City of Darkness and Light (16 page)

“And you are?” he continued, taking a small black notebook from his jacket pocket.

“Madame Sullivan.”

“And you come from?”

“New York.”

“But Monsieur Bryce he was from Boston, no? So how are you connected to him? You are a family member?”

“No, not a family member.” I decided not to stretch the truth too far. It always had a way of coming back and biting me. “I am acquainted with several Bostonian families.” This was true. Gus came from Boston.

“And you came to Paris specifically to deliver a message to Mr. Bryce?” he went on.

“No. I came to Paris to stay with friends. A family member asked me visit Mr. Bryce.”

“I understood he had no family.” He stared at me, long and hard.

“No immediate family,” I said. “The people I know are cousins.”

“And the message?”

“Is no longer relevant, now that he is dead.”

He frowned. “It might well be very relevant.”

“Why?” I asked. “How could a message from America affect a murder in Paris?”

“We are trying to find out who might have a reason to kill Reynold Bryce,” he said. “We can fill in details of his life in Paris but we have no knowledge of his life in America. For all we know he had enemies over there.”

“Mr. Bryce has not lived in America for many years,” I said.

He shrugged. “Maybe he had swindled someone, or he stood to inherit money, or was leaving his fortune to the wrong person. There are many reasons that might make a person choose to kill. Old hatreds can simmer on for years.” He paused. Apart from the ticking of a clock in a nearby room and the sound of a chair being moved, there was silence in that foyer.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you with any of this,” I said, now desperately racking my brains for a message that would not implicate me in any way. “My message was simply from a young cousin, thanking Cousin Reynold for the picture that he painted for her tenth birthday.”

“I’ll need the names of these cousins,” he said. “And you say you’ve just arrived in Paris. Are you sure you haven’t attempted to see Mr. Bryce before?”

“Of course not. I’ve only just arrived in Paris.”

He was continuing to stare hard at me. “The housekeeper reported an American woman visitor on the day he was killed. Where were you two days ago?”

“That is easy to answer. I was at a pension in Le Havre with a group of American women. I was recovering from a very bad case of seasickness and too weak to travel.”

“I see.”

“I only arrived in Paris yesterday.”

“And your first task in a strange city, after you had been sick and too weak to travel, was to come straight to Reynold Bryce, whom you apparently don’t know, to deliver a message from a child about a painting.” He paused and stroked his mustache. “Interesting, don’t you think? If it was my first day in Paris I’d be enjoying the sights, sitting in a café, going to the Louvre, and I’d wait for a convenient moment to visit a man I didn’t know. Unless, of course, the message wasn’t quite so innocent—a warning maybe? A threat? You did say it was no longer relevant.”

“No. Absolutely not.” And as I said the words I felt a chill run down my spine. They were Reynold Bryce’s words to Gus, scrawled across the postcard. “And I don’t know why you seek motives from America when surely it is most likely that the murder was committed for the simplest of reasons.”

“Such as?”

I looked around me. “It appears that Mr. Bryce was a rich man. He could have surprised a thief.” I didn’t know the French word for burglar.

“There are no signs of a break-in.”

“You spoke of his housekeeper. Was she not here?”

“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 formidable 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.