City of Darkness and Light (31 page)

“She’s right, Molly.”

“Don’t worry. I said I was going to ask Maxim Noah about her. He’ll know what sort of girl she is. And I expect the police must have checked her out by now. If she has criminal connections they’ll have taken her in.” I took the cup of coffee that Gus had poured for me. “I wish I could find an excuse to go and talk to Inspector Henri. I’m dying to find out how far along they are with their investigation.”

“The French police don’t take kindly to interference,” Mary said.

“Neither do the New York police,” I said. “My husband will never share details of any crime he’s working on with me.”

“That’s because you’d run straight out and try to solve it before him,” Sid said, with a grin.

“Contrary to popular belief I do not go around looking for trouble,” I said. “Trouble just seems to come and find me.”

“Do be careful, Molly,” Gus said. “Maybe it would be a good idea to ask the police how they are getting along, and if they are making good progress, then you can stop taking these risks.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve several things planned that won’t involve risk,” I said. “If I go and find Maxim this afternoon and get the model’s name from him, I can find out more about her. And then I’m going to talk to the housekeeper in the morning, when she’s cleaning up Mr. Bryce’s apartment. I want to hear what she’s got to say about the model, and whether she was in the studio when the housekeeper left to go shopping. I’d also like her opinion on your cousin, Gus.”

“On Willie? What’s he got to do with this?”

“Nothing, I hope. But he fell out of favor with Mr. Bryce recently and I just wondered … well, what sort of relationship he had had with him, and whether…” I stumbled, not knowing how to put this without offending.

“We asked ourselves the same thing,” Sid said. “But we didn’t know about his lack of money at the time. You want to know whether Mr. Bryce was supporting him financially and thus—”

“Hold on a minute,” Gus said. “You’re not suggesting that my cousin might have anything to do with Reynold Bryce’s death, are you? I’ve known Willie all my life. We used to play together at their summer cottage in Maine. He’s a good bit younger than I, but a sweet and funny kid. I’d say there was no malicious bone in him.”

“I’m sure he had nothing to do with the murder, Gus,” I said hastily, although I wasn’t so sure. I suspected that Willie Walcott did have a few malicious bones in him, given the right circumstances. Maybe tomorrow I’d learn whether he had been to visit Reynold Bryce recently and what had transpired between them.

Thirty

That afternoon, after I had put Liam down for his nap, I took the Métro back to my old neighborhood in Montmartre. The cafés were full but I saw no sign of Maxim or any of his artist friends. So I trudged up the many steep alleyways and steps until I reached the very summit of the hill and found Le Bateau-Lavoir building. The front door, as usual, was half-open. I stepped inside and heard no sound of voices.

“Hello?” I called.
“Bonjour?”

Nobody answered me. The place was as still as a morgue. I came out again. An old man was sitting on the fence opposite, smoking a long, old-fashioned pipe. He looked up at me and grinned, revealing a toothless mouth. “You won’t find them there on a Sunday afternoon,” he said. “They’ll be at the Moulin, with everyone else.”

Of course. The afternoon dance at the Moulin de la Galette. I followed the lane around, past gardens where people were working or just enjoying the fresh air, until I came to the windmill. It was in a garden, surrounded by a high wall. I heard the thump of lively music long before I reached the entrance. The place was packed. I could hardly squeeze up the steps and in through the narrow opening in the wall.

“Two francs, mademoiselle,” a voice to my right said in my ear and I saw that there was a gatekeeper.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not staying. I’m just looking for someone who might be here.”

He gave me a patronizing smirk. “You are not the only person who tries that, mademoiselle. If you wish to enter, you must pay the same as everyone and that is two francs.”

Grudgingly I fished two coins from my purse. “Enjoy yourself,” he said. “But beware of pickpockets. Guard your wallet, eh?”

I clutched the purse to me as I forced my way into the crowd. All over the grounds tables were spread with picnics and wine, and families sat around them, laughing, talking, eating. They seemed to be mainly working-class people, dressed in their Sunday best: women in big hats, children in white lace, men in straw boaters. But among them were also young men and women dressed in the latest fashion who had chosen to escape to this environment where class didn’t matter. Those not lucky enough to secure a table stood together with glasses of wine or beer in their hands. And in the middle was the dance floor, also packed with couples dancing a suggestive dance I had never seen before. I started to thread my way between groups, looking carefully for any sign of Maxim. I remembered also the young waiter at the café who had invited Ellie to join him. I wondered if she’d be daring enough to come to something like this alone or whether her fiancé had arrived in Paris yet. But as I made painfully slow progress I saw nobody that I recognized.

“Hello,
ma belle.
Come and dance.” A hand came around my waist and I was propelled to the dance floor.

I turned to see a young student, his breath already reeking of wine, giving me a cheeky smile.

“No, monsieur. I do not wish to dance,” I said.

“Of course you do. A pretty demoiselle like you should not be alone. Especially one with dangerous red hair.”

“But I’m married, monsieur,” I said. “My husband would not approve.”

He laughed. “If you come here alone, that is his fault, no?” The hand on my waist pressed more forcefully.

“I am here with friends,” I said. “I’m looking for them. Have you perhaps seen an inspector from the Sùreté?”

“An inspector? Here? My god, I hope not. That would really spoil our fun. You are friends with an inspector?”

“I am. And I’m married to one.”

“My apologies, madame. It was only a jest.” He let me go, hastily.

I decided not to push my luck again. I had done my best and it appeared that Maxim and his friends were not here. I would have to wait until they returned to their weekday routine at the Nouvelle Athènes.

When Celeste let me in to Mary’s house I detected a faint odor of paint and turpentine. Mary appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, you are painting?” I asked her.

“Not me, Augusta,” she said. “She decided to try and capture the rooftops and chimney pots from my attic window. So how was your quest?”

“Impossible,” I said. “There was nobody in Le Bateau-Lavoir and someone suggested they were all at the ball at the Moulin de la Galette.”

“Of course. That’s where they’d be on a fine Sunday afternoon. I used to go there myself when I lived in the neighborhood.”

“I went but I didn’t see them,” I said. “And I had to fight off a forceful young man who wanted me to dance with him.”

Mary laughed. “Yes, you always find a few of those. Well, never mind, you’ll find him when he’s back at work, I’m sure.”

“I can’t really make any progress until I know the name of that model,” I said.

“You can always ask at the model market in the morning,” Mary said so casually that I thought she was joking.

“Model market?” I saw she wasn’t smiling. “There really is a market for models?”

“Absolutely. Every Monday morning. In the Place Pigalle. Artists come from all over Paris to find the right model for the subject they want to paint.”

“The models just stand there, like cattle in the market at home in Ireland?”

Mary laughed at my indignation. “Well, some of them sit. And they chat together and share stories on which artists can be trusted and which can’t.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “I’ll go there tomorrow then. Now that Reynold Bryce is dead this girl may be looking for new work.”

Mary nodded. “Of course the girl might not want to talk to you. They are highly suspicious of anything to do with the police.”

“I can pretend to be newly arrived and looking for work. That Spaniard Picasso already said that he wants to paint me.”

Mary snorted. “I’d stay well clear of him, my dear. He has a mistress with a temper, so we hear. You might wind up with a knife stuck into you.”

I laughed too. “I observed that for myself. Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of actually serving as a model. I don’t think Daniel would approve.”

“Well, there’s nothing more you can do today,” Mary said. “And it’s a lovely Sunday afternoon. Would you like to take that son of yours for a walk in his buggy? I’m dying to get out of the house myself. We could walk down to the Trocadéro gardens and maybe even across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. I know a little ice-cream shop and there’s a merry-go-round that you could take Liam on.”

“It sounds wonderful,” I said. “I’ll go and get him ready. It’s only too bad that Sid and Gus can’t join us. I hate to think of them trapped inside on a day like this.”

“I know. It must be hard for them, but with your astute detective skills I’m sure it will all be solved satisfactorily soon and they can start enjoying Paris again.”

My “astute detective skills”! I just hoped I was getting somewhere. To me it felt as if I was one of those little mice in a cage, running around and around in circles. Maybe tomorrow would be a turning point, I tried to tell myself optimistically.

I tried to put aside my concerns as we pushed the buggy through the gardens and Liam delighted in watching sparrows and dogs and children playing. Celeste served a delicious dinner but I found it hard to eat. Only the meringue with chestnut stuffing slipped down easily, and I was glad when it was finally time for bed.

I awoke at first light, my nerves taut and my brain telling me to get up as there was work to be done. A mist from the river hung at the end of the street and hid the rising sun, but it promised to be another fine day. I looked down at Liam, still sleeping peacefully in his crib.
No cares in the world,
I thought. He probably won’t even remember that he nearly died in a bomb blast, that his nursemaid covered him with her own body as the roof came down. He doesn’t know that his father’s life is constantly in danger or that his mother has to try to find a murderer. I went to the bathroom to complete my toilet before he awoke, then nursed him and carried him down for the boiled egg that had become his new favorite food.

When he was finally settled on a rug in the salon with Sid and Gus I slipped away, joining the morning crowds on the Métro back to Place Pigalle. I came up to see that the area around the fountain in the middle of the Place was now full of young women, some of them skimpily clad, one actually wearing a bustier and fishnet stockings, others dressed more demurely. One or two were smoking. Others were drinking coffee or something stronger as they sat chatting with artists. I walked among them, looking for the girl in Reynold Bryce’s painting, but didn’t see her.

“Are you new?” one girl called to me. “Yes, you. You must be new or you wouldn’t be stupid enough to stand on my pitch.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not a model. I’m looking for one myself.”

“Oh, you’re a painter, are you?” Her demeanor toward me changed and she took a provocative pose. “My rates are reasonable and they say I have the best legs in Paris.”

“I’m looking for a particular type,” I said. “Young-looking. Big dark eyes. Lots of dark hair. I saw a picture of her and now I have to paint her too.”

The woman looked around, then shrugged. “I don’t know who you mean,” she said.

“So a model who resembles that description doesn’t come to the market?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never seen her and I’m here regularly.”

Another brilliant thought struck me. “What about a model called Pauline? Used to pose for Reynold Bryce?”

“Pauline?” She looked amused. “Pose for him? That’s an interesting way of putting it.” She leaned toward me blowing stale cigarette breath in my face. “You don’t want to paint her, my dear. Too much temperament. Besides, she’s already chatting with Monsieur Degas over there.”

“She’s here?” I looked around until I spotted Degas’s tall, lean form. Then I saw the girl he was talking to. “That’s Pauline?”

“That’s right. Pauline Hubert. Used to be Bryce’s mistress.”

I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, staring at her. She was beautiful, with ash-blonde hair piled high on her head, perfect bone structure, and an air of patrician purity about her. And she was young. In her early twenties at the most. So what sort of joke had been shared when that man at the Steins’ declared she was too old?

I hesitated then made my way toward her. I wasn’t at all sure what I was going to say. Degas saw me first. “Ah, it’s the young lady from America.
Bonjour,
madame. What brings you to our model market? Curiosity? Don’t be embarrassed. There are many tourists who are curious about us. They think this must be a den of vice, but it is simply a way for artists to find the body they wish to paint. I’m trying to persuade Pauline here that I would like to paint her in her bathtub. So far she resists.” And he gave me a wicked smile.

“Pauline?” I pretended to be surprised. “Were you not painted by Reynold Bryce once?”

“He painted me, yes.” The eyes that observed me were cold and I could tell she was trying to work out who I was. “Several times. But he was satisfied with none of them. He was not a man who was easily satisfied.”

“You must be sad to learn of his passing,” I said.

She shrugged. “It means nothing to me. That is all ancient history now. Frankly I was glad to walk away from him. Old and boring, and too possessive.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a reporter?”

“Possibly,” I said, holding her gaze.

She looked at Degas then shrugged. “I can tell you nothing. Frankly I don’t think he was worth killing. One only kills a person who stirs up deep and violent emotions. Love, hate, jealousy. They might drive someone to kill. But Reynold—he was of your generation, Monsieur Degas.”