Read Online The Bookseller by Mark Pryor - Free Book Online Page A

wanted to, he could also tap into Interpol's global communications system, known as I-24/7. He'd try that next, if nothing came up.
    He first logged into the DCRI's system. The latest generation of crime-fighting software, it could search for crimes or criminals using the barest of details. A name, a place, a date, or even a modus operandi would bring back results. Not always fast, it was nonetheless thorough, and his first thought was to have it track down that bastard Nica. Buthis fingers hovered over the keyboard. Presumably the man's first name, but short for Nicolas? Nicholas? Nikolas? Too many possibilities. Instead, he filled two search boxes with the names “Jean” and “Chabot.”
    Then he sat back, lifted his boots onto his desk, and took a careful sip of Emma's hot coffee. Perfect, as always. Why he couldn't make it this good at home, he'd no clue. Even using her written instructions, and the exact same beans and coffee-concocting equipment, he ended up producing either a witch-thin potion or a bitter, burnt-tasting brew.
    He took another sip and watched as a thick bar on his computer screen filled up from left to right. It paused at ninety-nine percent and then flashed up twelve hits on Frenchmen named “Jean Chabot.” Only three were in Paris, so he started with those. The first was a bust: a black male killed in prison two years ago. The second and third Jean Chabots were also not his man, a quick glance at the pictures showed that much. He ventured further afield, choosing a Chabot from Toulouse. Not him. The next one was from Pau, a town Hugo knew from following the Tour de France religiously every year. Down near the Pyrénées, one of the mountain stages of that race usually began or ended there.
    This Jean Chabot was his man, the too-close eyes and thin mouth unmistakable. He had six convictions, all for theft-related offenses, the most petty was a shoplifting charge when he was twenty and the most serious an armed robbery, for which he spent four years behind bars. What struck Hugo was that each of Chabot's crimes was in southwestern France, three in the city of Pau itself, two more in Biarritz, and the other one in Lourdes. Nothing at all in Paris.
    Which meant that Hugo now had two questions that he couldn't answer.
    First, why would a humble bouquiniste get kidnapped? Second, how did a not-so-petty criminal from the Pyrénées-Atlantiques Department end up in possession of one of the most coveted bookstalls in Paris? He didn't believe that Chabot didn't know Max, or at least know of him. But if Chabot wasn't talking, there wasn't a lot he could do about it. Yet.
    The next step, he knew, was to try harder to find Max himself. Hisfingers hovered above the keyboard, the cursor blinking in the empty search box in front of him. Max was a friend and looking up his criminal history seemed like an invasion of privacy, a step too far. He didn't know why, but he felt sure that any wrongdoings would be ancient history, from a youth that Max had left behind long ago. Hugo was still not sure he wanted to know, but he couldn't think of any other way to find the old man.
    All he had was his first and last name, and even the latter he wasn't sure how to spell. He tried multiple variations on the spelling of “Cloche” and then, when he got nothing back, he tried variations on the name. After more than a dozen tries, running every name he could think of that began with “Cl-,” he sat back and ran his hands through his hair. He thought for a moment, then checked his watch and smiled at the realization that time didn't mean the same thing to Tom as it did to everyone else. He dialed his friend's number.
    Tom's voice came on the line after four rings. “I spy a French number, so Dr. Marston, I presume.”
    â€œWell done, Sherlock.”
    â€œSilence ‘lo these many years, then you can't get enough of me. What's up?”
    â€œYou remember I said I had a little