by Rhys Bowen
“Unfortunately she went to the market and when she came back…” He stopped in mid-sentence. “None of this concerns you, madame,” he said. “The French police will do their work and find the murderer, trust me. That will be all for now, but I shall probably wish to speak with you again, regarding Bryce’s family connections in America. Please write down for me your name and address in Paris and do not think of leaving the city without my permission.”
“I have no intention of leaving the city, Inspector. As I said, I have only just arrived, and wish to make the most of my stay here.”
One of the doors opened and a policeman popped his head around it. “Inspector?” he said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were busy.”
“What is it, Clement?”
“There’s something I’d like you to see in the study.”
“Very well.” He tore a sheet of paper from his book. “Please write your name and address for me, madame, and I shall return.”
As soon as he had gone I went over to the door, listening as closely as I dared, to hear what the young policeman might have found, but I could hear nothing. So I sat down and wrote my address on the paper. Then I got up and paced around, wondering how I could ask about Sid and Gus. The light in the foyer was poor so I went closer to look at the paintings. There was a lovely landscape with a row of poplar trees, and another with a bridge over a lake with water lilies. I wondered if they were Bryce’s own work until I read the signature on the latter picture. Monet. So he collected the works of other painters. If he had these paintings in a front hall, he must have a more impressive collection inside. Would there be a picture that was worth stealing among them?
On the wall tucked away to one side of the front door was another painting, smaller than the rest. It was in deep shadow. I went over to it and saw that it was one of the Angela studies. Not a completed painting, but a rough sketch. She was older than in the picture on Dodo’s nursery wall—already turning into a young woman. This time she was holding a bunch of wildflowers. She was looking at the painter with a mischievous grin. Again I was struck by the resemblance to Ellie, the girl on the ship. And as I studied her expression I saw the humor and liveliness in those eyes. This was not the face of a half-wit.
“Sorry to keep you, Mrs. Sullivan.” I spun around as the inspector returned. “Admiring the paintings, are you? These are more my kind of style. Not like that modern rubbish they’re turning out now. Fauves, this latest lot call themselves. Wild ones. I think it’s just an excuse for not being able to paint properly.” He went over to the Monet. “Now take this, for example. Here’s someone who knew how to paint. Old Monet. They were good friends, you know. He and Bryce. He’ll be upset to learn of Bryce’s death. Almost all the old Impressionists have died off now. Only that Renoir man and Degas…”
“May one ask how Mr. Bryce was killed?” I interrupted him. “Did his death indicate a violent struggle? Did it appear that he knew his attacker and was caught by surprise?”
He came closer to me, staring hard at my face. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who apparently has no interest in this case,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not a lady journalist, hoping to get a scoop?”
“I am not. But before my marriage I used to be a private investigator in New York City. I’m afraid I can’t stop being fascinated by crime.”
“Mon dieu. A lady investigator. What is the world coming to?” He shook his head.
“Perhaps you could satisfy my curiosity on just one thing then,” I went on cautiously. “Was Mr. Bryce all alone when he was killed? There were no other bodies or signs of other people being killed at the same time?”
“What are you suggesting?”
I decided to take the plunge. Surely I had nothing to lose at this stage and the worst that could happen was that the inspector would think I was a crackpot. “I’m afraid I haven’t been quite honest with you, Inspector,” I said.
“Ah, so now we’re getting to it.” He gave me a triumphant smile as if he’d suspected me all along. “Come on, then. Out with it. What was the real message?”
“No, this has nothing to do with any message. You see I came to visit Mr. Bryce because two friends of mine are missing. At least they may just have gone away, and nothing might have happened to them, but they are not at their address in Paris and Reynold Bryce may have been one of the last people with whom they communicated.”
“How long have they been missing?”
“At least two days, maybe longer. The concierge was not sure.”
“And these friends of yours are Americans?”
“Two American ladies. One is a painter. That was why they had been communicating with Mr. Bryce.”
“Age?”
“Late twenties.”
“And these two ladies were good friends of Mr. Bryce, were they?”
“No. They had only just been introduced to him.”
“Then what makes you think their disappearance had anything to do with Mr. Bryce’s death?”
“He sent a postcard to one of them two days before he died.”
“And this postcard had some kind of warning written on it? Something that made you uneasy?”
I considered this. “Well, no. Not exactly.”
He took my hand and patted it. “Then I think you have no cause for concern, chère madame. There were no extra bodies found. No signs of a struggle elsewhere in the apartment. And American ladies are known for flitting across the Continent on a whim. They’ll turn up again, I’m quite sure.”
“Thank you.”
The inspector opened the front door for me. “I wish you a pleasant stay in Paris, madame. However, if you can think of anything to do with Bryce’s family in America that might have a bearing on this case, you can always leave a message for me at the Sûreté.”
The policeman at the door nodded to me as I passed him and walked down the steps, out to the street. I gave a sigh of relief. Sid and Gus’s disappearance seemed to have nothing to do with the death of Reynold Bryce. Perhaps they had already returned home and be waiting for me. I hurried to the nearest Métro station.
Sixteen
When I reached the bakery I found Liam had already been fed and was sleeping peacefully. I apologized but Madeleine laughed. “I am here at home with one baby, madame. What difference does another one make? And your son, he is delightful. He has so much joie de vivre.”
“Yes,” I said. “He is a lot like his father.” And a great longing for Daniel came over me. When could I hope for a letter? Was he still safe? I wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around me.
When I entered the front hallway of Sid and Gus’s building the concierge popped out like a spider springing from its lair on passing prey. “So you’re still here. And no, your friends have not returned. Me, I think they have found a place they like better. In a more chic neightborhood.”
“But they were expecting me here,” I said. “And why would they leave their possessions behind?”
“Americans have money. They buy new possessions and toss out the old,” she said. “Or they plan to collect their things before the end of the month.”
I trudged wearily up those flights of stairs and let myself in to the silent apartment. Dust motes danced in slanted evening sunlight. Gus’s shawl still lay over the back of the chair, her painting still half finished, the paint dried out on her palette. I went into their bedroom and opened the wardrobe. There was Sid’s favorite velvet smoking jacket. There was Gus’s fur-lined opera cape. All their clothing was here. They had not gone anywhere intentionally. I realized I should have to go back to Inspector Henri and give him a description of them, and.… I hardly dared to form the thought … have him check against bodies of females that had recently come to the morgue. But surely that wasn’t possible, I said to myself. I was being overly dramatic. Sid and Gus were brave and healthy women. A woman alone might be lured into a dark alley and murdered, but there is safety in numbers. Any miscreant would find them formid
able foes.
But that didn’t rule out the possibility of an automobile or carriage accident outside the city. I closed the wardrobe door and paced to the window and back. The sun’s last rays were making the white stone of that half-built dome at the top of the hill glow pink, as if it was on fire. Such a beautiful, inspiring scene. No wonder Gus had wanted to paint it. I turned away again. It was the not knowing that was so hard. I couldn’t just sit here and wait for news. And I certainly didn’t feel like doing the things one should in Paris—enjoying myself at the cafés or the Louvre—while my friends were missing, and also never knowing when I might run into the Hartleys.
“Who else might have any idea where they went, Liam?” I asked my son who was crawling across the wood floor to me with a look of determination on his face. I tried to think whom they might have mentioned in their letters. Gus’s cousin Willie Walcott for a start. I had no idea where I might find him but he was an artist who knew Reynold Bryce. American artists obviously met at the same establishments. One of those would be the American Club but I would only go back there to face the rude porter again as a last resort. And it wasn’t likely that Willie Walcott was a member. It didn’t look like the sort of place that accepted young art students. The Walcotts were a wealthy family, but surely a young artist would find the formality horribly stuffy. There must be places where he would congregate with other art students. Hadn’t they mentioned something about the other bank of the Seine? Perhaps my new artist friends from the café in Pigalle would know. I didn’t think I should go to seek them out this evening. From the little I had seen, the Place Pigalle was not a suitable environment for a woman alone after dark.
I bent to pick up Liam before he knocked over a table with a plant on it. “Time to feed you, my love,” I said. I made him some bread and milk then attempted to nurse him, but he was quickly bored with both, indicating that my friend in the bakery had indeed shared her own milk with him. Ah, well, rich children had wet nurses, didn’t they? I bet the Hartleys had a wet nurse. I shivered as this amusing thought rapidly became serious. To know that Justin Hartley was in the same town compounded the worry that already threatened to engulf me. Surely I was worrying for nothing over that, I told myself. Paris was a big city. It wasn’t as if I was likely to bump into them dining at Maxim’s. They probably weren’t staying long and I’d be too busy with my own matters to want to make the round of the tourist sites at this moment.
I washed Liam and dressed him for bed. He no longer wanted to go down but to play, so we stacked blocks and played peekaboo for a while until I began to feel really hungry myself. My body was now ready to catch up after all those days without food. I went into the kitchen and looked at the remains of the ham, the bread, the eggs. None of them had much appeal and the bread was already too hard. I decided that I would put Liam down for the night and then treat myself to a meal out. The little brasserie at the bottom of the Rue des Martyrs had seemed wholesome enough. I put Liam into his crib, sang to him, and then when he fell asleep I tiptoed out. I didn’t like to leave him but no harm could come to him in a crib he couldn’t climb out of and Madame Hetreau was just downstairs.
Madame Hetreau must have been preparing her own meal because she didn’t leap out on me when I went past. Outside the street was bathed in deep twilight. The brasserie was still almost deserted at this hour. I scanned the menu for something inexpensive. The owner recommended his onion soup. I wasn’t sure that a soup would fill me up but when it came it was encrusted with bubbling cheese and crispy bread—hearty enough for a meal.
“Some wine, madame?” he asked, and not being too confident about the water in this part of the city, I allowed him to bring me an eighth of a liter. Then, already having been daring I ordered a coffee. “But you must have my baba au rhum,” the owner said. He had already plied me with questions as he served and discovered I was newly arrived from America and here alone. I couldn’t quite tell if he was being friendly or had something else in mind, but he brought the dessert and did not let me refuse. It was delicious and laced with rum too. I hadn’t quite counted on the alcohol in that dessert and was feeling pleasantly squiffy when I paid my bill and got up to leave. At that moment the door opened and a couple came in.
“Ah, there she is again, my little redhead,” said the man and I saw that it was the Spaniard, Pablo Picasso. With him was an olive-skinned girl, half a head taller than he was, with a scarf wound around her head gypsy-style and black flashing eyes. “You see, Fernande,” he said to her. “Now you see why I should like to paint her—such unusual coloring and a good strong jawline.”
The tall one glared at me in unfriendly fashion. “Only if you let Max paint me,” she said, and played with her scarf.
“You know what I have said to that,” he snapped. “Nobody else sees you naked. Don’t mention it again.”
“And yet you think you can paint other women and I won’t mind?”
“It is the head that interests me, you silly goose,” he said. “You can sit beside me, if you wish. And she is an American. A visitor. No threat to you.”
“She is no better than she should be.” Fernande was still glaring at me. “No respectable woman sits alone in the evening.”
“I assure you I do not want to sit alone,” I said. “I was supposed to stay with friends here, but something must have happened to them. They have vanished. Nobody has seen them.”
“Did you find your Mr. Reynold Bryce? Did he not know where they are?” Picasso asked.
“I—” I stopped, remembering the inspector’s desire to keep the murder hushed up for now. “I went to his residence but I was not able to speak to him.”
“If these friends are American, she should go to La Stein,” Fernande said. “That place is always full of Americans. So boring.”
I remembered he had mentioned something about La Stein that morning. “‘La Stein’—what is that?”
“You mean who is that,” he said. “She is an American lady. A rich American lady. She buys paintings. She bought one of mine so she must have good taste for an American. And there are always gatherings at her house.”
“Where is this house?” I asked.
“On the Left Bank, by the Jardin du Luxembourg,” he said. “Rue de Fleurus. What is the number, Fernande?”
She shrugged. “Why should I remember? I only went there once with you and it was boring. Nobody spoke French and they ignored me. Me, I do not like being ignored, especially by you.”
“As if I ever ignore you, my darling. You know I cannot bear to be parted from you for an instant.” He gazed at her with such intensity that I felt distinctly embarrassed.
“Rue de Fleurus,” I repeated, before they could fall into a passionate embrace, right there in the restaurant.
“Ask anybody. They will know the number. Her parties are loud and go on all night.”
“Thank you,” I said. My wine and the rum in the dessert suddenly made the room swing around. “I must go back to my son,” I said.
“If you decide you would like to model for me, you can usually find me at the café, if I am not working,” Picasso called after me. “And if I work, I’m at Le Bateau-Lavoir.”
I thought that any woman who went to model for Picasso would be taking her life in her hands. And I smiled until those words echoed in my head. Had Sid and Gus taken their life in their hands doing something foolish? These people in Paris were not like New Yorkers. They were passionate and wild and jealous. They spoke of duels and pistols. And one of them had killed Mr. Reynold Bryce, a respectable American, in his own home.
I pulled my shawl around me, bid everyone a hasty good-night and hurried home. The Rue des Martyrs, where it met the boulevard near Pigalle, was now coming to life. A girl wearing a short skirt and showing black fishnet stockings almost up to her knee was leaning against a lamppost on the corner. A couple walked past, arms entwined about each other. A group of young men came toward me, singing lustily—something about “Auprès de ma blonde, qu’il fait
bon dormir,” meaning “It would be good to sleep next to my blonde”? Such things would never be heard in New York.
They called out to me as they passed on the other side of the street. “Hello, ma belle. Come with us. We go to the Moulin Rouge. Come and dance and drink.”
I ignored them, suddenly feeling alone and vulnerable. I heard ribald comments as I fled toward my front door and went inside. Madame was back on alert this time. “You’ve been walking the streets, I see.”
“I had no food for my evening meal. I needed to eat.”
“It is not wise to wander the streets alone in this part of the city,” she said. “People will get the wrong idea about you.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you.” I gave her a civil nod. As I went to walk past her up the stairs she called after me, “How long do you think you’ll remain here to see if your friends will return?”
“Until I find out what has happened to them,” I said. “You told me that the rent had been paid until the end of the month so it doesn’t really concern you whether anyone stays in their apartment or not, does it? Good night, madame.”
Then I stomped up the stairs. I had had a long, frustrating, and frightening day and I was not prepared to tolerate Madame Hetreau’s attempts to intimidate me.
Seventeen
I awoke to wind rattling the shutters. Outside clouds were racing across the sky bringing the promise of rain. Not an auspicious start to a day when I would be roaming the streets once more. Liam was awake and full of energy, babbling noisily and wanting to get up and going. I took him with me down the five flights to buy our breakfast. The baker made a big fuss of Liam and put a sweet roll into my bag for him. “You have cheered up Madeleine marvelously,” he said. “She had not recovered her full strength after the birth of the baby and had lost her joie de vivre. Last night all she could talk about was your son and how funny and clever he was.”
“I was delighted to find her,” I said. “It would have been a huge problem to carry my son around with me all day.”
