“Perhaps they got tired of Paris and went to seek the sun on the Mediterranean. Lots of people do.”
“No,” I shook my head firmly. “They haven’t gone away, not deliberately anyway. All their things are still in their apartment. And they invited me to stay with them. They knew I was coming.”
“Well, that’s a rum do.” She rubbed her head vigorously with the towel. “What do you suppose might have happened to them?”
“I don’t know, that’s the problem,” I said. “I don’t know where to start. I know they were in contact with Reynold Bryce because there was a postcard from him posted just a day or two before they vanished.”
“So where are you staying?”
“At their apartment at the moment,” I said, “although the landlady keeps suggesting that I move on. I suspect she’d like to relet their room, although I don’t think she can throw me out until the end of the month.”
“Well I suppose we could always put you up here, if it came to that,” she said.
“That’s very kind, but no thank you,” I replied. “I have a small baby, for one thing. And I want to stay on at my friends’ place just in case some mail or any kind of message comes that might give me a clue as to where they’ve gone.”
“Quite right.” She nodded. “So there’s no hint at all as to what might have happened to them?”
“None at all. It’s as if they vanished in the middle of a normal day. There was food still on the table, Miss Goldfarb’s cigarette holder, Miss Walcott’s shawl. I was really worried when I heard that Reynold Bryce had been murdered, because I thought that perhaps…” I paused, and then said, “But if the killer was a young Jewish man, then surely a fellow Jew would not have been one of his targets.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. Unless he was deranged. Some of these young artists do go off their rockers, you know. Or aren’t quite stable to begin with and then they drink enough absinthe and go off the deep end. Have you spoken with any of their friends?”
“I don’t know who their friends are. I know that Augusta Walcott has a cousin here. He arranged the introduction to Mr. Bryce.”
“Oh, yes. Willie Walcott. Another of Bryce’s golden boys, following him around and hanging on his every word. Of course young Willie is a very pretty boy, in fact I shouldn’t be at all surprised if…” She broke off, but then added, “Well, none of that matters now.”
“Do you have any idea where I’d find Willie Walcott?”
“He lives somewhere in Montparnasse,” she said. “Most of the American painters favor that area over Montmartre. Americans like their creature comforts, don’t they? And Montmartre does tend to be a trifle primitive—and wild.”
“Do the Americans have a gathering place where he might be found?”
“I’d try the Closerie des Lilas on the Boulevard Montparnasse,” she said. “Not too far from here, although I doubt anyone would be there at this hour. Far too early for people to want to socialize.”
I had to smile. “I’m sorry I disturbed you,” I said. “I have a young child and I’m used to rising at dawn these days. I’d forgotten that life is more leisurely for other people.”
“Do you have a husband somewhere or have you dumped him?” she demanded frankly.
“He’s back in New York. He’s a policeman and there was a spot of trouble so he wanted me safely far away from the city.”
“I see.” She frowned. “You don’t think your spot of trouble could have anything to do with your friends’ disappearance?”
This had never occurred to me before and I felt myself going cold all over. Could the Italian gang have such a long reach that they were able to harm my friends this far away? Were they at this minute enjoying watching my feeble attempts to find Sid and Gus before they swooped to attack me? In which case—my heart did a terrifying lurch—Liam wasn’t safe with the baker’s wife.
I stood up. “I have to go,” I said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Not at all. I quite enjoy a little drama. Write down your name and address, and I’ll let you know if I hear anything. You’re welcome to come on Saturday night and ask people yourself. You never know. It’s a small community here. We enjoy minding each other’s business.”
I wrote on the back of my American calling-card and handed it to her.
“We may see you on Saturday then,” she said.
“I’m not sure about that. I can’t leave my son in the evening.”
“Bring him with you. We’ll find a closet to put him in.” Then she laughed at my shocked face. “Other parents have done it before now. In my experience, which isn’t great, I confess, babies can survive almost anywhere.”
“Unfortunately mine has already learned to crawl and is turning into an escape artist,” I said. “But thank you all the same. I’ll see when it comes to Saturday.”
She held out her hand to me and pumped mine heartily. “Best of luck to you. I’m sure it will all turn out all right. Things usually do.”
Not for Reynold Bryce, I thought as I walked down the stairs.