Page 34 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

Verner rubbed his chin, stood up and leaned his elbows on the counter, drumming his fingers on the surface. Then he took a deep breath, preparing to speak.

“An armed raid, a trial and a stiff prison sentence, all for two books? Just, doesn’t sit right with me.”

“And yet, it happened.”

“Is it possible that you haven’t given enough thought to why? The police might not have found what they were looking for, but if there were that many of them you can bet they were looking for something.”

“They were looking for someone to make an example of. To scare booksellers and librarians. Deter resistance.”

“If that’s the case, it’s very strange that I never heard about it. And even stranger that Madame Ateltow didn’t either – not even from her bookshop friend, who was practically giddy after her visit to your reading group and dead set on joining the cause.”

“She organized her own meetings?” asked Mitch, with genuine interest in what Verner was saying for the first time.

“She did. You really can’t say the government went out of its way to use your arrest as a warning to others. It just doesn’t add up. But who knows what goes on behind the scenes – or in the heads of those in power?”

“What are you getting at, Verner?”

“Al Capone died in prison, serving a sentence for tax fraud, not for any of the murders he committed.”

“What a flattering comparison.”

“Did you know that it was his accountant who ratted on him to the FBI, in exchange for immunity? The government used that relatively minor infraction to get exactly what they needed.” Verner gave him a significant look.

“I didn’t know that. And I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“Fine. Be obtuse, then. If you say two books got you thrown in prison, and no one else, then I’ll take your word for it. You’d know best, after all.” Verner stood up, preparing to leave. “I’m glad you’re back. Glad you made it out. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop by again. Who knows, maybe next time you’ll be up for a real drink.”

At the door, he turned and asked, with a crooked grin, “Oh, and the lovely Mathilde – have you seen her?”

“Not since the day I was arrested.”

“How unfortunate. The two of you seemed so close.”

“I thought so too, but I was wrong. She never came to the trial or visited me in prison, not even once.”

Verner departed, closing the door behind him.

It wasn’t until later that evening that Mitch finally understood the point Verner had been trying to make, and the irony in his voice when he’d blamed the books and no one else… Mitch had always assumed that the police raid had been triggered by the inspector who’d spotted Anne Frank’s diary on a shelf. He’d blamed himself for being careless, for having so thoughtlessly left two other banned titles lying around in the storeroom. But the thought that someone might have reported him to the police hit him like a punch to the gut.

* * *

The next day, he closed the bookshop half an hour early. He slipped out through the courtyard, leaving a dish of kibble for the cat, who was napping on a windowsill. He reached the courthouse just as the day’s hearings were wrapping up. It was the fifth time he’d done so in the last two weeks. On Thursdays, Salinas tended to emerge from the courthouse just a few minutes after closing.

On his first excursion, Mitch had managed to follow the prosecutor into the parking garage beneath the courtroom, where Salinas had driven off in a sleek navy-blue sedan, leaving no doubt that his salary vastly eclipsed that of a bookseller’s. Thanks to the heavy traffic, Mitch was able to keep him in sight for a good part of the journey, but eventually the car outpaced him. The second time, he had come better prepared, having bought himself a bicycle: he successfully tailed the sedan all the way to a private road in a neighbouring district, where he was thwarted by a gate. Salinas parked his car at the end of a long driveway before vanishing into an opulent mansion.

Two days after that, Mitch returned during his lunch break to scout the area. He chained his bike to the gate before venturing onto the private road. Standing on the sidewalk across from Salinas’s villa, he jotted down any details of interest into a small notebook. The house had three stories, with a blue-tiled roof. Wisteria draped the front wall in purple clusters along a vine that twisted up the first-floor balcony rail. Behind the balcony stood three French doors. Mitch noted the lack of security cameras on the front door. He had made a quick sketch of the grounds, tucked the notebook in his coat, and returned to the shop on foot – having found nothing left of his bicycle but the front wheel, still chained to the privacy gate.

The fourth time he tailed Salinas, the trail ended in a narrow alley not far from the courthouse. The prosecutor looked over his shoulder twice, and Mitch, afraid of being spotted, had to abandon the mission.

As a precautionary measure, he waited several days before resuming the hunt. That Thursday evening, as the prosecutor emerged from the courthouse, Mitch fell into step behind him once again, careful to keep a safe distance. Salinas initially set off toward the same side street but kept turning around, and then abruptly changed direction. Instead of following him, Mitch kept going straight and ducked into the alcove of a pair of double-doors facing the side street to keep watch. A risky move, but it turned out to be the right one, as Salinas reappeared shortly afterwards and went into a club. Rather than following him inside, Mitch strolled past the club entrance and stopped further along the street, leaning against a street lamp and jotting down the name of the club. After an hour or so of feeling like a third-rate spy, he called it a night. The conservatory wasn’t far, so he decided to drop in on Verner, whose evening classes would be wrapping up.

In the main auditorium, four students were rehearsing the first movement of the Concierto de Aranjuez. Verner stood nearby, listening closely. The harmony was tight, and Mitch, who had a soft spot for music, eased into one of the plush theatre seats and let himself be swept up in the sound. A few moments later, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder.

“If you need a hotel room, just say so.”

Mitch sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. Verner was glaring at him with palpable hostility.

“Don’t expect tickets to opening night,” Verner said. “You snore like a buzz saw. Very off-putting.”