Then we hit a lit boulevard and the job became easier.
Bowker continued his idle stroll. Now I could sprint to close the gap. Now I could hold him in easy focus, his bearded head an easy target in the crowd. The fat white cane helped. Once, when I almost lost him, the walking stick brought him back, across the street and turning off the broad avenue.
He began to climb again, slowing now. In the vague darkness ahead I saw Bowker pause and look up. He hesitated only for a moment. Then he walked inside and was lost to me. I ran up the street. The house was one of the freshly painted places on the block, battleship gray up to the second floor. The entrance stood out in sharp contrast to the rest of the façade. It was bright crimson—fireman’s red. I began to laugh at the inscription over the door.
It read: ÉCOLE ZARCHY.
It was The Zarchy Art School!
CHAPTER 5
Loretta’s—Rue Delambre
The bad news hit Peggy Martin hard.
She was still out of control when we arrived at Loretta’s, shocked and saddened by the news of Folger’s death.
“Poor Doug,” she said quietly. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
She sipped her second drink slowly. She was beginning to loosen a little now, but it would take a few more to make her forget him. In the beginning, in New York, she had told me about him with obvious distaste. She had built him into a believable character, a kid who was after easy loot, a local boy who would step on people to get up the ladder. But the shivering reality of death had softened her. She was bubbling with recollections of her childhood now. Doug Folger was one of the old gang, one of the kids down the block. Doug Folger might have been greedy for money, but he wasn’t vicious, he wasn’t mean. Maybe he really loved Judy. Maybe he was sincere in his pursuit of her. Doug had always been a strange and different boy, a boy with hidden drives.
“Who would want to kill him?” she asked herself.
Her face was pale and dead under the weak lights in Loretta’s cave. Something had happened to her eyes in the emotional panic. She was usually sharp and intense, a pretty kid with wide-open and girlish mannerisms, the perpetual teen, the kid-sister type. She was two years younger than her sister Judy. Her face had the same quality, a beauty that was not sticky or sugary. She wore her blonde hair in a short cut, accenting her girlishness. She favored the tailored costumes. But the trim suit couldn’t hide her basic bumps. We were sitting in a dim corner, yet she was a big draw for all masculine eyes in the bistro.
“Why did you take me here?” she asked.
“You don’t like it?”
“I’ve been here before. The last time I saw Paris.” She smiled at some quick memory. “The last time was the first time, of course I came over here looking for Judy on my own, last year. I told my uncle I was going to New York. But I took a plane to Paris instead. It was a silly trip. I got nowhere.”
“What brought you to Loretta’s?”
“I remember meeting a boy at Zarchy’s school. He was very nice. Very helpful.”
“Remember his name?”
“A funny name.”
“Dig it up, will you?”
“It won’t be easy,” she said. She was feeling better now, three drinks down and working on her fourth. The tension had left her. The big strain was over. I fed her another cigarette. She chain-smoked, puffing erratically, eating the weed and loving it. You had the feeling that tension burned in her, close to the surface, waiting for a stimulus to release it.
“An odd name,” she said again.
“A Frenchman?”
“Oh, no—he was American.”
“Ex-soldier?”
“It’ll come to me,” she said.
It came a few minutes later.
Loretta’s was laid out to feature the bar, a crowded corner, the core of all the noise and activity. A cornball guitarist sat at the far edge, strumming and moaning. Some of the barflies picked up the melody and tortured it. The gang was a mixture of types. They could have been bit players. They could have been hired by a stage manager to decorate the bar and add color to this cave. On the third stool, a man turned our way. He stared hard at Peggy. I watched him lift his drink and drain it.
Then he came our way, his eyes bright with recognition.
“Aren’t you Peggy Martin?” he asked.
“Speak of the devil,” Peggy said.
“You remember me? The Zarchy Art School? Almost a year ago?”
“Of course I do,” she told him. “Everything but your name.”
“Jastro,” he said, “Edmund Jastro.”
Peggy introduced us. He had a lean hand with loose springs in the knuckles. He was bony all over, a lanky Parisian cowboy type. His hair was the color of dirty wheat, long enough to braid in the back. He kept running his thin fingers through the mop. He had a thin-lipped smile, forced and meaningless. He radiated an alcoholic stench.
He sat down and let me buy him a cocktail, draining it with hasty relish. He gave me the side of his head, content to nibble at Peggy with his eyes. She seemed disturbed and embarrassed by his drunken pitch. He would be beaming at her all night if I didn’t call a halt to it.
She gave me her knee under the table. Her eyes asked for help.
I said: “It’s a small world, Jastro. I was about to visit Zarchy’s for a talk with you.”
“Interesting.” He half turned my way, curious. “You’re an art student?”
“Not quite.”
“You want to go to school?”
“Only for research. I’d attend Zarchy’s if it would lead me to Judy Martin.”
He leaned away from Peggy, puzzled now. A little stain of color darkened his sallow cheeks. He was mixed up, but good.
“It’s all coming back to me,” he said to Peggy. “Don’t tell me your sister Judy is still among the missing?”
“It’s more important than ever that I find her,” Peggy said. “Mr. Conacher is helping me.”
“Incredible,” Jastro breathed. “I certainly thought Judy’d be home. Long ago. She hasn’t been seen in these parts for a long time.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Jastro searched for the answer in his hair. His soupy eyes grew strong under the mental pressure. But he found nothing in his alcoholic memory.
“It’s hard to say, Conacher.”
“Not since Peggy was here last?”
“That’s a fact”
“About a year?”
“At least a year,” he said, looking to Peggy for a check on his memory. “I remember your coming to the school. We tried hard to locate her then. But she must have planned to hide herself for real, I’d say. We couldn’t pick up a trace of her.”
“How about boy friends?”
“Ah,” he sighed. “Judy’s a pretty girl. She has lots of admirers.”
“Their names?”
“I didn’t keep her books, my friend.”
“You must know a few of them.”
“You’re looking at one of them,” he said flatly. “We spent many happy hours together.”
“Nothing serious?”
“I wasn’t that lucky.”
“Who was lucky?” I asked.
There was a gap of silence. Peggy and I watched him as he backtracked into his memory. He had a nervous tic, high on his right cheek. When he thought deeply a nostril flared and the tic moved suddenly. He rubbed at his cheek to regulate his muscles. He managed to consume the rest of his free drink while ruminating. It was funny how fast Americans took on fresh and foreign habits. He would keep thinking all night if I kept him supplied with drink and food.
“Judy had several friends at the time,” said Jastro sleepily. “I’ll try to be accurate about them. She knew me well, as well as any of the others. She also was very friendly with Vince Tomaselli, Leste
r Garr and Doug Folger.”
Peggy’s glass almost dropped from her hand.
“Are you sure?” she whispered. “Are you sure one of them was Folger?”
“Of course. The soldier.”
“He was in uniform?” I asked.
“In Germany,” Jastro said. “He used to come over to Paris on weekend passes. But he went home, finally. Medical discharge of some sort or other. Judy seemed quite fond of him when he came around.” He shrugged. “Of course, Judy was fond of lots of us at that time.”
“You never told me about Doug when I was here,” Peggy complained.
“You never asked me about your sister’s boy friends.”
“Let’s start again,” I said. “Let’s run through her female chums.”
“The same. Judy played the field.”
“Her roommate?”
“She had several,” said Jastro. “She picked paintable friends. Judy’s a fine artist, you know. She managed to keep herself well stocked with models as roommates. I can think of several. In the beginning, there was Velma Weston.”
This time I jumped.
“That must have been some time ago,” I said.
“You’re right. Velma was the first. Perhaps five years ago.”
“And after Velma?”
“A girl named Sue Bannerman. But Sue went back to Utah.”
“Why?”
“That’s an odd one,” Jastro said, amused by my interruption. “Students come and go in Paris. Nobody asks questions.”
“Nobody but me. Who followed Sue?”
“Denise Marchand.”
I whistled again. Jastro was a bottomless pit of information. I ordered another drink for him. I gave him a cigarette. I suggested his having dinner with us. He expanded a bit under my hospitality, but refused the meal. Unfortunately, he had little to add about Denise.
“Denise didn’t last too long, as I recall,” he said. “But she was the last to room with Judy. After that Judy seems to have disappeared.”
“Denise couldn’t get along with Judy?”
“You’ll have to ask her that question.”
Somebody waved to Jastro from the bar. He stayed only long enough to drain his final drink and grab another cigarette from my pack on the table. He bowed over Peggy, favoring her with a long and liquored glance.
“I’ll let you know if I can find out anything else,” he said. “Where can I reach you, Peggy?”
“Reach me,” I said. “I’m at the Excelsior Hotel.”
He shook my hand, but the pressure was weak now. He would have preferred seeing Peggy. He hesitated for a last look at her before moving away. But she avoided his eyes, trying to brush him politely. He turned abruptly and went back to the bar. A girl stood waiting for him. I saw her break into a quick and high-pitched French patter of argument. But Jastro muffled her annoyance with a passionate kiss. She gave way and grabbed him. Nobody at the bar bothered to watch them. They went out to the street, his arm locked around her.
“Quite a boy, Jastro,” I said.
“Repulsive, isn’t he?” Peggy shivered and surveyed the menu. “He gives me the creeps.”
CHAPTER 6
Loretta’s—Rue Delambre
Larry Frick joined us for demitasse.
“This must be the season for hiding out,” he said. “I drew a complete blank on Velma Weston. I canvassed all her friends in the artists’ quarter around Montparnasse. Nobody knows where she is. She faded completely for the moment. Did you have a good feed? Did you try Loretta’s cacciatore? I’m hungry enough for fried heels with rubber gravy.”
He bounced away from the table. Peggy enjoyed him all the way. He headed across the room to the right side of the bar. A big broad in a peasant apron greeted him lovingly. Larry pulled her off her feet and began to gesture our way. She laughed it up for him in a deep and husky chuckle. She let him lead her back to our table.
“This,” he said, “is Loretta.”
“My pleasure, people,” said Loretta.
She was an Amazon, this babe. Her round face beamed good nature. Her snapping eyes bit into you. She could have been pushing forty, but it didn’t show in the important places. Her broad, starched smile won you right away. You looked into her eyes and forgot her age.
She stared hard at Peggy. “A familiar face,” she said. “You have the face of somebody I know well.”
“My sister Judy?”
“Judy? Of course! Judy Martin.” She said “Mar-tan” giving it the foreign flavor. If she came from Brooklyn it was a long way back, beyond the rich touch of her accent. “But I have not seen your sister for a long time. A very long time.”
“Let’s talk about it,” I said.
“But why not?” She was wearing a gold pendant, an antique piece that hung in the warm V of her breasts. A single stone glittered there. My eyes were trapped where she wanted them trapped. The bauble moved when she spoke. “So? What kind of talk, signor?”
“You know Judy well?”
“A fine girl. A great artist.”
“You’ve seen her paintings?”
“Please. Come with me?”
She led us back beyond the tables into a small room that was her office. The little nest held only a desk and chair. But the walls were crowded with art. She showed us a small square canvas. It was a nude, the picture of a reclining woman of good proportions. The model leaned on a sturdy arm. The pose was languorous but strong. A strange blue light played over the figure. The flesh tones picked up the morbid tint. The background parlayed the sadness. Looking at this well-stacked babe, you felt the tragic purpose of the artist. She had painted the model to be pitied. She had loaded her brush with the off-key colors.
I studied the signature, low in the right corner. J. M., done in simple block letters.
“The kid’s talented,” Larry said. “This painting’s great.”
“You wish to buy it?”
“I want it,” Peggy said. She was dabbing at her eyes, moved by her sister’s talent. “This is the first one I’ve ever seen. It’s wonderful, just wonderful.”
“It would seem funny, selling Judy’s painting to a sister,” said Loretta. “In the beginning, when Judy first came to me, I hung her art work outside. In those days I only sold for those poor ones who needed help. Several of Judy’s brought fine prices. This one I kept for myself because I love it so. It was the last from Judy, you understand? But if you like it, signora, it is yours for five hundred dollars.”
Larry whistled. “That’s a stiff price, Loretta.”
“One does not part easily with the things one loves.”
“I’ll take it,” Peggy said. “I’ll come back for it.”
“It is a great bargain,” said Loretta. “A fine picture.”
“You sold others for Judy?” I asked.
“A few. Two to be exact.”
“Who bought them.”
“Vincent Tomaselli, the fashion designer. A man of keen judgment, no?”
“A patron of the arts,” Larry explained. “Vince is one of the top boys in the fashion world. Runs close to the top dogs. One of these days he’s going to be greater than Jacques Fath. He hit the headlines with his latest costumes for the new television dolls. You’ll find his dresses in the movies, too, on such frames as Gina Lomordino, the Italian screen star. He’s loaded with talent.”
“He is crazy for Judy’s work,” said Loretta. “If he knew I still have this one, he would buy it quickly, believe me.”
“When did he get the last painting?” I asked.
“Ah? A long time ago. Two years or so.”
“Vince comes here often?”
“But certainly. Almost every night. Tonight, perhaps, also.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“I will introduce you, of course.”
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br /> She guided us back to our table. The place was loaded now, alive with the late eaters, a mixture of tourists and local residents, an assortment of loud talkers and fast drinkers. Loretta snapped her fingers for service. Wine appeared suddenly on the table. She joined us in a drink. She talked of Vince Tomaselli with great pride. He was one of her regulars, an old customer. She had known him as a young fashion student, watched him grow to success in his career. She spoke of him with pride. Her enthusiasm was honest and animated.
“Vincent, he is a joy,” she said. “A great man, truly. I am proud that he comes here. But he is not alone. Others come, too. All of the important ones love Loretta. The rich, the poor, they come to me. This is their home.”
“That’s the truth,” said Larry. “I can count them out for you, Steve, even tonight. Some of the biggest names in French art circles.”
“How about the models?” I asked Loretta.
“They, too, come here.”
“Then you must know Velma Weston.”
“Velma?” She laughed her warm, husky laugh. “But of course. The little cat is known all over Paris. A mad one, Velma. But with a heart of gold. One of my good friends.”
“You’ve seen her recently?”
“Last night.”
“Alone?”
“Velma is never alone. She came with a man, a young one. Handsome, of course.”
“You don’t know who he was?”
“A stranger to me.”
I showed her the picture of Doug Folger. She studied it quickly.
“That is the man,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“But positively. So young. And such a drinker, he was.”
“Just Velma and he?”
“Just the two of them,” said Loretta with conviction. She pointed to the other side of the place. “A table for two, in that corner. But they did not stay to eat. Only the drinking. A sad one, this boy.”
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