Page 50 of The Bookshop of Forbidden Books

He knew perfectly well she was talking about Verner, but he felt the need to prove his professionalism.

“We see each other sometimes, in secret. Just briefly, and not often enough,” she confessed. “He told me you’d gone off on a long trip. How lucky you are – that’s always been my dream.”

Her eyes widened as if she’d been struck by a revelation.

“You know, maybe that’s what I should do. Run away!”

“At your age, maybe try something a little less dramatic,” Mitch suggested. “You could talk to your son, for instance. Tell him how you’re feeling.”

“He wouldn’t listen. He means well, really… he thinks he’s protecting me. And the moment I complain, he says I’m getting senile. The truth is that children are awful – horrible little vampires that sink their fangs into your life and bleed you dry. And it doesn’t get any better when they grow up. I’m terrified that he’ll put me in a nursing home one of these days. Might as well be prison!”

“I doubt that,” Mitch replied, dryly.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to weep and wail over my fate, even though that’s all I’ve done since I got here. I’ll take this one,” Madame Ateltow said, holding up the Miller novel. “I’ll hide it under my bed, next to my box of chocolates and my bottle of whiskey. They’ll make for a perfect evening.”

But she continued to pace from table to table, muttering to herself in a voice too low for Mitch to hear. Stopping in front of the Religion and Esotericism section, she turned to him again.

“If you ever need a hand getting things organized here, I’d be delighted to help,” she said – though her gaze was fixed firmly on her shoes.

Mitch thought the shop looked perfectly tidy, but Madame Ateltow’s suggestion was so obviously a cry for help that he paused for a moment to think. “I have a better idea. How about this: you could stop by twice a week – let’s say on Tuesdays and Thursdays, around lunchtime. It’s possible that someone we both know might just happen to be here at the same time. And it’s possible that the two of you might spend some time organizing the storeroom a little.”

Madame Ateltow’s face lit up like a lighthouse flashing across a stormy sea.

“How would this mutual acquaintance know when I’m going to be here?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mitch assured her.

“And no one else would know?”

“Professional confidentiality,” Mitch replied, “and the back room doesn’t have any windows.”

Madame Ateltow pressed her handbag to her heart, her eyes full of tears. Mitch walked her to the door, promising that everything would be fine.

After she left, he found himself wanting to tell Anna about it. He’d already had to talk himself out of contacting her twice that morning, determined to comply with the instructions she’d left in her note.

* * *

Shortly before noon, Mitch locked up. That day, like every week, Salinas would be heading home for lunch. It was clear that he lived alone; his perpetual bachelorhood explained the evenings he spent in the brothel.

The prosecutor was a creature of habit and very little imagination. Whimsy was utterly foreign to him; even his car matched his suits. Everything in his life was meticulously ordered.

Although autumn, the day was stiflingly, unseasonably hot. Mitch hoped the French doors on the first floor of Salinas’s mansion would be open – it would spare him the trouble of picking the lock. He’d planned everything down to the last detail: the wisteria climbing up the façade would serve as a makeshift ladder. In his pocket, he carried everything he needed to finally settle the score and rid himself, once and for all, of the man who had been standing in the way of his happiness.

At 12:30, he stepped onto the private road. The cul-de-sac was deserted. He lingered on the sidewalk for a few minutes to make sure none of the neighbours were looking out their windows, then made his move toward the house.

During his time in prison, rope climbing had been the only physical activity he could participate in after his forced walk on the Death Path; it was the only thing his damaged leg hadn’t kept him from doing. After a year of relentless practice, he’d been able to reach the hook in the ceiling faster than any other inmate – and that was using the strength in his arms alone. His record was two consecutive five-metre ascents in under 9.54 seconds. The balcony, he estimated, was about six metres off the ground.

The wisteria wasn’t as cooperative as the hemp rope in prison, but it took him seven seconds to climb up to the balcony, and another two to swing himself over the railing. The windows were slightly ajar, held in place by espagnolette latches, and all he had to do was lift the handle to slip into the room.

The room was elegantly furnished, with two blue velvet armchairs facing a matching sofa across a lapis lazuli coffee table. Mitch glanced at his watch: he had about ten minutes before Salinas got home. But then he heard footsteps upstairs. He hadn’t factored in the household staff. Spotting a door at the far end of the living room, he peeked through and discovered the prosecutor’s office, which contained two magnificent bookcases and a row of floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinets that took up the entire wall opposite the French doors.

A flush of rage rose under Mitch’s skin. Lining the shelves were titles were on the banned list: a first edition of Fahrenheit 451 and another of The Handmaid’s Tale. Salinas had used books from his own library as evidence to convict Mitch.

He was reaching for one of the books when a voice echoed from the next room. Salinas. He was followed by a butler, who announced that lunch was served.

“I need to make a phone call,” he heard the prosecutor say. “Urgent. Can’t wait.”

Mitch dashed toward the nearest cabinet. No luck hiding in there; it was crammed with files. The second was a coat closet: three overcoats, an old hunting rifle and an umbrella – just enough space for him to squeeze in. He did – just in time. Salinas entered, poured himself a glass of port, and picked up the phone. He took a deep, deliberate breath.