” Tacao said. I don’t know. “I thought I felt a pulse but I’m not sure. I thought I should do this just in case, until the paramedics arrive.”

  “Good.” Hugo knelt beside the fallen man and put his fingertips on his wrist. “I think you’re right—it’s faint but there’s a pulse.”

  The bathroom door opened and Michael Harmuth came in, his face pale and drawn. “Is he . . . ?”

  “We’re working on it,” Hugo said.

  The stocky Tacao grunted and paused to wipe his brow. He glanced at Hugo for a second and moved forward to continue pumping Tilly’s chest.

  “Let me,” Hugo said in French, and the man nodded and moved back. Hugo shifted into position. He pressed his palms into Tilly’s sternum and set into the rhythm of compressions as he’d been trained, his eyes on Tilly’s face for any signs of life. After four minutes his arms were aching, sweat starting to break on his brow, but he was determined to keep at it. He’d seen people survive and recover after much longer resuscitation attempts. Three minutes later, his arms were burning and sweat dripped off his forehead. He was about to ask Harmuth or Tacao to take over when the door swung open and two men in blue uniforms came in. One of them knelt beside Hugo and nodded at him, a sign to move away, let them do their job.

  Hugo stood and retreated to the doorway beside Tacao and Harmuth, wiping an arm over his forehead. The three men stood looking at the still-unmoving form on the floor as the paramedics went to work.

  “Thanks for helping,” Harmuth said to Hugo.

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to Tacao. “What happened?”

  “Eh bien, he was just shelving books, several of us were. He said he felt nauseous and headed in here. I went to check on him when Nicole asked me to, and found him on the floor.” He shook his head. “Merde, I thought he was dead.”

  He might be, Hugo thought, but he said, “Let’s go outside, get out of their way.”

  Tacao and Harmuth followed him out of the small space. Tacao pulled a packet of cigarettes from a back pocket and headed straight for the exit with a wave. Harmuth led Hugo to a small nook at the end of a stack, and sank into one of the two comfortable chairs.

  “I need to sit down,” he said.

  Good, Hugo thought, settling opposite him. In a minute, I have one more question for you. “Are you OK?”

  “I think so. This is all a bit much, though.”

  “It sure is,” Hugo agreed. “Michael, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “No, what about?”

  “The video. When I went to call the police, you opened the door to Paul’s room.”

  Harmuth sighed. “Oh, yes, that. I’m sorry; I know I shouldn’t have, you said to keep everyone out.” He paused. “It’s just that, standing there in the quiet, none of it seemed real. I mean, I’ve been in that basement, in and out of that atelier, many times. I know a couple of the girls find it a little creepy down there, but to me it’s not; it’s a serene and peaceful part of the building, and whenever I’m down there it brings me a real sense of calm. Standing there yesterday, with you gone and the quiet all around me, it didn’t seem real. I guess I had to check, to see for myself that it was true.” He sat up straight, worry in his eyes. “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t contaminate anything did I? Like, screw up some kind of investigation?”

  “There’s no investigation—it’s fine. I was just curious, that’s all.” Hugo suddenly felt bad for asking, reminding himself that his own reaction to death was inevitably different from most other people, especially civilians. Death was more foreign to them, more abstract, and when it happened in their midst their ways of processing it required sensitivity from people who’d become accustomed to seeing it. People like him.

  They both turned their heads as a thumping noise came from the direction of the bathroom.

  “What was that?” Harmuth asked.

  “I think they’re using a defibrillator, trying to restart his heart. Either it stopped or he didn’t have a pulse after all.” The sounds came again, then the muffled voices of the paramedics through the open door. Harmuth and Hugo sat in silence, their eyes on the doorway, waiting for something to happen. After a couple of minutes, the paramedics passed the end of the aisle where they were sitting, a wheeled stretcher between them. Laurent Tilly was strapped securely to it, a mask over his nose and mouth.

  “Looks like he’s alive,” Hugo said. “Jorge probably saved his life.”

  “He is?” Harmuth stood and watched. “Thank God.” He turned to Hugo and all the worry had washed away, relief on his face. “You know, I’ve never been good with medical things. Illness, even death. That’s a little ironic because I used to work in a pharmacy, selling drugs and all this medical and life-saving equipment. I’m a lot happier amongst books, I can promise you that.”

  “Me too,” Hugo said, standing. “I’m sorry those two worlds collided yesterday and today. Not pleasant for anyone.” He paused. “You OK here? I need to go outside and make a phone call.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just fine.”

  Hugo made his way to the front of the library, then stepped out onto the street. He dialed Camille Lerens, who answered quickly. “Hugo, salut.”

  “Salut. I hope you don’t mind, I wanted to check on the results of the autopsy on Paul Rogers.”

  “Expecting anything in particular?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  “I doubt that. But Doctor Sprengelmeyer said he died of natural causes, a heart attack.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes, Hugo. Shocking result, I know.”

  “Did he run that tox pan
el?”

  “Like I said before, same one he always does. Still natural causes. And if you’re thinking someone poisoned him, not only was the tox panel clear but he had no puncture wounds between his toes, or anything like that.”

  “So he checked?”

  “Of course he checked. I told you, he’s one of the best.” She paused. “Hugo, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Another man just collapsed and almost died here this morning. Minutes ago.”

  “Are you serious? What happened?”

  “Not sure, the paramedics took him away. Maybe a heart attack, but I’m no doctor so I’m just guessing.”

  “And you think this is related to Rogers’s death.”

  “Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “That’s why the word exists,” Lerens said. “Because they happen.”

  “Maybe. I just get this tingling in the back of my neck sometimes. It’s a feeling that doesn’t explain itself, sometimes makes me ask dumb questions, and usually makes me look stupid.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes, for a while anyway. Thing is, it’s usually right.”

  “Maybe something else triggered it this time, something unrelated but you’re connecting it to your friend’s death.”

  A vision of the suave Alain Benoît popped into Hugo’s head, a man who may be sharing some kind of secret with Paul’s fiancée. “You might be right. I don’t suppose you know a guy by the name of Alain Benoît?”

  “Non, I don’t. Why?”

  “Long shot.” Hugo smiled to himself. “There are only two million people in Paris, sorry. One of those dumb questions, I guess.”

  “What does he have to do with this?”

  “Probably nothing. He’s a guy I met when I went to Paul’s house to tell Sarah, his fiancée, about his death. Benoît was there with her.”

  “And? Or are we jumping to unfair and unreasonable conclusions?”

  “Well, we are in Paris,” Hugo said, a little sheepishly.

  “You want me to run him through the system? If so, I’ll need more than his name—must be two hundred Alain Benoîts in Paris.”