“The truth that you are Jakob Klein and in no way related to my friend Elena Goldfarb. Why did you claim to be her cousin?”
He looked at me scornfully, as if I was particularly dense. “She’s a rich American. I overheard her talking about looking for her family in Paris and I decided she’d be helpful to a poor struggling cousin.” He shrugged. “It was easy to convince her. She herself had supplied all the details.”
“You deceived her,” I said angrily.
“One does what one must to survive. They burned our village. They killed our parents. We came here with nothing. I had my sister to protect.”
“And yet you let her model for Reynold Bryce? Was that protecting her?”
I saw anger flash in his eyes. “I had no idea that he would behave in that way. He saw her with me at a showing Chez Vollard. He said he’d like to paint her, and if I agreed he would include some of my work in his exhibition. The money was good, and the chance to be in his exhibition—well, it would mean everything. We could not turn it down. But I did not know that he would paint her in the nude. And when she came to me, sobbing hysterically and saying he tried to rape her, I was beside myself with rage.”
“So you went to see him.”
“And do you know what he said? He laughed and said, ‘Do you really think I was going to include a painting in my exhibition by a filthy Jew? I only wanted a way to your little sister.’ And I said, ‘But she’s a Jew too. You didn’t mind touching her.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Sometimes even Jews are enticing enough that one makes exceptions. There is no logic in the desires of the flesh.’”
“So you killed him.”
“The knife was lying there on the table. I was in a red rage. So angry I could not control myself. I grabbed it and plunged it into his chest.”
All the time we talked I was horribly aware that he stood between me and the gateway from the cemetery. I knew I had to play for time. Sooner or later someone would come past and I could escape.
“Your sister believes you have gone to England—or was she lying to me as well?”
“I told her I had gone. She is young and innocent. I do not want her implicated in this. And I do plan to go, as soon as I can get enough money together and find a way to ship my paintings.”
“Aren’t you worried about getting caught if you linger here too long? If I’ve worked it out, I am sure that others have too. And what about your sister if you get caught? Who will protect her if you face the guillotine?”
He shrugged again. “There will be no guillotine, madame. I was defending the honor of my sister. Any court in France will understand this. They make exceptions for the crime passionel. I shall be considered a hero.”
“Then I wish you good luck. Bonne chance,” I said. I had noticed a couple approaching the gateway to the cemetery. Soon they would be close enough to hear if I shouted for help. I gave him a curt bow and tried to move past him. He put an arm around my shoulder as the couple came closer. “But ma chérie, you did not think I’d let you go, did you?” he said and pulled me close to him.
“Don’t be foolish,” I replied. “I am not your chérie.” I tried to shrug him off and instead felt a sharp prick of pain at my side.
“I am efficient with a blade,” he whispered into my ear. “One wrong move and it will be your last. We will take a walk, you and I, among the graves.”
“Why should I walk with you?” I demanded, my voice sharp with fear. “You’ll only kill me anyway, and without the risk of anyone looking on.”
“You will walk because you have no choice,” he said, and I felt the pressure of that knife digging into me. “And maybe all I want is your money to help me get to England. We shall see how I feel.”
And he propelled me forward, one arm draped around my shoulder like a lover, while the other one held the knife firmly at my side. I tried to think how to struggle, to throw him off guard without allowing him to stab me first. He half pushed, half carried me between two mausoleums. Then I heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Someone was coming. Someone really tall. I could see his head over the top of the roof of the mausoleum. And I recognized him.
“Monsieur Degas!” I called. “It’s Madame Sullivan.” And I jerked my head back into Maxim Noah’s face, hearing a grunt of pain as I connected with his nose. I followed this with my elbow into his stomach and took that brief moment of surprise to wrench myself free. I ran over to Degas. “What a pleasure to meet you again,” I said, going up to him and taking his arm.
“I have been visiting the family tomb,” he said. “It is the anniversary of the death of my mother. I always take flowers.”