by Rhys Bowen
“No, madame, she is not.”
“Why not? The housekeeper said she walked out that morning, upset.”
The inspector was now giving me a patronizing smile that annoyed me. “She left because her employer sent her home. He said he didn’t feel like painting anymore that day and told her to go away and enjoy herself. She was upset because she was only going to be paid for a half day and she had counted on a full day’s pay. Other than that she said he paid well, she was glad to get the work, and she’d only been sitting for him for a few days so she knew very little about him.”
“And you don’t think she might have returned that afternoon when the housekeeper was out—to kill him?”
“For what reason?” he asked. “He was employing her. She was getting good money. And nothing was taken from the house.” He leaned toward me. “Furthermore there is one good reason that I believe she was not responsible for his murder.” He paused. “Her fingerprints are not on the knife.”
“You were able to take fingerprints from the knife?”
“Several sets. One of them smaller, probably from a woman. Of course if the knife was used in a restaurant kitchen it is possible that it was touched by several hands there. But the little Jewish girl. No. She was not among them. Neither were her fingerprints on the windowsill and we are sure the killer must have made his exit that way, because the housekeeper was never far from the front door and would have seen anyone trying to escape through the foyer.”
“So you have not yet managed to identify any of the fingerprints on the knife?” I asked.
“If I had, I should not share that information with you.”
“I just wondered whether the gossip is correct and it really was a young Jewish man who killed him. I expect you’ve collected fingerprints at various synagogues and Jewish meeting places?”
“We have rounded up several of the leading Dreyfusards. They all have perfect alibis and what’s more they know nothing of this murder. If it was committed by a young Jew then he was acting as a lone wolf and our chances of bagging him are small unless he is arrested again on another crime. If I were he, I would have fled to a Jewish community in another country—Austria, Hungary, Germany, even England.”
“So it sounds as if you’re giving up,” I said bluntly.
“Of course we are not giving up. Someone always knows. Someone will talk. You’ll see.”
I got up. “I might have something that is of help,” I said. “Excuse me for a moment.” I went up to my room and returned with the wine glass. I set it on the table before the inspector. “This is a wine glass I took from Mademoiselle Stein’s Saturday party. Willie Walcott had been drinking from it. His fingerprints will be on it.”
“And what has this Mr. Walcott to do with the crime, in your opinion?”
“Probably nothing, but he and Mr. Bryce used to be good friends. There was a falling out, and they saw nothing of each other for several months. Then Mr. Walcott appeared at Mr. Bryce’s apartment the day before he died. He was angry, shouting, waving a piece of paper, and saying, ‘You’ve let me down. You’re a liar,’ or similar words.”
“And how did you find out about this?” he asked, his eyes focused on the glass.
“The housekeeper told me,” I said. “I asked her who might have been to visit Mr. Bryce before he died and she mentioned Mr. Walcott’s name. So I acquired the glass.”
“To test for Mr. Walcott’s fingerprints? Presumably yours are also on the glass now?”
“Absolutely not. I picked it up with my handkerchief, taking care not to touch the places where he had been holding it.”
He was looking at me with a modicum of respect now. “That was a smart thing to do, if you were actually involved with this case, which you are not. I am sure you are a fine detective in your way, but I am telling you this: a murder investigation belongs to the Sûreté. It is no place for amateurs and you may well do more harm than good. You may alert a suspect that we have been watching him. Or, you may find that you are his next victim. So leave the detecting work to the professionals, madame, and enjoy your stay here in Paris.”
He got up, took out his handkerchief, and carefully wrapped the glass in it, then gave me a curt bow. “You say your husband is a policeman?” he asked as he walked toward the door. “Does he let you assist him in his criminal cases?”
“Of course not,” I said and he laughed.
“Wise man,” he said and walked out.
Thirty-four
“Well?” Sid’s head came around the door the moment Inspector Henri had gone. “Have they arrested anyone yet?”
“Far from it,” I said as Sid came over to sit beside me. “I think they are completely in the dark.”
“But still looking for this supposed young Jewish man?” She frowned. “I hate being cooped up here, never knowing when the ax will fall.”
“I really think you’re worrying for nothing,” I said. “If anyone had seen you running to this address, the inspector would have questioned Mary. Had the place searched. But he hasn’t. If you want to know the truth, I believe he suspects me.”
“You? Why on earth would he do that?”
“Well, for one thing I was seen coming out of Mr. Bryce’s place this morning. And I’ve been showing too much interest in how he’s getting on toward solving the case.”
“But that’s plain silly,” Sid said. “The man is a simpleton. If you don’t solve it soon, Molly, we’ll just have to go home. We can’t stay cooped up like this.”
I felt a lurch of fear. If they went home, I’d have nowhere to stay. I couldn’t impose upon Miss Cassatt’s hospitality after Sid and Gus were gone. And Daniel wouldn’t want me to return home yet. I wished I had had a letter from him. Maybe there was one at this moment at the Montmartre address.
“Do you have any ideas at all?” Sid touched my arm, making me start. I’d obviously been staring out, lost in worry. She leaned closer. “You don’t really think that Gus’s cousin might be responsible?”
“It’s possible,” I said. “Although he came to see Reynold Bryce the day before he was killed. I’ve heard nothing to indicate he returned on the actual day.”
“Gus would be devastated,” Sid said. “They were close as children. She’s fond of him.”
Then I felt guilty that I had handed over Willie’s fingerprints and suggested to the inspector that he might have a motive.
“I did worm out of the inspector that they’ve questioned likely Jewish organizations and come up empty-handed,” I said.
“So is there anything more you can do?”
“There is one thing,” I began. “Reynold Bryce was painting a young immigrant girl. I believe she lied to the police about what happened that morning. I thought I’d go up to Montmartre and see if I can find her.”
“Do you think she’d tell you the truth if she lied to the police?” Sid asked.
“I don’t know. She’d have no objection to chatting with me if she wasn’t involved in his murder, would she?”
“Do you really think you should speak to her? Would the police approve?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
“Then, Molly, please don’t go.” Sid touched my arm. “I don’t want you to risk getting into trouble. Really I don’t.”
“The inspector never need know,” I said. “I can pose as Mr. Bryce’s relative from America again. Ask innocent questions.”
“But don’t you think you might be putting yourself in danger?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “If she shares a house with a lot of refugee girls I wouldn’t be out of earshot of help. It’s broad daylight, Sid. And Montmartre is a busy place. And if she invites me alone to the cellar I won’t go.”
Sid laughed. I got up. “I’d better go and feed that child. I’ve been neglecting him horribly lately.”
“Frankly I don’t think he’s noticed,” Sid said. “Gus and I have been amusing him nonstop and Celeste has been feeding him all kinds of delicacies. He
’s becoming thoroughly spoiled. Oh, and do you know what he did this morning?” She went on as I reached the door. “He stood by himself. If he wasn’t wearing all those annoying skirts he’d be walking.”
My child had stood by himself and I wasn’t there to see it, I thought as I went upstairs. What kind of mother was I? Was it really more important to solve this case and to clear Sid, or to be there for Liam? I considered this and decided that Liam was being fed and amused and quite safe. He’d survive without his mother around him for a few days.
When I tried to nurse him I noticed he was not as interested as he used to be. So that chapter of our lives was drawing to a close. I felt a sadness but also, it must be confessed, some relief too. I changed him, put him down for his afternoon nap, then joined the others for lunch before I set out again.
“You’ll be needing new soles on those shoes before the week is up,” Mary said as I bid them adieu. “You must have covered every inch of Paris by now.”
“My feet certainly feel that way.”
“Then take a rest this afternoon. Put your feet up. Read a book,” she suggested. “I’m sure what you’re about to do can wait until tomorrow. And remember the inspector has forbidden you to interview any more suspects.”
Sid and I looked at each other. “I’m going to check in with Sid and Gus’s old landlady,” I said. “I hope a letter from Daniel might have arrived by now.”
I didn’t look at her as I left the room. The inspector couldn’t stop me having a pleasant chat with a young girl, I decided as I pinned on my hat and left the house. Montmartre was in siesta mode as I came up the steps to Place Pigalle. The busy evening scene had not yet started. The ingredients for the evening meal had already been purchased. The shops were still shut for their long lunch hour. I stopped first of all at the Rue des Martyrs. Madame Hetreau looked surprised to see me. “I thought you’d be off in the country by now,” she said.
“I am visiting Paris to do some shopping,” I replied, “and wondered if any letters had arrived here for me. Letters from America, I mean.”
She shrugged. “Nothing that I’ve seen.”
My spirits fell. “If a letter does come from New York for me it will be from my husband,” I said. “Please keep it for me. I have written to give him my new address, but he won’t have received it yet.”
“I suppose I can do that,” she said ungraciously. I suspected she was wanting a fee for holding my mail.
“I’d be most grateful,” I forced myself to say.
“Old cow,” I muttered as I walked out again. For all I knew a letter had come from Daniel and she had destroyed it. Well, there was nothing I could do about it. He’d get my letter with my new address soon and all would be well. I started up the street, then turned to my right following the narrow road as it curved up to the summit of the hill. I was out of breath by the time I came out to the gardens and open areas at the top and Paris lay before me, the Seine sparkling today in bright afternoon sunlight. The sound of stonemasons working on the nearby church echoed in the still air. It would have been pleasant to have sat for a while on a convenient wall and just enjoyed the sunshine and the view, but I forced myself to get down to business.
A man was walking past with a laden donkey. I asked him if he knew where some Russian refugee girls might be living. He shook his head and if my limited French was correct he muttered that refugees should stay where they were, with several cuss words thrown in. The clip-clop of his donkey’s hoofs on the cobblestones died away and there was nobody else around to ask. I decided that the logical place to go would be Le Bateau-Lavoir. Maxim Noah had painted Josette, after all. He or one of his fellow artists would know where she might be found. I followed the street around until I came to the rickety old building, perched precariously on the steep hillside. The door was open and I let myself in. This building too lay in afternoon slumber. Not a single sound anywhere. I tapped cautiously on Maxim’s door. There was no answer. I tapped again. “Hello,” I called. “Is anybody home? It’s Mrs. Sullivan from America. The friend of your cousin, Maxim.”
The door opened slowly and I found myself staring not at Maxim Noah but at a face I recognized as Josette herself. In the flesh she looked even younger and more vulnerable, bleary eyed as if just woken from sleep. “Maxim not here,” she said in hesitant French.
“Oh, that’s a pity,” I replied. “Are you Josette?”
She looked wary. “Who told you?”
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I saw your painting when I was visiting Reynold Bryce,” I said and noted her startled reaction. “I had a message to give him from a relative in America. This relative wanted to buy one of his paintings. He showed me the painting he was working on. The lovely painting of you, ma petite.”
“Reynold Bryce is dead,” she said flatly.
“I heard. I’m so sorry. And before he could finish your portrait too. May I come in?” I didn’t wait for an invitation but barged past her and she didn’t try to stop me. “Still, I am sure you will find plenty of work as a model,” I went on. “You are so beautiful.”
She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
“I also saw a picture of you that Monsieur Noah painted. Are there any more for sale?”
“He does not like to paint me,” she said. “He does not like me to be a model either.”
Then of course I wondered why I had been so dense. This was surely Jojo, the mistress of whom he’d been so protective.
“I understand.” I nodded. “He does not like other men to see you. But he allowed Monsieur Bryce to paint you with no clothes on.”
She was looking away now, one hand playing with her hair like an embarrassed child. “He did not know,” she whispered. “The money was good. I thought there would be no harm.”
“But there was harm, wasn’t there?” I said sharply. She looked up with frightened eyes. “That’s why you were upset and ran away that morning.”
“Who are you?” she asked. “Why do you come here?”
“A friend,” I said. “A friend who knows about the history and nature of Reynold Bryce. I know that he liked young girls. And he couldn’t keep his hands off them.”
“There were others?” she asked.
I nodded. “I know of another girl, about your age. He forced her to do bad things.”
“He tried to force me,” she said. “He said nobody need know and he’d pay me even more. Such a thing had never happened to me. I was terrified. I fought him, madame. I grabbed my clothes and fled. I went down the back stairs, the way I always had to come and go. Then I dressed myself rapidly and ran home. I was afraid he would come after me, but thank God he did not.”
I could understand her indignation but her naïveté was rather surprising. She did, after all, live in sin with a painter. “Did you tell Maxim when you came home?” I asked.
She nodded. “He saw how upset I was. So I told him what Mr. Bryce had tried to do. He was furious. I’ve never seen him so angry. He stormed out and was gone for hours.”
“Where is he now?”
“He has gone, madame. Gone to England.”
“To England? But I saw him on Saturday evening, at a party.”
She shook her head. “That is not possible, madame. He has been gone for several days now. He has friends over there who wrote to him and said he should join them. They will help him find somewhere to live, and then he will send for me. He said that Paris is not the right place for us. That the people here have no morals and it was not the right place for a young girl like me.”
“And yet you live with him? You’re his mistress?”
“His mistress? Who told you that?” she demanded, those dark eyes blazing suddenly. “I am his sister, madame. His little sister. The only family he has. He takes care of me.”
“Maxim Noah is your brother?” I asked.
She nodded. “My brother Jakob. A wonderful brother too. He brought me safely out of Russia when they burned our village. He promised to look after
me the way our father would have done. We will have a good new life in England.”
“I hope you will, Josette,” I said. I looked at those big, wistful eyes and my heart bled for her.
* * *
As I left Le Bateau-Lavoir I tried to control my racing thoughts. If Maxim Noah was Josette’s brother, newly arrived from Russia, then he was definitely not Sid’s long-lost relative who had been in Paris for generations. So why had he tried to pretend he was her cousin? And why had he lied to his sister about going to England when he was still in Paris? One thing was sure—Maxim Noah was not to be trusted. It began to dawn on me that he, not Sid, was the young Jewish man seen running away from Reynold Bryce’s house. I had to go to the Sûreté immediately and tell them what I suspected. Inspector Henri would be angry with me, but he wouldn’t ignore what I had to say.
I started down the steep little lane, stepping carefully on the uneven cobbles. There were more people around now: children playing—singing as they turned the jump rope in high little nasal voices—women with shopping baskets hurrying to buy something they had forgotten for dinner. And then ahead of me I caught a glimpse of someone I thought I recognized. The Russian-style peasant’s cap, the shock of dark curls. It had to be Maxim Noah himself!
Thirty-five
Maxim Noah moved swiftly down the hill. I quickened my pace. If he wasn’t staying any longer with Josette at Le Bateau-Lavoir I should try to follow him and see where he was hiding out. It was precarious walking in my dainty pointed shoes over the cobbles as the road dropped steeply. He turned to the left, taking a narrow alley between buildings. I followed and came out to see him crossing the road and entering what seemed to be a cemetery. Perhaps he had found a good spot to hide out among the dead, I thought.
I crossed the street after him and went through the gate into the cemetery. It was not like our graveyards in Ireland, with their low granite tombs and Celtic crosses, but full of impressive monuments, angels, cherubs, statues, and mausoleums—veritable houses of the dead for whole families, all piled close together. I looked around but could no longer see him. I took a step or two forward then stopped. Even in daylight I didn’t fancy poking around in a cemetery on my own, especially on the trail of a dangerous man. I turned to leave and suddenly there he was, blocking my path.
