City of Darkness and Light (28 page)

I arrived back to find Sid and Gus kneeling beside one of the crates of paintings I had retrieved from Rue des Martyrs. They were holding them up to show to Mary Cassatt, sitting across from them on the sofa.

“Honestly, you two,” came Mary’s voice from the sofa. “A more eclectic mix I have never seen, and most of it, I’m sad to say, is junk. These Fauvists, they’ll never last. Fauvism, Cubism, they are fads. They’ll vanish in a puff of smoke, hopefully giving way to good art again.”

“What about this one?” Sid held up another painting.

Mary leaned back to examine it. “That’s not bad. The artist can at least handle a brush well. Rather melancholy, but most of them are. It seems that to be modern means you can find no joy in life.”

They looked up as I came into the room, and Gus held out a hand to me. “Molly, you’re back. Any luck?”

“I met the housekeeper,” I said. “I tried my best with the Irish charm but I can’t say I achieved much. She is furious at being thrown out by the police and was hoping to slip back in unnoticed. I don’t think she was at all pleased that I found her there. She said she was just rescuing some food before it spoiled and that may be true, but I sensed she wanted to get her hands on more than cakes and pies.”

“Steal from her dead employer, you mean?” Gus looked shocked.

“I don’t know about that. It could be just taking things she felt she was entitled to. But either way she was not going to let me in, and she didn’t disclose much about Mr. Bryce, except what we already know: he and his wife had a falling out, but she’s Catholic and wouldn’t divorce him. They haven’t seen each other since he came to France but there was no mention of another woman in his life.”

“Was there any mention of another man?” Sid asked.

We all reacted with surprise. “Holy Mother of God, I never thought of that. Have there been any rumors of that ilk, Mary?” I asked.

Mary shook her head. “I can’t say I’ve heard any rumors about his private life recently. Of course everyone in Paris is expected to have a mistress, so that would hardly have been worth mentioning. But a male companion? I’m sure I would have heard about that.”

“The one thing I did ascertain is that nobody will be at the apartment tomorrow. The housekeeper is coming back on Monday to give the place a thorough clean so I really must try to get a look at it before everything is moved and packed away.”

“How do you propose to get a look at it, dare one ask?” Sid said.

I grinned. “I was hoping to borrow a pair of your trousers and climb up the tree. It seemed as if the end window wasn’t quite shut tight, so I thought…”

“Molly, you’ll be arrested for breaking and entering,” Mary said. “You’ll also make Inspector Henri even more suspicious about you than he already is.”

“Molly, don’t take any stupid risks for me,” Sid said. “I’m sure it will all sort itself out, and if it doesn’t, we’ll just find a way to slip out of the country and catch a boat home.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “If I am caught I’ll confess to being a newspaper reporter, hoping to write a scoop on Reynold Bryce for the Boston papers. They can be annoyed with me, but they wouldn’t charge me with anything. Newspaper reporters can get away with murder—” I broke off at that choice of words. “I didn’t mean that literally,” I said.

“What will you think of next?” Gus shook her head.

I looked around the room, now bathed in midday sunlight. “Where’s Liam?”

“Sleeping like a baby,” Gus said. “We played with him and then put him down for his morning nap. He’s such fun now. We love his laugh. Sid kept balancing a matchbox on her nose and then letting it fall.”

Sid laughed. “It didn’t fail to amuse him for a good half hour.”

“Babies are wonderful, aren’t they?” I said. “I was thinking last night about how uncomplicated life is for them. As long as they are warm and fed and have someone they trust near them then nothing else matters.” I fought back an unwelcome surge of emotion. After what we had just gone through tears were liable to resurface too often. Having prided myself on being such a strong woman I couldn’t abide this show of weakness. Instead I turned my attention to the paintings. The one that now lay on the sofa was of the young girl with haunted dark eyes.

“I particularly noticed this one when I packed them up,” I said. “It’s quite good, isn’t it? Sad, but well-done.”

“It’s one of Maxim’s,” Sid said.

“Who?” Mary asked.

“My cousin. Maxim Noah.”

“Ah yes, you spoke of him, I remember now,” Mary said. “You say you just discovered him living in Paris?”

“It was rather fortuitous,” Sid said. “Right before I left, my mother wrote to tell me we had relatives in Paris and asked me to look them up. I went around several synagogues but I couldn’t find any Goldfarbs who could have been related. Then I was at a poetry reading and was chatting to this most attractive young Jewish man. We started talking about families and when he said that his mother was a Goldfarb and her father had come from Eastern Europe when she was a small child I started asking questions. And it turned out that his grandfather had had a falling out with his brother. One had gone to New York, one stayed in Paris. And the brother’s name was Nathan, which was my grandfather’s name. Wasn’t that an amazing coincidence? So we concluded we were long-lost cousins. He lives in a shack on Montmartre. Horribly primitive, but I think he’ll make his name as a painter very soon. I plan to take some of his pictures to New York and maybe bring him over some time and hold a showing for him.”

“How interesting,” Mary said. She bent over the painting, then sat back on the sofa again. “Yes, I think his work does show some promise. When all is well again I’d like to meet him.”

Gus touched Sid’s arm. “And do you think he’d be able to help us? He could go anywhere within the Jewish community without arousing suspicion. He could attend meetings at synagogues and of the pro-Dreyfusard brigade. They might have an idea who carried out this murder.”

Sid hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t think I want to get anyone else involved, especially not Maxim. If he knows we’re in hiding he may be questioned by police and have to reveal our hiding place. Or appear to be a suspect himself. For the same reason you can’t contact Willie Walcott, Gus. We can’t put family members in danger.”

“I could go and talk to Willie Walcott,” I said. “I got the feeling he knew Mr. Bryce quite well.” And as I said the words I felt a sudden chill. Gertrude Stein had described Willie Walcott as a very pretty boy. And I remembered the petulant look on his face when he had said that Bryce was painting again and didn’t want to be disturbed. Could there be something to Sid’s suggestion after all?

“He will probably be at the Steins’ tonight,” Mary said. “Willie likes to see and be seen, if you know what I mean. I believe he likes the social aspects of art more than the actual painting.”

“What do you think of him as a painter, Mary?” Gus asked.

“Technique’s all right, I suppose, but I’d call him another of the copiers. He can give you a good, lifelike rendition of the Seine, but it is entirely in the style of Monet or Reynold Bryce. I’m sure such pictures sell well at home, but I don’t think any of you Walcotts are lacking for money, are you?”

“I heard that his father had cut off his allowance when he dropped out of Harvard,” I said.

“When did you hear that?” Gus demanded sharply.

“When I met him at the café in Montparnasse. The other fellows said that he was good at sponging off his friends for meals.”

“How strange,” Gus turned to Sid. “We never got that impression, did we? He let us think he was doing awfully well, that he was chummy with Reynold Bryce, and moved in the right circles.”

I’m sure he was chummy with Reynold Bryce,
I thought. Out loud I said, “I’ll cross-question him tonight, if he comes to Miss Stein’s salon.”

Celeste appeared at the doorway. “Madame Sullivan, your son is awake and crying.”

I jumped up. “Excuse me,” I said. “Duty calls.”

Duty calls,
I repeated to myself as I went up the stairs. It seemed as if life these days was one long round of duty: to my husband, my child, and now to my friends. I tried to remember if ever there was a time when I was carefree. Not for many years, if ever. How I had envied Sid and Gus their freedom to do exactly what they chose on a whim. Well, at this moment I didn’t envy them, and it was my duty to help them.

After I had fed Liam and we had taken our own midday meal Mary contacted some friends about borrowing a baby carriage. I went to pick it up and then Mary and I took Liam for a stroll along the Seine. Liam was enthralled by the traffic on the river and Mary and I enjoyed the lively Saturday afternoon scene—families picnicking on the grass, lovers walking arm in arm, a brightly decorated pleasure craft going past.

“How I love Paris,” Mary said. “It’s always so full of life and people know how to enjoy themselves. In America work always comes first. Never in France.” She turned to look at me. “Now your friends have the right idea. They have learned how to live for the moment.”

“They have money. It helps,” I said. “Without it I imagine they’d have very different lives.”

Mary paused, looking out across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. “Do you think you’ll be able to help them?” she asked. “I can’t bear the thought of Sid shut in a French jail. She’d go mad.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But I can’t possibly do as good a job as the police. I have no access to any evidence they took from Mr. Bryce’s house. What if someone had been blackmailing him? Or he had just broken up with an unsuitable woman? I have no way of finding out those things. In fact I’m beginning to think that their best hope is to leave the country. If Sid dresses properly as a woman again, who would think of stopping them?”

“Unless the police have their names by now. A woman who goes around dressed in male garb does attract attention, you know. I think they are quite safe for the moment in my house.”

“It’s very good of you to take this risk,” I said.

She smiled. “We women have to stick together,” she said.

Twenty-eight

That evening we dined early and then Mary and I set off for the Steins’ apartment on Rue de Fleurus. I was prepared to take the Métro and then walk but Mary insisted on hiring a cab. “The Métro on Saturday night is full of undesirables,” she said, “and later on, when we return, it will be full of drunks.”

I must say it was pleasant to be
clip-clopping
across the Seine, past the imposing shape of Les Invalides and then down several attractive boulevards lined with bars and restaurants just coming to life until we reached the Rue de Fleurus. Other cabs were disgorging their passengers outside the Steins’ building while younger, impoverished artists were approaching on foot, some carrying paintings under their arms.

We could hear the buzz of conversation and a burst of laughter long before we came to the Steins’ front door, which was now wide open. Other people were going in so we followed them.

“Gertrude and Leo don’t stand on ceremony,” Mary said. “The only criteria for being admitted are passion for art, good conversation, and the ability to hold liquor. “Ah, there she is, now. Gertrude!” And she forced her way through the crowd.

Miss Stein turned from the group she was standing with. “Why, if it isn’t Mary Cassatt. It’s a long time since you graced us with your presence.” And she held out her hand to Mary. “What brings you here?”

“Not trying to sell you a painting, that’s for sure,” Mary said with a laugh. “I know your taste is for the avant-garde and I am hopelessly mired in tea parties and domesticity. Actually I have found myself a new model—Master Liam Sullivan, aged eight months. And I have brought his mother with me. Molly Sullivan. I believe you two have met.”

Miss Stein’s sharp eyes focused on me. “Ah. So you’ve come back at the proper time,” she said. “Welcome. Did you find your friends yet?”

I decided that I had to lie to her although she wasn’t the kind of person one should lie to. “I did, and you were quite right. They got held up out of the city with no way of communicating.”

“So all’s well that ends well? That’s good. Help yourself to a drink. I know it’s France but some of my guests prefer a good strong bourbon.” She indicated a table in the corner around which several young men were hovering. “Move aside, fellows, and let the ladies in!” she bellowed. “They are dying of thirst and you’re hogging it all.”

Mary grinned at me as they stood aside for us. I noticed that one of them was the young Spaniard, Pablo Picasso. “Ah, the lady with the red hair,” he said. He turned to the men beside him. “One day I will paint her.”

“If Fernande allows you,” his companion said.

“Miss Stein is going to buy one of my paintings,” Picasso said. “We may move to an apartment with running water then Fernande will love me and be happy.”

“And still not let you paint other women,” the man said and they laughed.

I took the glass of wine that Mary offered and we moved away. My gaze was drawn to a group in the middle of the room, clustered around a large, heavyset man. He had dark skin, large jowls, and a face that looked like a cross between a shrunken head and a gorilla. I nudged Mary. “Who is that exceptionally ugly man over there?”

“Oh, him? That’s Vollard—he’s the most important art dealer in Paris. If he likes your work, you are in. He and Reynold Bryce had a long-standing mutual loathing. Reynold said it was because he only liked beautiful objects around him and Vollard’s face distressed him, but it was really because Vollard had called his paintings trite and meaningless.”

Even as she was speaking Vollard looked up and saw Mary. “Ah,
la belle
Cassatt comes to grace us with her presence,” he said and held out his hand to her. “What are you doing here? Not trying to sell Gertrude a picture.”

“I came to be sociable, Monsieur Vollard,” Mary said, “And to introduce my young friend, Mrs. Sullivan, visiting from America.”

“If she wants to buy paintings she had better come to me,” Vollard said. “I only deal in the best.”