The Paris Librarian by Mark Pryor Page A

a second one, with Paul Rogers’s name on the door. Juneau stood behind her desk, waiting for him. He went into her office and closed the door.
    â€œI’m afraid I have bad news,” he began. “I came here to meet with Paul this morning, for the sale. He was working on his book when I found him.”
    â€œ Found him ?” she repeated. “Why do you say it that way?”
    â€œPaul is dead, madame. He appears to have had a heart attack.”
    A small hand fluttered to her mouth, but she never took her eyes from his. She squared her shoulders, composing herself. “Paul is . . . You are sure he’s . . . he’s really dead?”
    â€œThe police doctor is here, there’s no doubt. I’m sorry.”
    She reached for the back of her chair and slowly sat down. She was quiet for a moment then looked up. “Police? Someone called the police?”
    â€œI did. I’m not familiar with the reporting process here after a death, and I wanted to be safe rather than sorry.”
    Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I can’t believe this is happening.” A thought seemed to strike her. “Is he . . . his body . . .”
    â€œThe police are still here, with him.”
    A pause. “You said a heart attack. Why are the police still here?”
    He didn’t want to tell her the truth, that they were using a man’s death for training purposes. And he didn’t want to tell her, either, that something didn’t quite feel right to him, something he couldn’t begin to put his finger on. Something about the body’s position, or the odd way people were reacting. Maybe it was something about the little room itself . . . Hugo just didn’t know. He smiled to himself. Or maybe it was just that pretty much every death he’d seen in the last twenty years had been a homicide, and he was just projecting his history onto the sad, but very natural, death of Paul Rogers.
    â€œI’ll go check,” Hugo said. “I’ll try and make sure they don’t disturb the people here for the sale.”
    â€œ Merci bien , I appreciate that.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor Paul. And Sarah, oh my goodness, who will tell Sarah?”
    â€œI hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
    â€œI do hope it’s not the police—I know she’s not,” she paused, clearly searching for the right words, “she’s not very good with authority.”
    â€œIt may have to be them, but if so I’ll go with them. I’ll be there, I promise.”
    Juneau frowned, but then nodded her approval. “That will be good, thank you.” She started for the door, then turned. “You said you came to see him about the sale. That is my project. Is there something I can help you with?”
    â€œPaul was holding a book for me, but it doesn’t seem important now.”
    â€œPlease, if it was important before, then it is now. Perhaps more so. Paul would want you to have the book, I’m sure. What was it? I will go look where we put special orders aside.”
    â€œIt’s by Truman Capote, a signed copy.”
    â€œThe title? I’ll go look now.”
    â€œThank you. The book is In Cold Blood .”

    Hugo picked his way through the crowds on the Champ de Mars as he made his way toward where Paul Rogers lived with Sarah Gregory, less than a mile from the library and on the other side of the busy public green space. He’d offered to deliver the news, bearing Juneau’s warning in mind, and Camille Lerens had reluctantly agreed. It looked like natural causes, they agreed, so her superiors might wonder why she was making it a police matter by visiting with the surviving kin.
    As he walked, Hugo instinctively patted his pockets when the packs of tourists passed him, wary not of them but of the lone vendors tracking them like prey, their