City of Darkness and Light (18 page)

Not knowing what to do next I started peering at the plates beside front doors, hoping to find one of them that said
Stein
. Luckily she did not live too far from the park and I found her quite soon. I rang her doorbell then walked up to her apartment on the second floor. As I tapped on the door a strong female voice yelled, “Come in!”

I opened the door and stepped into a narrow hallway.

“If it’s the butcher take the meat through to the kitchen,” the voice went on in English. “And it better be a nice plump
poussin
this time, not some scrawny old hen that has died of old age.”

The voice came closer and a big-boned woman with a towel around her head came out into the hall. She stopped in surprise when she saw me.

“You’re not the butcher,” she said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what the deuce are you doing in my front hall?”

“My name is Sullivan and I came to see you. I’ve just arrived from New York and…”

“Came to see me? My dear girl, you should know that I never see anybody before luncheon. I’ve only just woken up. It’s simply not civilized.” She turned back to where the hall disappeared into darkness. “Leo!” she yelled. “Make sure you don’t come out in your underwear. There’s a young lady standing in our foyer.” Then she turned back to me. “If you want to pay a call on me, then come to one of my salons like everybody else. You’ll usually find people here most evenings although Saturday night is when we have our big weekly shindig. A painter, are you? Or a buyer? Because I should warn you that you won’t get me to part with any of my paintings.”

It was as hard to stop her as a train thundering down the track at full speed. “Mrs. Stein,” I began.

She held up her hand. “Hold it right there. It’s Miss Stein or Gertrude if you like. I’m not big on formality. I’m not married either. Never intend to be.”

“But you spoke to someone called Leo,” I stammered, wondering if I had committed a faux pas and Leo was perhaps her lover.

“My brother. We’re sharing the place at the moment, and sharing our passion for collecting art too. I suppose you’d better come in. We can’t stand talking here.”

She led me through to a light and airy drawing room. It was elegantly but sparsely furnished. I couldn’t tell what the wallpaper looked like because every inch of the walls was covered in paintings—some of them quite lovely—portraits of young women with flowing hair, ballerinas on stage, picnics in a park, and some quite incomprehensible—wild daubs of bright color with cats hanging in midair and women with two faces. I wrenched my gaze away as she said, “Well, sit down then. What was it you wanted?”

I perched on the edge of a brocade sofa. “I wondered if you had come across two friends of mine. American women—Miss Walcott and Miss Goldfarb.”

“Yes, I met them when they first got here,” she said brusquely. “Why, have they sent you with the olive branch? Are you supposed to mediate a peace between us?”

“A peace between you? Had you quarreled?”

“Let’s just say there was a parting of the ways. They came to one of my Saturday night salons. I rather liked Goldfarb—got a good brain, one could tell. Didn’t think so much of the other one. A bit wishy-washy. She brought a couple of her paintings to show me. I thought she might have a smidgeon of talent and told her so, but she needed to take some lessons in the handling of color. Hadn’t got a clue about mixing shades. I said I could recommend someone to tutor her. I guess she didn’t care for that too much because the next time I met them she said she had been promised an introduction to Bryce. I pointed out that if she went to Bryce she would no longer be welcome at my place. ‘You have to choose carefully,’ I said. She replied that she didn’t wish to offend me but was hopeful he would include her in his upcoming exhibition.”

Miss Stein paused, leaning forward toward me in her chair as she continued rubbing her hair inside the towel. “Personally I didn’t think she had much of a chance with him. ‘He’s stuck in the depths of Impressionism,’ I said, ‘and he thinks women only belong in the kitchen or the bedroom.’ Besides, what about Miss Goldfarb? We know what his opinion was about Jews. Exactly why I broke off all contact with him. Still, he got his just desserts in the end, didn’t he, although I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, I suppose.”

“You know about Reynold Bryce’s death?” I asked cautiously.

“Of course. It was in the
International Herald
this morning. Stabbed by a hotheaded young Jew, so they surmise.”

“They know who killed him?”

“A young Jewish man was seen running away down the street about the time he was killed,” she said. “I’m not surprised, frankly, after his outspoken tirades against Jews. I’d have willingly done it myself, odious man. He liked to think of himself as the doyen of American artists here, but all he wanted really were sycophants around him, people who painted the way he did, no innovators, nobody with creative genius.”

I was trying to process what I had just learned. If a young, zealous Jew killed Reynold Bryce then his death might have nothing at all to do with Sid and Gus’s disappearance.

“So do you remember when was the last time you saw my friends?”

She stared out of the window. “Some time ago. Not recently, that’s for sure. You have to understand that I see a lot of people.”

“Not recently,” I repeated.

“Why are you so keen to know when I saw your friends?” she demanded.

“Because they’ve disappeared. I don’t know where they’ve gone and I’m worried about them.”

“Perhaps they got tired of Paris and went to seek the sun on the Mediterranean. Lots of people do.”

“No,” I shook my head firmly. “They haven’t gone away, not deliberately anyway. All their things are still in their apartment. And they invited me to stay with them. They knew I was coming.”

“Well, that’s a rum do.” She rubbed her head vigorously with the towel. “What do you suppose might have happened to them?”

“I don’t know, that’s the problem,” I said. “I don’t know where to start. I know they were in contact with Reynold Bryce because there was a postcard from him posted just a day or two before they vanished.”

“So where are you staying?”

“At their apartment at the moment,” I said, “although the landlady keeps suggesting that I move on. I suspect she’d like to relet their room, although I don’t think she can throw me out until the end of the month.”

“Well I suppose we could always put you up here, if it came to that,” she said.

“That’s very kind, but no thank you,” I replied. “I have a small baby, for one thing. And I want to stay on at my friends’ place just in case some mail or any kind of message comes that might give me a clue as to where they’ve gone.”

“Quite right.” She nodded. “So there’s no hint at all as to what might have happened to them?”

“None at all. It’s as if they vanished in the middle of a normal day. There was food still on the table, Miss Goldfarb’s cigarette holder, Miss Walcott’s shawl. I was really worried when I heard that Reynold Bryce had been murdered, because I thought that perhaps…” I paused, and then said, “But if the killer was a young Jewish man, then surely a fellow Jew would not have been one of his targets.”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. Unless he was deranged. Some of these young artists do go off their rockers, you know. Or aren’t quite stable to begin with and then they drink enough absinthe and go off the deep end. Have you spoken with any of their friends?”

“I don’t know who their friends are. I know that Augusta Walcott has a cousin here. He arranged the introduction to Mr. Bryce.”

“Oh, yes. Willie Walcott. Another of Bryce’s golden boys, following him around and hanging on his every word. Of course young Willie is a very pretty boy, in fact I shouldn’t be at all surprised if…” She broke off, but then added, “Well, none of that matters now.”

“Do you have any idea where I’d find Willie Walcott?”

“He lives somewhere in Montparnasse,” she said. “Most of the American painters favor that area over Montmartre. Americans like their creature comforts, don’t they? And Montmartre does tend to be a trifle primitive—and wild.”

“Do the Americans have a gathering place where he might be found?”

“I’d try the Closerie des Lilas on the Boulevard Montparnasse,” she said. “Not too far from here, although I doubt anyone would be there at this hour. Far too early for people to want to socialize.”

I had to smile. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” I said. “I have a young child and I’m used to rising at dawn these days. I’d forgotten that life is more leisurely for other people.”

“Do you have a husband somewhere or have you dumped him?” she demanded frankly.

“He’s back in New York. He’s a policeman and there was a spot of trouble so he wanted me safely far away from the city.”

“I see.” She frowned. “You don’t think your spot of trouble could have anything to do with your friends’ disappearance?”

This had never occurred to me before and I felt myself going cold all over. Could the Italian gang have such a long reach that they were able to harm my friends this far away? Were they at this minute enjoying watching my feeble attempts to find Sid and Gus before they swooped to attack me? In which case—my heart did a terrifying lurch—Liam wasn’t safe with the baker’s wife.

I stood up. “I have to go,” I said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“Not at all. I quite enjoy a little drama. Write down your name and address, and I’ll let you know if I hear anything. You’re welcome to come on Saturday night and ask people yourself. You never know. It’s a small community here. We enjoy minding each other’s business.”

I wrote on the back of my American calling-card and handed it to her.

“We may see you on Saturday then,” she said.

“I’m not sure about that. I can’t leave my son in the evening.”

“Bring him with you. We’ll find a closet to put him in.” Then she laughed at my shocked face. “Other parents have done it before now. In my experience, which isn’t great, I confess, babies can survive almost anywhere.”

“Unfortunately mine has already learned to crawl and is turning into an escape artist,” I said. “But thank you all the same. I’ll see when it comes to Saturday.”

She held out her hand to me and pumped mine heartily. “Best of luck to you. I’m sure it will all turn out all right. Things usually do.”

Not for Reynold Bryce,
I thought as I walked down the stairs.

Eighteen

I was in the right part of the city to go immediately to seek out Willie Walcott, but Miss Stein had created a new fear for me—that Sid and Gus’s disappearance might have something to do with my “spot of trouble” in New York. Surely an Italian gang couldn’t have found out about my trip to Paris and sent someone to harm my friends? And even if they’d heard that I was to be sent to Paris, how could they have discovered Sid and Gus’s address? Then I realized that an Italian gang in New York might well have affiliates back in Europe. If they were resourceful and powerful enough they might have infiltrated the New York police, or bribed someone there to report on the doings of Captain Sullivan and his family. Someone could have seen the cable, addressed to my friends. It was entirely possible that they now knew where I was and were watching me, waiting to strike.

So my first thought was to rush back to Liam to make sure he was all right. But then it struck me: Where could I take him to be out of harm’s way? With a heavy child in my arms I’d be an easy target. It would be simple to push me in front of a subway train if I had a baby in my arms—or in front of an approaching carriage or automobile. Or even to grab Liam from a passing vehicle. I stood by the gilt railings that surround the Jardin du Luxembourg in an absolute agony of indecision. Was Liam safer with the baker’s wife? Didn’t Italians love their babies? Surely no gang could be blackhearted enough to murder a baby to punish his father. I decided I’d seek out Willie Walcott before I returned home. It would be one less time I’d have to leave Liam.

Fortunately a policeman, with rain dripping from the brim of his cap, was patrolling the gardens, or I would have walked unnecessary yards in the wrong direction. He pointed me to the Boulevard du Montparnasse at the far end of the park. Accordingly I trudged along, my brolly about to give up the unequal task of battling the wind and rain, feeling miserable and scared and horribly alone. I knew Miss Stein now, I tried to tell myself. She was someone I could turn to if I really needed help. I knew the baker’s wife. I wasn’t quite alone. It just felt that way.

I came at last to the Boulevard du Montparnasse and again I was in luck. The Closerie des Lilas was actually on the corner where it joined the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It had an awning over outside tables and chairs, looking damp and abandoned at this moment. There were lights on inside and I could see heads, including womens’ hats, indicating that this café might be an acceptable place for me to venture alone. I felt a pleasant draft of warmth as I went inside along with the enticing aroma of brewing coffee. A bell jangled above the door and a young man in an apron came over to me. “
Bonjour
, madame,” he said, wiping his hands on the apron. “Are you here to join someone?”

I was about to ask my questions and then leave again but the coffee smell was too good to refuse. “I’m alone, monsieur. Maybe some friends will be coming in later. I’d just like a coffee.”

“You are from England?” he asked in English.

“From America. Originally from Ireland.”

“Ah. From America. We have many American visitors who come to this café. Poets, playwrights, artists. Which are you?”

“I’m not…” I began then changed my mind. “I write a little poetry,” I said, remembering that Sid had been asked to join a group of poets. “I’m newly arrived here.”

“Ah, then you should meet Monsieur Tarkington.” He turned his attention to a table by the far window at which a group of men were sitting. “He considers himself a fine poet—don’t you, monsieur?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Albert thinks you consider yourself a fine poet,” a young man with red hair said. The person who was being addressed, the Monsieur Tarkington, was an older, more sober-looking individual than the rest of his companions, in his dark three-piece suit with a watch chain draped across his vest. He had a sad-looking, not very handsome face.