by Rhys Bowen
“Hello, ma belle. Come and dance.” A hand came around my waist and I was propelled to the dance floor.
I turned to see a young student, his breath already reeking of wine, giving me a cheeky smile.
“No, monsieur. I do not wish to dance,” I said.
“Of course you do. A pretty demoiselle like you should not be alone. Especially one with dangerous red hair.”
“But I’m married, monsieur,” I said. “My husband would not approve.”
He laughed. “If you come here alone, that is his fault, no?” The hand on my waist pressed more forcefully.
“I am here with friends,” I said. “I’m looking for them. Have you perhaps seen an inspector from the Sùreté?”
“An inspector? Here? My god, I hope not. That would really spoil our fun. You are friends with an inspector?”
“I am. And I’m married to one.”
“My apologies, madame. It was only a jest.” He let me go, hastily.
I decided not to push my luck again. I had done my best and it appeared that Maxim and his friends were not here. I would have to wait until they returned to their weekday routine at the Nouvelle Athènes.
When Celeste let me in to Mary’s house I detected a faint odor of paint and turpentine. Mary appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Oh, you are painting?” I asked her.
“Not me, Augusta,” she said. “She decided to try and capture the rooftops and chimney pots from my attic window. So how was your quest?”
“Impossible,” I said. “There was nobody in Le Bateau-Lavoir and someone suggested they were all at the ball at the Moulin de la Galette.”
“Of course. That’s where they’d be on a fine Sunday afternoon. I used to go there myself when I lived in the neighborhood.”
“I went but I didn’t see them,” I said. “And I had to fight off a forceful young man who wanted me to dance with him.”
Mary laughed. “Yes, you always find a few of those. Well, never mind, you’ll find him when he’s back at work, I’m sure.”
“I can’t really make any progress until I know the name of that model,” I said.
“You can always ask at the model market in the morning,” Mary said so casually that I thought she was joking.
“Model market?” I saw she wasn’t smiling. “There really is a market for models?”
“Absolutely. Every Monday morning. In the Place Pigalle. Artists come from all over Paris to find the right model for the subject they want to paint.”
“The models just stand there, like cattle in the market at home in Ireland?”
Mary laughed at my indignation. “Well, some of them sit. And they chat together and share stories on which artists can be trusted and which can’t.”
“Fascinating,” I said. “I’ll go there tomorrow then. Now that Reynold Bryce is dead this girl may be looking for new work.”
Mary nodded. “Of course the girl might not want to talk to you. They are highly suspicious of anything to do with the police.”
“I can pretend to be newly arrived and looking for work. That Spaniard Picasso already said that he wants to paint me.”
Mary snorted. “I’d stay well clear of him, my dear. He has a mistress with a temper, so we hear. You might wind up with a knife stuck into you.”
I laughed too. “I observed that for myself. Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of actually serving as a model. I don’t think Daniel would approve.”
“Well, there’s nothing more you can do today,” Mary said. “And it’s a lovely Sunday afternoon. Would you like to take that son of yours for a walk in his buggy? I’m dying to get out of the house myself. We could walk down to the Trocadéro gardens and maybe even across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. I know a little ice-cream shop and there’s a merry-go-round that you could take Liam on.”
“It sounds wonderful,” I said. “I’ll go and get him ready. It’s only too bad that Sid and Gus can’t join us. I hate to think of them trapped inside on a day like this.”
“I know. It must be hard for them, but with your astute detective skills I’m sure it will all be solved satisfactorily soon and they can start enjoying Paris again.”
My “astute detective skills”! I just hoped I was getting somewhere. To me it felt as if I was one of those little mice in a cage, running around and around in circles. Maybe tomorrow would be a turning point, I tried to tell myself optimistically.
I tried to put aside my concerns as we pushed the buggy through the gardens and Liam delighted in watching sparrows and dogs and children playing. Celeste served a delicious dinner but I found it hard to eat. Only the meringue with chestnut stuffing slipped down easily, and I was glad when it was finally time for bed.
I awoke at first light, my nerves taut and my brain telling me to get up as there was work to be done. A mist from the river hung at the end of the street and hid the rising sun, but it promised to be another fine day. I looked down at Liam, still sleeping peacefully in his crib. No cares in the world, I thought. He probably won’t even remember that he nearly died in a bomb blast, that his nursemaid covered him with her own body as the roof came down. He doesn’t know that his father’s life is constantly in danger or that his mother has to try to find a murderer. I went to the bathroom to complete my toilet before he awoke, then nursed him and carried him down for the boiled egg that had become his new favorite food.
When he was finally settled on a rug in the salon with Sid and Gus I slipped away, joining the morning crowds on the Métro back to Place Pigalle. I came up to see that the area around the fountain in the middle of the Place was now full of young women, some of them skimpily clad, one actually wearing a bustier and fishnet stockings, others dressed more demurely. One or two were smoking. Others were drinking coffee or something stronger as they sat chatting with artists. I walked among them, looking for the girl in Reynold Bryce’s painting, but didn’t see her.
“Are you new?” one girl called to me. “Yes, you. You must be new or you wouldn’t be stupid enough to stand on my pitch.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not a model. I’m looking for one myself.”
“Oh, you’re a painter, are you?” Her demeanor toward me changed and she took a provocative pose. “My rates are reasonable and they say I have the best legs in Paris.”
“I’m looking for a particular type,” I said. “Young-looking. Big dark eyes. Lots of dark hair. I saw a picture of her and now I have to paint her too.”
The woman looked around, then shrugged. “I don’t know who you mean,” she said.
“So a model who resembles that description doesn’t come to the market?”
She shrugged. “I’ve never seen her and I’m here regularly.”
Another brilliant thought struck me. “What about a model called Pauline? Used to pose for Reynold Bryce?”
“Pauline?” She looked amused. “Pose for him? That’s an interesting way of putting it.” She leaned toward me blowing stale cigarette breath in my face. “You don’t want to paint her, my dear. Too much temperament. Besides, she’s already chatting with Monsieur Degas over there.”
“She’s here?” I looked around until I spotted Degas’s tall, lean form. Then I saw the girl he was talking to. “That’s Pauline?”
“That’s right. Pauline Hubert. Used to be Bryce’s mistress.”
I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, staring at her. She was beautiful, with ash-blonde hair piled high on her head, perfect bone structure, and an air of patrician purity about her. And she was young. In her early twenties at the most. So what sort of joke had been shared when that man at the Steins’ declared she was too old?
I hesitated then made my way toward her. I wasn’t at all sure what I was going to say. Degas saw me first. “Ah, it’s the young lady from America. Bonjour, madame. What brings you to our model market? Curiosity? Don’t be embarrassed. There are many tourists who are curious about us. They think this must be a den of vice, but it is simply a way for art
ists to find the body they wish to paint. I’m trying to persuade Pauline here that I would like to paint her in her bathtub. So far she resists.” And he gave me a wicked smile.
“Pauline?” I pretended to be surprised. “Were you not painted by Reynold Bryce once?”
“He painted me, yes.” The eyes that observed me were cold and I could tell she was trying to work out who I was. “Several times. But he was satisfied with none of them. He was not a man who was easily satisfied.”
“You must be sad to learn of his passing,” I said.
She shrugged. “It means nothing to me. That is all ancient history now. Frankly I was glad to walk away from him. Old and boring, and too possessive.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a reporter?”
“Possibly,” I said, holding her gaze.
She looked at Degas then shrugged. “I can tell you nothing. Frankly I don’t think he was worth killing. One only kills a person who stirs up deep and violent emotions. Love, hate, jealousy. They might drive someone to kill. But Reynold—he was of your generation, Monsieur Degas.”
“Thank you for the compliment, mademoiselle,” Degas said, looked at me, and grinned. “This old man of the past still manages to sell his paintings for a nice amount. If you pose for me, chérie, your face will be seen around the world. And that nice little body too.”
“Make it worth it for me while I am still living,” Pauline said. “I have no interest in being famous after my death.”
He looked at me and smiled again. “She drives a hard bargain, this one, but look at the face. Look at the bone structure. The face of an angel.”
“And the temper of a devil, monsieur. Beware,” Pauline answered, giving him a challenging gaze.
“Perhaps you can help me,” I said. “I am looking for a particular model. Young, luxuriant dark hair; big dark eyes like a waif. An innocent child.”
Pauline and Degas looked at each other and shrugged. “One does not see too many innocent children around Place Pigalle,” Pauline said. “If they come here, they do not stay innocent for long. I do not recall seeing the one you describe.”
Thirty-one
I wandered around the market once more, then abandoned this particular search and tried the Nouvelle Athènes. but it must have been too early for the painters. Their usual table was empty. I would have to come back later, after I had tackled the housekeeper. I couldn’t risk missing her at Reynold Bryce’s. And as I descended into the gloom of the Métro I thought about Pauline. From what she said her affair with Reynold Bryce had ended some time ago and was as much her decision as his. She had the temperament to stab someone, but had made it clear that he wasn’t worth stabbing. And the interesting fact was that she didn’t know the little dark waif whom Reynold Bryce had been most recently painting. Nobody did. So who was she and where did he find her?
I stepped into the Métro car and we rattled off into darkness. I have to confess that I felt a knot of apprehension in my throat as I walked down from the Champs-Élysées to the Rue François Premier. I had to approach this conversation with the housekeeper in the correct manner. I’d only have one chance and if she shut the door on me, then that would be that. There was an added complication that the police might be guarding the place or even sitting inside with the housekeeper to make sure she didn’t take anything. I had no idea what I might say to them to gain admittance.
As I approached the Rue I saw that there was indeed a young policeman standing in the street. Oh, dear. Now what? I wondered if there was any way into the building from the rear. There was often a janitor in residence in such buildings, wasn’t there? And trash would not be carried through that fancy front entrance. I prowled the outside of the building and halfway down the block, where the Rue Bayard approached the Seine, I found a small wooden door, propped open by a garbage can. I went through a cobbled archway and found myself in that central area between buildings. In contrast to the attractive façades that faced the street, these walls were unadorned. There was even laundry hanging from one window on the far side, and it didn’t smell too good either. I crept along, hugging the wall, until I came to what had to be Reynold Bryce’s building. And I was right. Behind an iron railing a narrow flight of steps went down to a door. I stepped down gingerly, tried the door. It resisted at first but in response to a good shove from my shoulder it creaked open. I was in a basement, in complete darkness apart from the light that came in through the open door. I heard the roar of what must have been a furnace and smelled the odor of laundry and garbage. At least if it was in darkness I was not in danger of bumping into a custodian down here. I felt my way forward until I found a flight of stone stairs going up. I followed them until my hands touched another door. A crack of light was coming under it. I turned the knob and opened it a few inches. I was staring at the back of the elevator. I came out and inched my way around until I was in the foyer. No sign of any police presence and the front door to Reynold Bryce’s suite was ajar. I tiptoed past the elevator, across the marble floor, and in through that door.
Still no sign of a policeman. I still hadn’t come up with anything credible to say if I encountered one, but spurred on by success so far I listened for noises indicating where the housekeeper might be working. Hearing nothing I peeked into the salon, then went through to the dining room and the studio. There was no sign that she had been in any of them. Everything lay as I saw it last with a film of dust over the long mahogany table. I returned and pushed open the swing door to the kitchen. Pots and pans had been stacked in boxes and the shelves had been cleared. So at least I knew she had been working here. I returned to the foyer and went down the hall leading to the bedrooms. I froze as I heard a muttered exclamation coming from Bryce’s bedroom, then I tiptoed toward the sound. The housekeeper was in there, taking items out of the chest of drawers. For a moment I wondered if she had counted the handkerchiefs and noticed that one was now missing. She went on removing shirts and underclothing and placing them in a trunk that now lay on the feather mattress of the stripped bed.
Now I had to think how to attract her attention without startling her and making her cry out. I retreated a few paces then called, “Madame, are you here? A message for you from the inspector.”
She came out, her eyes darting nervously, wiping down her hands on her apron. “The inspector? What does he want now?”
Then she stopped when she saw me. “You? What do you want? You are not from the police. You should not be here. Get out immediately or I will summon the constable outside.”
“Ah, but he let me in, madame,” I said. “The inspector understands that as a representative of the Bryce family in America I would want to ask you some questions and be here when you pack up his things.”
“What kind of questions?” she snapped. “I don’t need to answer any questions. There is nothing I can tell you.”
“You could begin by telling me what was in those large bags I saw you carrying away yesterday.” I held her gaze and noticed the eyes darting nervously again. She ran her tongue over her thin lips.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last.
“Of course you do. You went in and helped yourself to Mr. Bryce’s things. As a representative of Mr. Bryce’s cousin—who may well inherit all of this, I should report this criminal act to the police. I have not done so, but I will if you do not help me now.”
“Help you to do what?”
“Find out who killed him, of course. Maybe the police will discover the truth, maybe not. I intend to, and I am sure you want to find out who killed your employer.” She gave a suspicious half nod. “Now—let us start with the model he was painting.”
She pursed her lips. “Shosette,” she said. At least that was what it sounded like. Not a name I recognized. “Shosette Petit.”
“Where did he find her?”
“I believe an artist brought her to meet Monsieur Bryce.”
“Do you know where she lives? Where I can find her?”
“I do not. I know nothing about her. He had only started painting her a few days previously. He brought her in and said to me, ‘This is Shosette. I’m going to be painting her. Make sure you cook enough luncheon for two.’”
“What did you think of her?” I asked.
She shrugged. “She didn’t appear to be a bad little thing. Not like some models who are no better than they should be. Very quiet, never said a word to me. But then her French wasn’t very good.”
“It wasn’t? Where did she come from?”
“I’m not sure. Eastern Europe, or Italy? I’ve no idea. All I know is that she spoke with a strong accent and didn’t always have the words to express herself. But no matter. He was very taken with her. He never painted portraits these days, but he had to paint her.” She paused, wiped her hands again, then said, “He was that kind of man. He liked to have the young and beautiful around him.”
“Like Willie Walcott?”
She looked surprised. “Walcott? Yes, Monsieur Bryce enjoyed his company for a while. He tried to paint Monsieur Walcott, but he was not satisfied with the result. Nothing came of it.”
I tried to phrase the next question. “You say ‘enjoyed his company.’ Did he stay here for a while, as his special companion?”
