by Rhys Bowen
Twenty-two
I almost slipped in my hurry to come down.
“I found this today,” she said. “It had been put by mistake in the slot of Monsieur DuPont who is away at the moment and I only noticed it when I was dusting. But it seems to be from the same person as your postcard yesterday, no?”
I took it from her. It was another reproduction of a painting—this time it was of a mother and child. The child was about the age of Liam, dark-haired like him, and naked in his mother’s arms. Again it was addressed to La Dame Américaine qui visite … in a hand I didn’t recognize. Again there was no message.
I held it out to Madame Hetreau. “Does this mean anything to you?”
“The child resembles your son a little perhaps.”
He did resemble Liam. So I had to take it that the postcard was meant for me. But apart from that I was completely in the dark.
I felt my feet dragging as we went up the stairs. It had been another day of foot-slogging and frustration. And all I had to encourage me were two postcards. I realized I hadn’t studied the postmarks and how stupid this had been. If they had both been mailed from a community outside Paris then I’d know that my friends were there and trying to contact me. I couldn’t think why they’d need to contact me in this fashion, but it gave me enough hope to take the last two flights of stairs more quickly. Liam was a bit clingy this evening, finally resenting the fact that his mother wasn’t with him enough. He didn’t want to be put down, so I held him on my hip while I put the postcards down side by side on the table.
They were both posted in Paris. I let out a sigh of disappointment. And this latest one had been mailed the day I arrived. So that was one day before the postcard of the tea-drinking woman. Someone was sending me one postcard per day. Surely that was significant? Then I turned them over and examined the paintings. Both in the Impressionist style, most attractive. I wondered for a moment whether they had been painted by Reynold Bryce, since I knew he had specialized in painting children once upon a time. But his angelic child had been more idealized and sentimental than this—a true painting of the Victorian era. This painting of mother and child was real and alive. Were they both by the same person? I studied the signature but it was too small to read.
Tomorrow I would show the postcards to the artists I had met, both at the Nouvelle Athènes and across the Seine in Montparnasse. One of them must surely recognize the painter. And if they did, then what? I asked myself. What would that tell me? All I could say was that someone was sending me pretty pictures. They were nothing like Gus’s paintings, so I couldn’t take it as a sign that they were from her. And they were sent from someone who didn’t even know my name.
I played with Liam, trying to be the bright and cheerful mother he deserved, but it was hard when my head was so full of worry. I’d have to go to the police. To Inspector Henri. Then to the hospitals and morgues as planned. And if nothing turned up, I’d have to do the inevitable and write to Daniel asking him to book me a passage home before my money ran out even if that meant putting myself and my child back in danger. We ate, bathed, and fell asleep. I hoped for some kind of instructive dream, but I was so tired that I don’t remember dreaming at all. Next morning I awoke early, fed Liam, dressed, and waited impatiently to resume my quest. It wasn’t that I was looking forward to possible visits to a hospital or a morgue, or to the police, but I wasn’t good at sitting and doing nothing, and there was no point in visiting the cafés too early in the day. Artists did not seem to be early risers. And if I wanted to enlist the help of Miss Stein, then I knew she didn’t receive guests before luncheon.
Liam was in a particularly affectionate mood, wrapping his little arms around my neck when I picked him up and covering my cheek with sticky kisses. So I sat him on my knee and bounced him to his favorite song, “Horsey, horsey don’t you stop. Just let your feet go clippety clop.” Watching him laugh gleefully as he flew up and down made me forget my anxiety for a few moments and did us both good. But then, of course he was not as anxious to be left with Madeleine and I felt guilty when I crept away while he was engaged with his Noah’s ark. It wasn’t right to keep leaving my son like this. But then I reminded myself that rich children were raised entirely by nannies and only saw their mothers on special occasions. I knew he was safe and warm and well-fed and I simply couldn’t carry him around with me all day.
I set off down Rue des Martyrs and made first for the Nouvelle Athènes. I could see the usual group of young men around their table as I walked in. The enticing aroma of coffee enveloped me and I thought how lovely it would be to be free enough to spend every morning sitting with friends, with all the time in the world. Then I reminded myself that as well as having no set schedule and no responsibilities, these young men lived in a tumbledown shack without heat or running water and had to sell a painting in order to eat. Not such an enviable life after all!
Some of them looked up as I came in and I noticed that Maxim Noah was among them today.
“It’s the good lady from America,” he said. “You have had second thoughts? You come to buy a painting today?”
“As if she’d buy one from you when she could have one of mine at a good price,” the young Spaniard Picasso said. “One can see that the lady has good taste.”
I had to smile. “I’m afraid I can’t afford to buy from either of you, even at a good price,” I said. “I came back because I need your help. I am still looking for my missing friends—for your cousin, Maxim. I have heard nothing from them since I arrived here and I am very concerned. But in the past two days I have received two postcards and I wondered what you could tell me about the paintings on them.”
I placed the two postcards in front of them.
“Old style Impressionism of the last century,” one of them muttered. But Picasso said, “Surely, they are Cassatt? I recognize the brushstrokes.”
“Cassatt?” I tried to remember if this was a word I had heard before.
“Mary Cassatt,” Picasso said. “Not a bad painter for an Impressionist.”
“Do you know where I would find her? Does she live in Paris?”
“She used to live just around the corner but I hear she has moved away.”
“To a better neighborhood,” someone else commented. “Her paintings actually sell for real money.”
“Do you know where this neighborhood might be?” I asked impatiently.
They shrugged, having little interest in a woman painter. Then one of them looked out of the window. “Monsieur Degas would know,” he said. “Surely he and La Cassatt were good friends?”
“And where would I find this Monsieur Degas?”
“He usually stops in here for an absinthe.” They looked at each other for confirmation.
“I haven’t seen him since he heard of the death of Reynold Bryce. Those two were great friends, were they not?”
“They were both anti-Dreyfusards. I don’t know about friends. I thought it was with Monet that Bryce was so friendly. Not that one sees Monet anymore, now that he has gone into hibernation outside the city.”
Really they were most annoying in the way they went off on tangents.
“So does anyone know where M. Degas lives?” I asked.
“Around here somewhere. One often sees him.”
My frustration was about to boil over when one of them said, “You are in luck, madame. Here he comes now.” And the thin, dark man with the glowering face was striding toward the café door.
“That must be my signal to leave,” Maxim said. “I know what he thinks about me and it’s not pretty.”
“Sit down, Maxim.” Picasso yanked on his arm. “He won’t want to join us. You know what he thinks of our painting. He despairs of all of us equally.”
The tall man pushed open the door, looked across at the group at the table, glanced at me with a glimmer of interest, then nodded to the waiter. “The usual, Bernarde.” Then he sat himself down with his back to the rest of the company and took out the newspaper to
read.
“Monsieur Degas,” the well-dressed member of our table whose name I had not yet learned called across to him. “Will you not join us?” The speaker grinned to his friends and I suspected he had only said this to annoy.
“Thank you, but no. I am mourning the loss of a good friend and have no wish for companionship or light banter,” Degas replied.
“Then perhaps you can assist this lady who visits from America. She wishes to know the address of Mary Cassatt. She has recently moved, no?”
Degas turned to look at me. “Mary Cassatt?” he said. “Yes, she moved away. She now lives in the civilized and rarefied air of the first arrondissement. On the Rue de Marignan, madame. Just off the Champs-Élysées. I believe, if my memory does not fail me, that it is number ten. In any case there is a small café directly opposite with a striped awning and her house has an impressive green front door.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” I could have hugged him.
“You come from America to visit Miss Cassatt?” he asked, nodding as the waiter put the glass of green liquid in front of him.
“Oh, she’s American?” I blurted out and saw him looking at me curiously.
“But naturally. Now that Reynold Bryce is no more, we must count her as the premier Impressionist from your country. A fine painter, for a woman.”
I chose to ignore that last line. I had encountered it often enough when I had been told that I was not a bad detective, for a woman.
“If you wish to buy one of her paintings, I think you must be prepared to spend a good amount,” he went on. “Her work has become popular, both here and in her homeland. She paints sentimental subjects, you see—babies, families, all suitable for any drawing room. Not like the subjects that some of us choose.” And he gave a wry smile. “And now that Bryce is dead, no doubt his paintings will command a higher price.” The smile faded. “Such a loss. Such a waste. And they still haven’t found out who did this vile deed. Curse the damned Jews. If I ever find the man that did this, I will happily strangle him personally.”
“You are quite sure it was a Jew who killed Bryce, are you?” one of the men at the table called across to Degas.
“But naturally. Did they not say that a young Jewish man was seen running from Bryce’s house?”
“Propaganda!” a raised voice shouted. I think it was that of Maxim Noah. “Blame everything on the Jews, no? So convenient.”
I had no wish to get into a political debate. I thanked Mr. Degas hastily, nodded to the group of artists, and left. Mary Cassatt, I said to myself. An American painter. Had she sent me the postcards, and if so, why?
As I crossed Pigalle to the Métro station I felt a tiny spark of optimism for the first time. I didn’t remember Sid and Gus mentioning Mary Cassatt, but she was an unmarried American woman painter, so it was quite likely that Sid and Gus might have made her acquaintance. But so what? I asked myself. They had written about Willie Walcott and Maxim Noah and neither of them had any idea where Sid and Gus might have gone. But one of the cards was mailed on the day after they vanished. And there was the likeness to Liam. Surely all those were significant. But why not address the postcard with my real name? Unless, of course, they did not want anyone to know I was staying with them. Again my thoughts went back to the Italian gang and the fact that I too might be in danger.
I didn’t care that it was still midmorning. I would find this Miss Cassatt and then if the interview led to nothing helpful, I’d make the rounds of hospitals and go to the police. With resolute step I descended into the darkness of the Métro and was soon on my way to the Champs-Élysées. It was a long street, I knew, and I had no idea where the Rue de Marignan might be found along its length. So I decided to start at one end, at the Place de la Concorde and work my way up to the Arc de Triomphe. As I came up the steps into the noise and traffic of that great oval space the sky was heavy with the promise of more rain. In fact it felt as if it might also thunder. Not a pleasing prospect. I started to walk up the avenue, first passing between gardens with buildings that looked like palaces set back among the trees. On a sunny day it would have been a delightful stroll, but the first drops of rain pattered onto me within a few minutes and I was forced to put up my brolly. After the gardens I came to a traffic circle with the Rue Montaigne leading off to the left. This was a name I recognized. I had taken that road to the Rue François Premier, where Reynold Bryce had lived and died. Miss Cassatt had indeed moved to a good area of the city. Either she was independently wealthy like Mr. Bryce, or her paintings sold well, or … I considered a third possibility … she had a rich lover. Such things were accepted in Paris, so I was told.
I hadn’t gone much further up the Champs-Élysées before the heavens opened and rain came down in a great deluge. The gravel path turned to mud beneath my feet, then to puddles, then small lakes. Wind whipped the rain to drench my skirt as I struggled to control the umbrella and then, to crown it all, there was a flash followed by a crash of thunder almost overhead. I was horribly aware that I was walking under trees. I put my head down and stomped on resolutely. I was so intent on battling the storm that I almost walked past the Rue de Marignan. It was a narrow, treeless side street, and thank God it wasn’t very long, as another clap of thunder rumbled overhead. But it appeared that number 10 was at the far end. I sloshed miserably forward, telling myself I was a fool for undertaking this in such weather. Miss Cassatt would not be pleased to see a drowned rat on her doorstep and I’d probably come away having learned nothing new.
At last I found it—an impressive white stone building with the obligatory wrought-iron balconies and, as M. Degas had remembered, a solid green front door. I knocked on this with some trepidation. It was opened cautiously by a maid, unmistakably French in a black dress and frilled white apron.
“Oui, Madame?” she asked.
“I have come to see Miss Cassatt,” I said. “My name is Sullivan. Madame Sullivan. I have just arrived in Paris and think she might know two friends of mine.”
“Please come in.” She opened the door wider so that I could step into a foyer. It had a white marble floor onto which I was now dripping. “You are American?”
“I am from Ireland, but I live in New York, where my friends also live. I am sorry to disturb Miss Cassatt so early in the day, but it is a matter of importance.” At least I hope that is what I was saying. I was feeling too cold, miserable, and depressed to be able to think clearly in a foreign tongue.
“Please wait here,” the maid said. “I will tell Mademoiselle Cassatt that you have arrived. And may I take your umbrella? The weather, it is most inclement, no?”
I agreed that it was. She went up a flight of stairs while I attempted to make myself look more respectable in the gilt-framed mirror. I looked up as the maid returned down the stairs. “Miss Cassatt will be happy to receive you,” she said. “Please follow me.”
We went up the flight of marble stairs and the maid pushed open double doors into a large room, decorated very much in the French style with brocade drapes at the windows and more brocade on curly white and gold chairs. A pleasant-looking woman who appeared to be in her forties rose from one of these chairs. “Mrs. Sullivan,” she said, holding out her hands to me. “Dear me, you really have been weathering the storm, in more ways than one, haven’t you.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Miss Cassatt,” I said. “And I have no idea why I am here, but I received two postcards with copies of your paintings on them, and I wondered if they might have anything to do with the disappearance of my two friends, Miss Goldfarb and Miss Walcott. Are you acquainted with them? Can you tell me anything about what has happened to them?”
“I believe I can,” she said. “Won’t you sit down and take some coffee? I’ll ask Celeste to bring us some.”
“I’m afraid I’ll make your sofa rather wet,” I said.
She smiled. “No matter. Please sit.”
I perched on the edge of the sofa while Miss Cassatt went out of the room and I heard her ca
lling in French for the maid. Then the double doors at the far end of the room started to open. A face peered around the door. I jumped up, giving a little cry. Then they were running toward me, arms open.
“Molly, you have found us at last,” Gus said. “Thank God.”
Twenty-three
It was all too much for me. I turned on them—the anger, fear, and frustration all boiling over at once. “Just what did you think you were doing, leaving me all alone and not telling me where you had gone?” I demanded. “Was that your idea of a game, because it wasn’t mine. I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been traipsing all over Paris looking for you. I thought something terrible might have happened to you.” And to my intense shame and embarrassment I burst into tears.
They sat me down, one of them on either side, and tried to comfort me while I sobbed.
“Molly, dearest,” Gus said. “Listen, do. We were so sorry to put you through such torment. We knew you’d be worried, but we couldn’t think how else to contact you. The postcards were Mary’s idea. I’m so glad you were smart enough to figure them out. We thought the child looked like Liam.”
“What do you mean—how to contact me? Why not leave a note for me if you were planning to be staying somewhere else? You had told me you’d meet me at the station—what was I to think?”
