Eighteen
I was in the right part of the city to go immediately to seek out Willie Walcott, but Miss Stein had created a new fear for me—that Sid and Gus’s disappearance might have something to do with my “spot of trouble” in New York. Surely an Italian gang couldn’t have found out about my trip to Paris and sent someone to harm my friends? And even if they’d heard that I was to be sent to Paris, how could they have discovered Sid and Gus’s address? Then I realized that an Italian gang in New York might well have affiliates back in Europe. If they were resourceful and powerful enough they might have infiltrated the New York police, or bribed someone there to report on the doings of Captain Sullivan and his family. Someone could have seen the cable, addressed to my friends. It was entirely possible that they now knew where I was and were watching me, waiting to strike.
So my first thought was to rush back to Liam to make sure he was all right. But then it struck me: Where could I take him to be out of harm’s way? With a heavy child in my arms I’d be an easy target. It would be simple to push me in front of a subway train if I had a baby in my arms—or in front of an approaching carriage or automobile. Or even to grab Liam from a passing vehicle. I stood by the gilt railings that surround the Jardin du Luxembourg in an absolute agony of indecision. Was Liam safer with the baker’s wife? Didn’t Italians love their babies? Surely no gang could be blackhearted enough to murder a baby to punish his father. I decided I’d seek out Willie Walcott before I returned home. It would be one less time I’d have to leave Liam.
Fortunately a policeman, with rain dripping from the brim of his cap, was patrolling the gardens, or I would have walked unnecessary yards in the wrong direction. He pointed me to the Boulevard du Montparnasse at the far end of the park. Accordingly I trudged along, my brolly about to give up the unequal task of battling the wind and rain, feeling miserable and scared and horribly alone. I knew Miss Stein now, I tried to tell myself. She was someone I could turn to if I really needed help. I knew the baker’s wife. I wasn’t quite alone. It just felt that way.
I came at last to the Boulevard du Montparnasse and again I was in luck. The Closerie des Lilas was actually on the corner where it joined the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It had an awning over outside tables and chairs, looking damp and abandoned at this moment. There were lights on inside and I could see heads, including womens’ hats, indicating that this café might be an acceptable place for me to venture alone. I felt a pleasant draft of warmth as I went inside along with the enticing aroma of brewing coffee. A bell jangled above the door and a young man in an apron came over to me. “Bonjour, madame,” he said, wiping his hands on the apron. “Are you here to join someone?”
I was about to ask my questions and then leave again but the coffee smell was too good to refuse. “I’m alone, monsieur. Maybe some friends will be coming in later. I’d just like a coffee.”
“You are from England?” he asked in English.
“From America. Originally from Ireland.”
“Ah. From America. We have many American visitors who come to this café. Poets, playwrights, artists. Which are you?”
“I’m not…” I began then changed my mind. “I write a little poetry,” I said, remembering that Sid had been asked to join a group of poets. “I’m newly arrived here.”
“Ah, then you should meet Monsieur Tarkington.” He turned his attention to a table by the far window at which a group of men were sitting. “He considers himself a fine poet—don’t you, monsieur?”
“Don’t I what?”
“Albert thinks you consider yourself a fine poet,” a young man with red hair said. The person who was being addressed, the Monsieur Tarkington, was an older, more sober-looking individual than the rest of his companions, in his dark three-piece suit with a watch chain draped across his vest. He had a sad-looking, not very handsome face.
“The very finest,” he said. “Although the world likes to think of me only as a novelist. Novels make money, so I write them, but poetry is the true stuff of art. You’re a poetess yourself, madame?”
“I write a little,” I said, stretching the truth.
He stood up. “Booth Tarkington. Come on over and join us. We’re deep in discussion on whether poetry per se needs form.”
I went over and took the chair he had pulled out for me. Coffee was brought and I drank gratefully. The damp coldness had combined with my fear to chill me to the bone. I noticed that some of the men at the table were drinking something bright green in small glasses. It was a fascinating color but I didn’t like to ask them what it was, not wanting to appear a neophyte.