City of Darkness and Light (26 page)

Then we crossed the Champs-Élyseés with its fine carriages and dangerously fast automobiles and came at last to the Rue de Marignan. Celeste opened the door to me with such a strange, disapproving look on her face that I wondered whether she had been against her mistress inviting me to stay. “Ah, you have returned with all your belongings,” she said loudly. “You do not travel lightly, madame.”

“But these are not…” I had been about to say “not all mine” when she cut me off. “Not too much baggage for a lady from America. I understand.” Then she held up a hand for me to be quiet. “Madame is in the drawing room with a guest,” she said. “An inspector from the Sûreté.”

“Ah.” I understood now. “Should we go straight up to our rooms then? We have no wish to disturb.”

But at that moment Mary called out, “Molly, have you returned? Come and let me say hello to little Liam. I’ve been dying to see him again.”

I went through into the salon and saw that Inspector Henri was now seated on the brocade sofa. He stood as I came in and then his expression changed as he recognized me. “I know you,” he said. “You’re the woman who showed up at Bryce’s house the other day. You said you were a relative of his with a message. And now this lady tells me you are a relative of hers. Are you related to the entire American art fraternity here in Paris?”

“Good evening, Inspector,” I said, nodding gravely as Liam, sensing my tension, clung to my neck. “I did not say I was related to Monsieur Bryce, if you remember. I said I brought a message from his relatives. And it is quite usual in any country that well-known artists have connections with each other.”

Mary came and put a hand on my shoulder. “I did not realize you had met our dear Molly, Inspector,” she said. “Please, do sit, both of you. I’ll have Celeste bring us all a glass of wine. And dear little Liam. How he has grown.”

She went to ring for Celeste, while I adjusted my thoughts to realize that I was to be either related or a dear friend of Mary Cassatt.

“Was Miss Cassatt the friend you were looking for when you asked me those questions?” Inspector Henri asked as I sat with a squirming Liam on my lap.

“No, those two ladies were unfortunately taken ill, away from Paris,” I said. “Typhoid, so I understand.”

“So of course Molly came to me and I insisted that she come to stay immediately,” Mary added, coming back to join us.

I had no idea what the inspector might have discovered that made him come to question Miss Cassatt, but she was clearly rattled by it. Had he been tipped off that the fleeing Jewish man had come to her door? I decided that attack was the best form of defense. “So how is your investigation proceeding, Inspector? Are you making good progress? Do you have a suspect yet?”

“Not yet, madame. I came to see Miss Cassatt because I know her to be a leading member among the American artists. I thought maybe she could tell me more about Monsieur Bryce—”

“But I just pointed out to the inspector that the fraternity of artists here is just that—they do not include women in their intimate chats. My only meetings with Reynold Bryce were at such formal occasions as the ambassador’s garden parties. Of his personal life I knew nothing.” She turned to the inspector. “I am a very private person, Inspector. I do not frequent the cafés or dance halls. I do not listen to gossip. I am sorry that I cannot help you. I wish very much for the truth of Monsieur Bryce’s murder to be revealed. It is a terrible thing that such a respected member of our community should die a violent and senseless death.”

The inspector looked as if he might have been ready to give up and leave when Celeste appeared with a carafe of wine and three glasses.

“It’s very good. I bought several cases last time I was in Bordeaux,” Mary said. “One thing I have learned during my long stay in France is to appreciate good wine.”

The inspector sat down again rapidly and accepted the glass she held out to him. I decided I had to make the most of this opportunity. “So tell me, Inspector. When I was at Monsieur Bryce’s house your men were looking for fingerprints. Did that search not produce any…” I didn’t know the word for clues. It was frustrating that my French was limited to the vocabulary of a schoolgirl. “Clues, Mary?” I turned to her for help.

He smiled. “Ah, yes. The lady detective. I had forgotten that. There were fingerprints on the knife, madame, but as yet we have not identified them. But we will. Rest assured we will.”

“Only one set of fingerprints?” I asked.

He gave me a suspicious look, his head tilted a little. “You believe there was more than one killer?”

“No. I wondered … if someone is stabbed he does not always die instantly. He would try to grasp the knife and remove it. His own prints would be on it.”

He nodded approval. “
Bien sûr,
madame. You are right. His own fingerprints were on the knife, as well as those of several other persons.”

“Several?” I said.

“It was a common kitchen knife as found in any good kitchen or restaurant in Paris.”

“From his own kitchen, perhaps?”

“His housekeeper says certainly not. None of her knives is missing. But she does not seem to me like a particularly neat and tidy person, and she was rather hostile when we tried to question her.”

“Interesting,” I said. I was actually wondering why the housekeeper mistrusted the police, but I knew little of police interrogation tactics in Paris. Maybe she did not enjoy being bullied or threatened.

He looked up sharply. “What do you imply by that, madame?”

“Only that the sort of men who were Mr. Bryce’s social equals had probably never been in a kitchen in their lives and wouldn’t know where to find the knives,” I replied, moving away from my thoughts on the housekeeper.

“That is true, if the killer was indeed Mr. Bryce’s social equal,” he said. “He was a patron of many poor artists, was he not? And the killer was not necessarily a man. The knife was good and sharp. A healthy woman could have plunged it in.”

“Mercy me,” Mary Cassatt said in English, and took a hasty sip of her wine.

“And if the killer was not a person Mr. Bryce knew but perhaps a Jewish man, angry at his anti-Jewish sentiments, as has been suggested?”

“He was alone in the house, madame. He was hard at work, painting, and did not like to be disturbed. I do not think he would have admitted such a person, if he even bothered to answer the front door himself while his housekeeper was away.”

“The person could have forced his way in,” Mary suggested.

“Then Mr. Bryce would not have been sitting down,” I said before the inspector could answer. “The intruder would have stabbed him in his foyer, not been brought through all the way to his studio.”

“Alas, there was the window,” the inspector said. “Mr. Bryce always kept a window open because of the smell of paint and turpentine. The window was high enough above the street to make entry difficult, but an agile person could have managed it, entered when Mr. Bryce left the room, and waited for the right moment to strike.”

Mary shuddered again. “Too horrible to contemplate,” she said.

The inspector smiled. “You do not seem to have the strong stomach of your relative here,” he said. “But then she was once a detective, was she not?”

I could tell from his tone that he hadn’t quite accepted my story. He was not sure who I was and was suspicious about why I was here and whether I had anything to do with Mr. Bryce’s death. I realized I had to tread carefully or I might find myself cast in the role of prime suspect.

“But surely anyone attempting to climb in would have been seen,” I said. “The Rue François Premier is quite busy.”

“You forget those houses have small gardens facing the street. One could hide among the shrubs for the right moment.”

“Dangerous, surely,” I said. “Anyone going over to the window would spot the person immediately.”

“Criminals often enjoy risks, madame, as you, being a detective, should know. So tell me, where was this detective agency of yours?”

“In New York,” I said. “I closed it when I married. Now I am only a wife and mother and enjoy the leisure to visit family and friends.”

“Your husband is generous to allow you to travel without him.”

“He is busy at work, like most men. He thought it would be a perfect chance for me to travel when I had friends in Paris.”

“Your husband, what profession does he have?”

Oh, dear. I suspected this might be coming and didn’t really see a way to avoid it. “He is a police captain in New York,” I said. At least that might allay suspicions about me, but I now ran the risk that he would contact New York for verification. And the last thing I wanted was for Daniel to hear that I was somehow mixed up in a murder investigation.

Twenty-six

“Thank heavens he has gone,” Mary said as she returned to the salon, having escorted the inspector to the door. “Such a lot of questions. I began to think he had been tipped off that our friends were hiding out here.”

“I know. It was most uncomfortable, knowing that they were upstairs, within his reach. And he is obviously suspicious of me.”

“You met him before, I understand?”

“I went to Mr. Bryce’s house, knowing that he had been in recent contact with Sid and Gus and hoping he might know where they had gone. I arrived to find the police stationed outside and Bryce dead. In order to gain entrance I said I was a friend of his family with a message for him. I got the feeling he thought the message I had come to deliver was in some way significant and that I was hiding the truth from him.”

“Ah, so no wonder he was interested when I claimed you were also a dear friend of my family at home,” she laughed. “What a mess, Molly.” She broke off and extended a hand to me. “I may call you Molly, may I not? Since we are now almost related?”

“Please do,” I said. “And I can’t thank you enough for taking us in.”

“The little one looks as if he’s ready to sleep,” she said, looking fondly at Liam who was snuggled against me, sucking his thumb. “I can finally have Celeste show you to the room I have prepared for you. Or do you want to let him meet his anxious aunts first?”

I glanced down at Liam. “I think we should make the most of a sleepy child and put him down,” I said. “Sid and Gus will have ample time to spoil him later.”

Mary smiled and rang the bell. Celeste appeared and escorted me up two flights of stairs. It was an attic room like the one in Montmartre, with French doors opening onto a balcony, but much more cozily and elegantly furnished with blue and white wallpaper and a blue and white chenille bedspread and curtains. The crib had been assembled in the far corner, and looked most inviting with lace pillows. I put Liam down. His thumb came into his mouth and he was asleep straight away. I went over and opened the French windows, stepping out onto the narrow balcony. The street below was quiet, apart from the distant sound of a horse’s hoofs moving at a fast trot as it pulled a light carriage or a cab. The sky beyond the rooftops held the last lingering glow of red and etched in black against that sky the Eiffel Tower rose. Seen close like this it was an awe-inspiring sight. It reminded me that whatever was happening, whatever difficulties we might be facing, we were, after all, in Paris.

If they could see me now in Ireland,
I thought, and then I remembered that other disturbing fact. One person who knew me from Ireland, who wanted my destruction, was also here in this city. Thus sobered I sat at the little writing desk and wrote to Daniel, telling him that I would be staying for a while at the charming residence of the painter Mary Cassatt and that all was well with Liam and me. I had already enjoyed meeting interesting artists and poets and could see the Eiffel Tower from my window. When I read it through it sounded quite jolly. I just hoped that he was safe and well and the message would cheer him up. I sealed the envelope then went down to join the others.

In spite of everything we spent a pleasant evening together. Mary was careful to make sure that the drapes were closed before Sid and Gus came into the salon at the front of the house. “I think that policeman just wanted to question other American painters for details of Bryce’s life,” Mary said, “but one can’t be too sure. He may have come here on a tip and wanted to observe my reaction.”

“We were scared stiff when he stayed so long, weren’t we, Sid?” Gus said. “I suggested we hide in the wardrobe, just in case he decided to come looking for us.”

“But I said there wasn’t much point. Our belongings were all over the room, which might have given away our presence if he decided to come up and look.”

“Thank heavens he didn’t,” Mary said. “I should have been so flustered if he’d wanted to go upstairs I couldn’t have invented a good reason for a bedroom that was clearly occupied. But we will have to be careful. Maybe we shouldn’t use this room unless the drapes are drawn. I’m going to ask Celeste to check whether anyone is watching this house.”

“In which case I wonder if I’ll be followed when I go out,” I said.

“Surely not. Now that he knows your husband is a fellow policeman,” Mary said. “He must think that your behavior is beyond reproach.”

Silently I thought that she didn’t know much about the police. I’d encountered several whose behavior left a lot to be desired.

Dinner was delicious. Mary might have retained her Pennsylvania accent but the cooking was pure French with even the vegetables covered in sauces delicate enough to make one weep. We drank wine and even managed to laugh a little.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Gus said. “Will you be going to Gertrude Stein’s, Mary?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll bother,” she replied. “I find these new young artists too tedious in their pretentious desire to be modern.”

“But you could take Molly with you,” Gus said. “You never know, she might learn something about Reynold Bryce.”

“That is a name never to be mentioned in the Stein household,” Mary said.

“Don’t be so sure.” I looked up from my coffee cup. “They may well enjoy discussing him now that he is dead. Carcasses often attract vultures, you know.”

The others laughed.

“That might be true,” Mary said. “I’m quite willing to go if you’d like to, Molly. The Steins’ salon is something to be experienced, at least once if you want to feel the pulse of the Parisian art world.”