City of Darkness and Light (23 page)

“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 calling 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?”

“I know, dear Molly,” Sid said. “We have agonized about what to do about you, but you see it is no game. It’s all too real and too horrible. No one can know where I am. The police are certainly looking for me. I am wanted for murder.”

I gulped back tears and looked up at her white and strained face. “For murder? You?”

She nodded.

“Reynold Bryce?” I stammered out the words. “Did you kill Reynold Bryce?”

“Of course she didn’t,” Gus said, “But she must be the prime suspect in the eyes of the police.”

“Why?” I asked.

We broke off as the maid came in with a tray of coffee and little cakes on it. I glanced at Gus.

“It’s all right. Celeste is completely loyal to Miss Cassatt, and she has been absolutely wonderful,” Gus said as Celeste poured coffee for us. “And she speaks no English, which is useful.”

All the same I waited until Celeste had disappeared again before I repeated my question. “Why do the police think you killed Reynold Bryce?”

“Because I was discovered standing over him as he bled to death,” Sid said. “Here, have some coffee to warm you up and I’ll explain.” She handed me a cup and I sipped, gratefully, although I could feel my hand still trembling.

“It was like this, Molly,” she continued. “Remember I wrote to tell you about Reynold Bryce and how Gus hoped to secure an introduction to him through her cousin and to be included in his upcoming exhibition of paintings.”

I nodded.

“The introduction took place. We attended a soirée at his house. Gus corresponded with Reynold Bryce. He seemed friendly and encouraging at first and she had high hopes that he’d include one of her paintings in the showing. She went to visit him a week ago taking several of her paintings with her. Then the next day we got a rude letter saying there was no way he’d consider any painting by her in one of his exhibitions. Poor Gus was devastated. She wrote back, begging him to reconsider, and received a curt rejection. Then on Sunday we were having tea here with Miss Cassatt and told her about Mr. Bryce’s sudden change of heart. Mary suggested it might be because he’d seen me with Gus and realized I was Jewish. She said he was rabidly anti-Semitic, a leader among the anti-Dreyfusards and went out of his way to make sure that Jewish artists and writers were not included in anything that might publicize their work.”

“How mean-spirited,” I said and took another welcome gulp of coffee.

“I was furious, naturally,” Sid continued, glancing across at Gus. “That poor Gus’s chances should be dashed because of me was absolutely unfair. I decided to go and confront him and tell him he was not to punish Gus because of her connection to me. Gus and Mary tried to dissuade me from going but I was adamant. I stalked off to his home. I rang the bell. No one answered. I tapped on the front door and it swung open. I called out. Again nobody answered, so I went in and made my way through to his studio. I thought he might be too absorbed in his painting to have heard my knocking. He was there all right. He was sitting on a chair, looking at the painting he was working on. I went right up to him. ‘Now look here, Mr. Bryce,’ I said. He looked up at me and there was terror in his eyes. For a moment I thought that he had red paint splattered across his front. Then I saw he was clutching at a knife that had been plunged into his chest. Blood was seeping across his white shirt, Molly. It was awful. I’ve never seen anything so ghastly in my life.”