City of Darkness and Light (32 page)

“Thank you for the compliment, mademoiselle,” Degas said, looked at me, and grinned. “This old man of the past still manages to sell his paintings for a nice amount. If you pose for me,
chérie,
your face will be seen around the world. And that nice little body too.”

“Make it worth it for me while I am still living,” Pauline said. “I have no interest in being famous after my death.”

He looked at me and smiled again. “She drives a hard bargain, this one, but look at the face. Look at the bone structure. The face of an angel.”

“And the temper of a devil, monsieur. Beware,” Pauline answered, giving him a challenging gaze.

“Perhaps you can help me,” I said. “I am looking for a particular model. Young, luxuriant dark hair; big dark eyes like a waif. An innocent child.”

Pauline and Degas looked at each other and shrugged. “One does not see too many innocent children around Place Pigalle,” Pauline said. “If they come here, they do not stay innocent for long. I do not recall seeing the one you describe.”

Thirty-one

I wandered around the market once more, then abandoned this particular search and tried the Nouvelle Athènes. but it must have been too early for the painters. Their usual table was empty. I would have to come back later, after I had tackled the housekeeper. I couldn’t risk missing her at Reynold Bryce’s. And as I descended into the gloom of the Métro I thought about Pauline. From what she said her affair with Reynold Bryce had ended some time ago and was as much her decision as his. She had the temperament to stab someone, but had made it clear that he wasn’t worth stabbing. And the interesting fact was that she didn’t know the little dark waif whom Reynold Bryce had been most recently painting. Nobody did. So who was she and where did he find her?

I stepped into the Métro car and we rattled off into darkness. I have to confess that I felt a knot of apprehension in my throat as I walked down from the Champs-Élysées to the Rue François Premier. I had to approach this conversation with the housekeeper in the correct manner. I’d only have one chance and if she shut the door on me, then that would be that. There was an added complication that the police might be guarding the place or even sitting inside with the housekeeper to make sure she didn’t take anything. I had no idea what I might say to them to gain admittance.

As I approached the Rue I saw that there was indeed a young policeman standing in the street.
Oh, dear. Now what?
I wondered if there was any way into the building from the rear. There was often a janitor in residence in such buildings, wasn’t there? And trash would not be carried through that fancy front entrance. I prowled the outside of the building and halfway down the block, where the Rue Bayard approached the Seine, I found a small wooden door, propped open by a garbage can. I went through a cobbled archway and found myself in that central area between buildings. In contrast to the attractive façades that faced the street, these walls were unadorned. There was even laundry hanging from one window on the far side, and it didn’t smell too good either. I crept along, hugging the wall, until I came to what had to be Reynold Bryce’s building. And I was right. Behind an iron railing a narrow flight of steps went down to a door. I stepped down gingerly, tried the door. It resisted at first but in response to a good shove from my shoulder it creaked open. I was in a basement, in complete darkness apart from the light that came in through the open door. I heard the roar of what must have been a furnace and smelled the odor of laundry and garbage. At least if it was in darkness I was not in danger of bumping into a custodian down here. I felt my way forward until I found a flight of stone stairs going up. I followed them until my hands touched another door. A crack of light was coming under it. I turned the knob and opened it a few inches. I was staring at the back of the elevator. I came out and inched my way around until I was in the foyer. No sign of any police presence and the front door to Reynold Bryce’s suite was ajar. I tiptoed past the elevator, across the marble floor, and in through that door.

Still no sign of a policeman. I still hadn’t come up with anything credible to say if I encountered one, but spurred on by success so far I listened for noises indicating where the housekeeper might be working. Hearing nothing I peeked into the salon, then went through to the dining room and the studio. There was no sign that she had been in any of them. Everything lay as I saw it last with a film of dust over the long mahogany table. I returned and pushed open the swing door to the kitchen. Pots and pans had been stacked in boxes and the shelves had been cleared. So at least I knew she had been working here. I returned to the foyer and went down the hall leading to the bedrooms. I froze as I heard a muttered exclamation coming from Bryce’s bedroom, then I tiptoed toward the sound. The housekeeper was in there, taking items out of the chest of drawers. For a moment I wondered if she had counted the handkerchiefs and noticed that one was now missing. She went on removing shirts and underclothing and placing them in a trunk that now lay on the feather mattress of the stripped bed.

Now I had to think how to attract her attention without startling her and making her cry out. I retreated a few paces then called, “Madame, are you here? A message for you from the inspector.”

She came out, her eyes darting nervously, wiping down her hands on her apron. “The inspector? What does he want now?”

Then she stopped when she saw me. “You? What do you want? You are not from the police. You should not be here. Get out immediately or I will summon the constable outside.”

“Ah, but he let me in, madame,” I said. “The inspector understands that as a representative of the Bryce family in America I would want to ask you some questions and be here when you pack up his things.”

“What kind of questions?” she snapped. “I don’t need to answer any questions. There is nothing I can tell you.”

“You could begin by telling me what was in those large bags I saw you carrying away yesterday.” I held her gaze and noticed the eyes darting nervously again. She ran her tongue over her thin lips.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last.

“Of course you do. You went in and helped yourself to Mr. Bryce’s things. As a representative of Mr. Bryce’s cousin—who may well inherit all of this, I should report this criminal act to the police. I have not done so, but I will if you do not help me now.”

“Help you to do what?”

“Find out who killed him, of course. Maybe the police will discover the truth, maybe not. I intend to, and I am sure you want to find out who killed your employer.” She gave a suspicious half nod. “Now—let us start with the model he was painting.”

She pursed her lips. “Shosette,” she said. At least that was what it sounded like. Not a name I recognized. “Shosette Petit.”

“Where did he find her?”

“I believe an artist brought her to meet Monsieur Bryce.”

“Do you know where she lives? Where I can find her?”

“I do not. I know nothing about her. He had only started painting her a few days previously. He brought her in and said to me, ‘This is Shosette. I’m going to be painting her. Make sure you cook enough luncheon for two.’”

“What did you think of her?” I asked.

She shrugged. “She didn’t appear to be a bad little thing. Not like some models who are no better than they should be. Very quiet, never said a word to me. But then her French wasn’t very good.”

“It wasn’t? Where did she come from?”

“I’m not sure. Eastern Europe, or Italy? I’ve no idea. All I know is that she spoke with a strong accent and didn’t always have the words to express herself. But no matter. He was very taken with her. He never painted portraits these days, but he had to paint her.” She paused, wiped her hands again, then said, “He was that kind of man. He liked to have the young and beautiful around him.”

“Like Willie Walcott?”

She looked surprised. “Walcott? Yes, Monsieur Bryce enjoyed his company for a while. He tried to paint Monsieur Walcott, but he was not satisfied with the result. Nothing came of it.”

I tried to phrase the next question. “You say ‘enjoyed his company.’ Did he stay here for a while, as his special companion?”

“He sometimes slept…” she paused, then glared at me. “What is it that you suggest? Absolutely no, madame. Monsieur Walcott might have sometimes stayed in the guest bedroom, but then Monsieur Bryce was hospitable. He had guests to visit frequently.” I thought privately that she would not have known if someone had tiptoed down that hallway at night.

“But Monsieur Walcott hadn’t been a guest here for a while?”

“Not for a month or more.”

“So you hadn’t seen him for a month?”

“Except for the brief visit last week.”

“Last week? You mean right before Mr. Bryce died?”

She nodded. “I believe it was the day before Monsieur Bryce was killed. It’s all rather a blur to me now, madame. The shock, you know.”

“Of course, it was a tremendous shock to you. But can you remember anything about the visit of Monsieur Walcott? Was it just a pleasant social call? Do you know why he had come?”

“He was upset, madame, I can tell you that much. He stormed in, waving something at the master.”

“Something?”

“A piece of paper, madame. Maybe a letter?” She frowned, trying to remember. “And Monsieur Bryce told me to get on with my work. I asked if Monsieur Walcott would be staying for lunch and Monsieur Bryce said a firm ‘No.’ So I went but I overheard the young man saying ‘You’ve let me down. You’re a liar.’” She looked up at me now.

“Did he say why?”

“They spoke English, madame. After eighteen years of the master shouting at me in his native tongue I can understand a lot, but not when American people speak quickly together. Anyway shortly afterward the young man went.”

“And did not return again? You never saw him after that moment?”

“I did not. But I told you, after that is all a blur. One horrible nightmare. I can’t bear to think about it. Seeing my poor master there, and that fiend standing over him. I might have been killed too if I hadn’t run out, screaming for help.”

“Did you describe the man you saw standing over him to the police?”

“That’s just the problem. All I saw was the knife in Mr. Bryce’s chest and all that blood and his poor face, his eyes imploring for help. A slim young man, rather dandified. That’s all I could say.”

She looked around the room. “I should be getting on with my work.”

“I’ll help you,” I said. I opened the wardrobe and began to hand her down his jackets and suits. “Do you want them with tissue paper between them?”

She hesitated, not wanting me to get involved but glad to have someone helping her. “Yes, that would be a good idea.”

“So to return to that terrible day, madame,” I said, looking up as I lay a black smoking jacket into the trunk. “Was this model Shosette not there when he was killed? Wasn’t he working on the painting of her at that very moment?”

“She had walked out that morning,” the housekeeper replied. “They had some kind of altercation. I heard raised voices. I heard the front door slam. When I came to the studio to see what was wrong Monsieur Bryce was standing there alone at his easel. He said to me, ‘Silly girl. She’ll be back if she knows what’s good for her.’”

“And did she come back?”

“Not as far as I know. He ate lunch alone and then I had to go to the market to get the meat for his dinner. He was alone when I left him. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Presumably the police have questioned this girl?”

“They tell me nothing, madame. All I know is she was not the one who plunged the knife into him. That’s all that matters.”

“So she was definitely not in the apartment when he was killed?”

She looked around. “I cannot say ‘definitely.’ She could have hidden but I do not see how she could have slipped out past us. I was at the front steps, you understand.”

“There is a way out through the basement, is there not?”

“Yes, but usually it is kept locked and not easy to find for those who do not know the building well.”

I found it,
I thought.
Others could too.

“And anyway,” she said, looking up as she placed a pile of white shirts into the trunk. “Why would she want to kill Monsieur Bryce? He was giving her employment.”

“You said yourself they had an argument that morning and she went out and slammed the door.”

“Monsieur was a temperamental man. He often fought with people. Perhaps she was temperamental too. That sort often are. But what cause would she have to kill him?”

“That is the main question, isn’t it,” I said. “What cause would anyone have to kill him?”

“I can’t answer that. Perhaps the answer lies across the ocean. One thing I ask myself is why all these people suddenly arrive on my doorstep from America—after all these years?”

I was suddenly alert. “All which people?”

“You, for one,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “You arrive, saying you bring a message from his family. That is what the other young woman said too.”

“Which other?”

“The one who resembles the painting in the foyer, with the blonde hair.”

“Ah,” I nodded. “I know the person of whom you speak. She came to visit him the day before he died, no?”

“She did, madame. But he was occupied and told her to go away. He was annoyed that she was here. He said to me, ‘It’s never over, is it, Claudette? Now it starts again. It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.’ I asked him, ‘What is, monsieur?’ And he said, ‘That specter.’”

“‘Specter’? He meant the young blonde girl?”

“He said no more. But she returned the next day.”

“The day he was killed?” I could hear my voice, shrill and louder than I intended. I hoped it had not carried to the policeman outside.

“That very day, madame. She arrived when he had just finished his lunch and gone back to his studio. She looked very … flustered. Her cheeks pink. She said she had to see him. It was important. So I took her through to him. He said, ‘Leave us, Claudette.’ And I did. I went through to clean up the dining table—”