The place was an intelligent and logical choice. Bucky often went there after working hours to read in a relative haven of peace and quiet. The note had given no instructions where he was to meet his contact in the library. At a writing table? The reference room? Reading nooks? In the stacks? Which one? There were a dozen. He did not expect it to be Nicholas Cravois in person. He would send an intermediary, but was Bucky to expect a man or woman? How would the person identify him? Should he wear or have at hand some identifying flag like a scarf or particular book? Bucky supposed he was simply to show up and sit where he could be seen. The messenger would contact him. A few minutes to six, he had taken a seat at one of the tables in the main room facing the door, feeling exposed and thinking that he should be hidden in a corner where he and his contact would not be noticed.

At six o’clock, a wave of people dressed in overcoats and blowing out frosty breaths arrived—Bucky counted five from behind his newspaper—and fanned out about the room with the focused intent of regulars laying claim to their reading spots. No one paid him the least mind. Several minutes later a contingent of merry-cheeked university students blew through the door, laughing and chatting, falling immediately silent at the librarian’s stern hiss. Without paying Bucky a glance, they selected a table in the far corner of the room where they could giggle and whisper over their homework out of sight of the martinet at the circulation counter. Bucky waited, growing more nervous with each passing minute.

An hour crawled by. It was getting on to closing time for the library and for him to catch his train to Saint-Michel. It was a trek to the station, and sometimes the train was delayed or full and he had to wait for the next one. Then factor in the walk to his boardinghouse, which would nudge the hour close to curfew. He must also figure in time for the meeting—that is, if his contact showed up.

She revealed herself ten minutes later. She stepped from the stacks behind the circulation desk, a librarian wearing an identification badge and carrying a load of books to be returned to the shelves. She passed by his table and said in a lowered voice, “Victor Hugo.”

Casually, Bucky folded his paper, collected his briefcase, and rose. He checked his watch—Still time to select a book before I have to leave, it suggested to any who would be watching. To satisfy the chief librarian, busy at her command post but with her eye ever sharp on the field of engagement, he casually browsed shelves until he reached the one where the librarian had disappeared.