I inserted my finger on top of a red book spine, so as to pull the book out by tilting it towards me. Instead of one book tilting down, the entire central section came out. Because they weren’t actually books, it was a hidden panel made of fake book spines that came down on well-oiled hinges and laid flat against the wall, revealing a heavy safe with a dial set in the middle of it. The safe was a Fichet-Bauche. Old and sturdy French strong box, all steel and painted glossy gunmetal gray. The dial was made of the same material, painted black with shiny metal markings and lines. The box was flat and blunt. Just the dial and a handle protruding from steel.

I got down to the level of the dial and turned it. The spindle rotated with no resistance. Just enough play to be accurate and fast. A very fine object. I’d seen movies where safe crackers dialed open the combination lock by listening to the sounds the wheels made as it spun around the numbers. I put my ear close and worked the spindle back and forth, nice and easy. I couldn’t hear anything special. Just the sound of perfectly machined steel whirring against perfectly machined steel. So it wasn’t going to be like in the movies.

And then I heard breathing, turned, and saw that the library door was slightly open. I’d had my ear to the dial, hadn’t noticed.

I waited. Nothing happened, no sound, no movement. The door was to my left, so I pulled it towards me, and looked around it. Gilles Vaugeois was hanging on to the door jamb. He was looking haggard, like climbing the steps to the second floor had taken out whatever juice he had left in him. And now he was even more of a scarecrow than before. He was dressed in thin cotton pajamas that hung badly from his body.

I put my arms around his narrow waist and lifted him off the ground and then shouldered him. I softened the impact when I took his weight, but I could still hear the whoosh of air from his lungs as he came to rest. I carried him, his heart beating like a sparrow against my upper arm, and placed the old guy carefully in one of the leather chairs, supporting the back of his neck with my left hand. I allowed his head to lapse against the cushioned backrest. His breathing was shallow but fast.

I closed the library door. The latch snicked into place.

I went back and crouched at his level. His eyes were open, looking right at the safe in the middle of the bookshelf. His eyelids hung loose. I stood aside. He was staring at the safe and breathing hard. I stepped back in front of him and got down.

I said, “What’s the combination?”

Nothing. No movement. Not a twitch, not a sign.