You absolute mutt, he berated himself. You drunken bonehead. The first time you see Sarah Grey, you’re standing there stinking of gin with her two friends at your feet.
Was there any chance last night of finding out where she lived?
No.
Was there any chance she’d want to see him, ever?
The very slimmest.
But a thread was better than nothing, even if it meant crawling on his belly across Paris to find her.
He managed to choke down a couple of eggs, and the aspirin helped, both with the headache and the bruises he’d got from Bricky’s waiters.
Next stop: the flower shop, totting up a hefty bill.
After that: pick up the new suit, and hope it helped make him look like a grown-up and not a brawling adolescent.
Now to throw himself at Bricky’s feet and hope he hadn’t permanently blotted his copybook with her.
Look on the bright side, he mused as his taxi grumbled across the river. At least you didn’t end up in jail this time.
He arrived at Bricktop’s on the heels of his floral apology: ten dozen multi-colored roses, making the entranceway a glory of color and scent, and although Bricky was clearly steamed, he thought he saw a teensy crack under the very edge of her indignation. He summoned all his Yankee charm, got on the knees of his new suit, and swore he would not rise until she had forgiven him.
But she was harder than that. He was left with no way out, no choice but the ultimate weapon: the truth.
He rose from his knees and took her down the street to a sleepy terrace café where they would not be overheard, and he told her all about it. Almost all.
At the end of it, she eyed him, then: “You feel bad, that you treated this Crosby girl like a dog.”
“Bricky, when I was a kid, there were good girls and bad girls, and you could tell them apart. Now, it’s …” He stopped. Bricktop went cold when she got angry, and she’d started out plenty cool enough. Shut up, Harris. “Yeah, Pip Crosby was a sweet thing and I treated her like crap. I guess I am trying to make up for it, a little. Sending her back to her mother where she belongs.”
The hardness relented a degree. “And you think they know where your young lady’s gone? Mr. Ray and Le Comte?”
One of the things he hadn’t told her was how everyone else looked at Pip and saw doom. “I don’t know, Bricky. I just feel like Ray knows something about Pip Crosby. And ‘something’ is more than I’ve found anywhere else.”
“When you find her, will you just bundle her up and send her home?”
“Not if she’s healthy and happy,” he said obligingly. “I just need to be sure. So, what do you know about those two?”
Bricky knew something about everyone in Paris, and she was happy to share. She seemed less fond of Mr. Ray than she was of Le Comte, although she admitted that she didn’t really know either of them, since they weren’t part of the Bricktop “set.” Still, it took her half an hour to run through what gossip she’d heard.
“Okay, well, thanks for that, Bricky. War hero, huh? Pretty stupid way to introduce myself. I’ll hunt them down and tell them I’m sorry.”
“And you promise not to punch Mr. Ray again?”
He leaned across the table to give her a kiss. “Bricky, I’ll kiss him if it makes you feel better.”
“Only if he asks you to. But you’ve got a pile of apologies to make, Harris.”
“I’ve already sent him and Miss Miller flowers with a pretty note. I sent Nancy flowers, a note, and a petit bleu as well. And I’d apologize to Le Comte, too, if you want to tell me where he lives.”
“That’s easy. He’s got a mansion a couple streets from Denfert-Rochereau. I’d guess anyone down there could point it out to you. Although—she reached out for his wrist and moved it to see the watch-face—couple times I was down there, I saw him having coffee at a place just around the corner. You know, the same street as Raspail but a different name? Down towards the park? Anyway, you might want to walk past there first. Might save you cooling your heels on his doorstep all morning.”
“Bless you, Bricky. Am I forgiven?”
“Yeah, I guess you can come back to the club. But if there’s a next time, that’s it for you at Bricktop’s. I’m not running any boxing gym.”
He walked up to the Métro and rode through the clattering darkness to Place Denfert-Rochereau—formerly Place D’Enfer, Hell Place. He was little short of astonished to come up into the air and, first, find Bricktop’s vaguely described café, and second, spot Dominic Charmentier sitting on the shady terrace with a newspaper.
He was equally surprised at the mix of feelings welling up at the sight of the small, tidy aristocrat.
The man was a hero, according to Bricky’s gossip—and sure, hero was a cheap word, but Le Comte had been given two medals, one of them for dragging three common soldiers out of danger. Which meant that he’d chosen to be at the Front, since the automatic posting for his kind was well to the rear. And although the man had come through in one piece, the poor bastard had lost a lot. He’d even done all kinds of Good Works since then.
Last night Stuyvesant had been more than ready to condemn the man because of his apparent friendship with Man Ray—and, because he was close to Sarah Grey when he, Harris Stuyvesant, was not. But today? Sober and leaning up against the Métro entrance with the sun dappling through the trees and a sidewalk musician crooning an old song? He could not decide if the fellow’s standoffish attitude was arrogant superiority, or the reserve of a much-wounded man.
Not that any of it mattered. The guy was his only lead to Sarah Grey.
As if Le Comte felt the emotion coming across the street at him, he glanced up from his paper, saw nothing of interest, and returned to the news. The waiter brought a coffee; Le Comte reached for it without acknowledging the man. He sipped, put the cup down, turned a page.
Harris Stuyvesant settled his shoulders in his suit, and stepped into the sun.
TWENTY-FOUR
DOMINIC CHARMENTIER RATTLED the morning paper, waiting for Sarah Grey’s friend to work up the courage to cross the street. In general, Americans were an entertaining lot, what with their boundless energy and complete lack of subtlety—although like any Parisian, there were times when he viewed the Yanqui invasion with as little enthusiasm as he would a herd of bison loosed in the Trocadéro.
This one he wasn’t so sanguine about. The fellow’s meaty fist could have done some real damage, if he hadn’t been too drunk to aim. But as Bonaparte had advised, one did not interrupt an enemy embarked on error, and that one across the street, all unknowing, was heading in precisely that direction.
Still, Charmentier didn’t intend to sit here drinking coffee forever. If Mlle. Grey’s friend didn’t make his move soon, he would end up chasing his quarry down the street, and start the match points down.
A small article on African art caught his eye. He read it with care, aware of the man lurking in the shadows around the Métro station, and took out his silver pencil to write down the gallery address in his pocket notebook. He turned the page, and waited for another headline to come to his attention.
Ah: at last, the rough American was summoning his nerve. Le Comte watched his approach around the edge of the paper, and when the man stood before his table, he let the paper subside. His eye traveled up the man’s oversized form, pausing at the slight meander to the stitching, the ill fit of the jacket, before he met that bloodshot gaze. “Mr. Stuyvesant, good morning. I wondered if you intended to join me.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The chair scraped disagreeably on the paving stones, although the scraper seemed oblivious of the winces of everyone in earshot.
When the good-looking young waiter was standing by their table, Le Comte ordered another coffee. “This time, please bring it while it is still hot. And for my friend here …?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
The lad scooted away.
The opening coulé—testing of swords—was finished, Le C
omte thought in amusement: now, en garde.
“I have to apologize for last night,” the American said.
“I would think so.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I was drunk and stupid. I’m glad I didn’t hurt you.”
“Oh, small chance of that, Mr. Stuyvesant, but it is good of you to seek me out to tell me. I trust you will do the same with M. Ray?”
“I’ll try, though I’m not sure he’ll take an apology. He’s a little … snooty.”
“Snooty? As in, looking down one’s nose?”
“Yeah, sorry. Your English is excellent.”
“Thank you. Your French is quite intelligible.” Le Comte saw the big man twitch at the nick of this verbal épée, but he hid a smile. “Why do so few Americans bother to learn the language? People like that Stein woman—you know her? She has been here for years, yet can scarcely order a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah, Paris takes its time to welcome outsiders, doesn’t it?”
Le Comte felt his eyebrows rise. Was that a bland insult? Could there be more to this oversized Yankee Doodle than fists and cheap tailoring? “Perhaps I can make up for the general … ‘snootiness’ … of my fellow countrymen.”
“That’s big of you. Tell me how you know Pip Crosby?”
“Do I know her?”
“Ray said you do. You took her to him to be photographed. You gave her presents. You went to Bricktop’s with her.”
“Ah, you mean Philippa. Yes, certainly I knew her.”
“ ‘Knew.’ Is she dead, then?” The man pounced on the word as if tricking a confession out of a criminal.
“My good sir, I hope not. But I understood that she returned home some months ago. Did she not?”
“No. And apparently the last person anyone saw her with was you.”
He could hear the bluff in the American’s accusation. Did the big man lack the skill to conceal it, or had he not bothered to try? “How extraordinary. When was that?”
“End of March, first part of April. My witness wasn’t clear on the dates.”
“I think you may find that your witness is unclear on a number of facts. Miss Crosby did accompany me to Luna Park on the—” He stopped to flip open the notebook on the table, consulting the calendar in the front. “The twenty-second of March. Not quite ‘the end.’ ”
“How can you be sure of the date?”
“Monsieur, I would only go to Luna Park on a Friday, when prices are raised to keep out la racaille. And it could not have been the twenty-ninth: that was Good Friday. The outing was to be a treat for Philippa, and to distract her from my news, which was that I did not wish to see her anymore.”
“You broke up with her?”
“Monsieur, there was nothing to break. She was an amiable companion for several months. But she had begun to demand commitments and services I was not willing to indulge her in.”
“She wanted you to marry her?” Again, the blunt and triumphant pounce. It began to grow irritating.
“There was never any question of that, M. Stuyvesant,” he replied. “No, Philippa wished me to invest in her as a film actress.”
“What was wrong with that?”
“The girl was attractive enough, but she lacked the plastic features and intensity required for motion pictures.”
“Or for the stage?”
“On the stage she was adequate for certain roles, those that allowed her to flaunt her … what might be called exhibitionist tendencies. But I could see that she would never be a success. Philippa stood on the stage to show off. A real actress stands before an audience to pull them in.”
“Therapeutic for her, would you say?”
Bon Dieu—a second surprise! “That is a subtle analysis, M. Stuyvesant.”
“And here you thought I was just another pretty face. So you like things that are fresh and shiny and damaged, eh, M. Charmentier?”
Le Comte stiffened at the bite of this unexpected opponent’s blade, retreating a fraction. “ ‘Fresh, shiny, and damaged.’ What a provocative trio of adjectives.”
“Hits you where you live, eh?”
At that, Le Comte laughed. “Ah, j’adore l’anglais Américaine! Mr. Stuyvesant, your three adjectives capture the very essence of modern art. Who cares if something old and tired comes to harm? Damage only matters when it shows.”
“Like Miss Crosby’s scar.”
Reactions honed half a lifetime ago drove Le Comte’s response: never show damage; lean hard into your riposte. “True—and an analogy for life itself, once you consider that caressing the tissue of her scar caused Philippa the most exquisite pleasure.”
The swordsman felt the brief satisfaction of a touché, as the man’s clenched jaw betrayed a fisted hand beneath the table—ah, but this was foolishness. The pointless bristling of a young dog.
He sat back, raising a hand. “Monsieur, please forgive my crudeness. I think she may have been your friend, and you appear to be asking if I harmed Miss Crosby in some manner. I assure you, she was brimming with life and loveliness when I last saw her.”
The American hesitated only briefly before changing his line of attack. “What do you know about Pip’s relationship with the art world? She has a number of expensive pieces in her room, along with a sketch by Picasso and photos by Man Ray. How’d she come to have all those?”
“Some of them I may have given her, although I do not remember anything by Picasso. The Ray photographs I commissioned in hopes that we could use them for promotional flyers in the theater, although in the end they were more artistic than commercial. She may have bought the others. Or stolen them, for all I know.”
“Did she steal anything from you?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Then it’s not very polite to call her a thief.”
“No, I should not have done that. Curious, how short-tempered one becomes under attack. Are we nearly finished, Mr. Stuyvesant? I have a full day, with a long night ahead of me.”
“I need to talk with your secretary.”
“Who, Mme. Chrétienne?”
“No, Sarah Grey.”
Finally! “The divine Miss Grey, is it? She is my assistant, not my secretary.”
“Okay, I need to talk with your assistant.”
“About what?”
“About … I just need to talk with her. Look, I can understand you don’t want to give me her address, but I ought to warn you, I’m a really persistent sort of a guy. And Paris isn’t that big a place.”
“Very well.”
The American blinked. “You’ll give me her address?”
“No. That would not be the act of a responsible employer. However, I will provide an opportunity for you to speak with her, in a public venue.”
“That’ll do,” the man said, although it was clear that he regarded it as a mere wedge beneath the door.
“Come to my house tonight. There’s a party. Formal, but not without its entertainment. I think you might enjoy it.”
Stuyvesant watched the slim, white-haired man glide away down the street. It was like boxing a featherweight: once you managed to connect, boy, you could knock him for a loop, but your opponent was quick and could blood you a dozen times in between.
Three places, the man had flinched, just a little: one at the snide remark about the aloofness of Paris society, when Stuyvesant let him know he wasn’t going to just stand there with his guard down. Second was when he’d repeated Nancy’s idea: that Pip Crosby’s exhibitionism might be in some way therapeutic. Was Le Comte’s surprise because he’d never thought of Pip as complicated, or because he didn’t expect the idea from a big-fisted American?
But there was no doubt: Stuyvesant’s personal dig had got at the man, just for a second. Did he like fresh and damaged goods? Stuyvesant couldn’t tell—but Le Comte hadn’t liked the accusation, and he’d come back fast with that spiteful reference to sexual conquest.
Come to think of it, there’d been another bit of fancy footwork later on, when the
man had introduced the possibility that Pip was a thief. What was that for? It felt like another attempt to distract, but away from what inadvertent revelation? The Picasso sketch? Man Ray’s photos? The pieces she’d been given, or bought? He’d have to think about that.
He also wondered if there was something a bit off about that Luna Park date. Almost as if Le Comte had remembered the date very well, but pretended he did not.
Between one thing and another, tonight’s party promised not to be dull.
Stuyvesant stretched out his arm to look at the gray sleeve. Why did he get the feeling that Charmentier had looked down his nose at this spiffy new suit?
Dominic Charmentier walked away from the café under iron control: never show an injury.
He hadn’t fenced for years, and the surge of old instincts had been startling. That clash of swords across a linen tablecloth called to mind an unauthorized contest he and his fellow students had once held to pit the quick flexibility of the épée against the heft of the sabre. The lighter weapon had won then, too—but only just.
You are out of practice, he scolded himself. Your reactions are old and slow. Perhaps it was not a good idea, to permit an opponent too much freedom of movement across a dueling piste.
TWENTY-FIVE
STUYVESANT HADN’T WRITTEN down the names in Pip’s sad little collection of good-luck matchbooks, but he remembered enough of them to make a beginning. Many of the places were open both day and night and, in Montmartre as in Montparnasse, this could mean two completely different clientèles. But maybe Pip had taken her lunches there, too …
She hadn’t.
Twelve bars, six cafés, and five of the friends in her address book, all with the same answer: no one had seen Pip Crosby since March.
By five o’clock, both cafés and bars were at an ebb. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. If he stopped to think about the information he’d been gathering, he would want to throw himself into the river—or into a bottle. And if he was going to Le Comte’s party, he’d need to get some food into his stomach first.
Bones of Paris (9780345531773) Page 14
