I left the railway station and walked toward the river and the Île Saint-Louis, then across the Île de la Cité to the Quai Malaquais. Despite the circumstances, some of the booksellers were opening their stalls, setting up their wares, tending to shelves, gossiping among themselves, smoking. Were it not for the evacuees streaming across the Pont Saint-Michel on their carts and lorries, it might have been any ordinary, sunny day. At the corner of the bridge, I recognized the pear-shaped figure of the bookseller Lanoizelée, wearing his customary round glasses and black beret. I’d been a customer of his for years; we trusted each other. We exchanged nods and said bonjour. I flicked through the detective novels on his shelves. I’d read most of them, some of them several times, but all the same I found a couple I thought I could bear to read again. “By the way,” I said, as if it was of no particular consequence, “have you heard of a bouquiniste called Vennet?”

“Vennet? Yes, he’s down on the Quai de la Tournelle, near the wine market. Sells vintage lithographs to tourists with a side trade in antique pornography. Are you after some racy pictures?” He showed me an illustration of a dark-skinned woman wearing only a boa constrictor. “Look at this—look at the detail. A real work of art.” I shook my head with a smile. “Maybe next time,” he said.

“There may not be a next time.”

“Oh, there’s always a next time.”

I continued walking upriver toward the Quai de la Tournelle. Away from the southbound boulevards, the sunshine and pre-invasion quiet lent every scene a summer holiday tone. Near the wine market, I found a woman in her sixties smoking a pipe. She sold romance novels.

“I’m looking for Vennet’s stall.”

“It’s just here,” she said, pointing to the next stall. It was locked shut.

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“He’s a popular man. You’re the second person to have asked after him.” She puffed on her pipe.

“Was the other guy big, thick neck, nice suit?”

“No, he was thin, pencil mustache, homburg hat. Came looking for Vennet yesterday afternoon.” A flash of panic shot through me. I was a day late.

“Where can I find Vennet? I’m afraid he might be in some trouble.”

She looked me up and down, sizing me up. My accent, I thought. I took a twenty-franc note out of my pocket and gave it to her. “He was closed yesterday too, but he came around as I was closing up. He seemed flustered, but I didn’t ask why. I don’t like to pry.”

“What did he do?”

Again she paused. I gave her another twenty francs. “He opened up the stall, rummaged around for a minute, then locked it up and left. He barely said a word, which is unlike him. He’s normally the talkative type.”