“No, you haven’t, Mr. Walcott,” I said hastily because I could feel all those eyes on me, “But I am a good friend of your cousin Augusta. In fact I came over to stay with them—at their invitation—only to find that they are not here. So I wondered if perhaps Gus had told you anything that might shed light on where they’ve gone.”
“Oh, so you’re the Irish girl.” He smiled at me now, such a devastating smile. “Yes Augusta did mention that they were expecting an Irish friend from New York. But you say they are not at their apartment?”
“No. I’ve been there two days and no sign of them, and no note.”
“That’s certainly strange.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Maybe they got fed up with the primitive conditions of Montmartre. That is where they moved to, isn’t it? ‘Wanting to be in the heart of the art world,’ so they said. As if Montmartre is any more the heart than Montparnasse is. I told them that but Augusta’s companion seemed to be rather opinionated and apparently some relative of hers is a painter there and she seemed to think he was the cat’s whisker when it came to the art world.”
“That’s right,” I said. “She discovered a long-lost cousin. Maxim Noah, wasn’t that his name?”
Willie Walcott shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell with me. Anyhow they wanted to be closer to what he called the Navel of Creativity.”
“They haven’t moved again,” I said. “They’ve left all their things.”
“Sorry, but I can’t help you,” he said. “The last time I saw them was a couple of weeks ago when I told them I’d set up a meeting with Reynold Bryce for them. They were very thrilled. I never did hear how it turned out because Reynold told me he was busy on a new painting and didn’t want to be disturbed.” And he made a strange face, looking for a moment like a petulant child.
There was no point in staying any longer. I rose to my feet. “I have to go,” I said. “Maybe I could have your address, Mr. Walcott, and give you mine, just in case you hear anything about your cousin.”
Willie Walcott and I exchanged addresses. “Do come up and visit me if you feel like it. Don’t be put off by the girls who live on the first floor,” he said. “They are dancers, not what you might think they are.” He promised to get in touch with me if he heard anything about Sid and Gus. I got up and tried to pay for my coffee. Protests came from all around the table. “But we haven’t even started discussing your poetry yet. You simply can’t go.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll come back another time.”
“Come to the poetry circle on Monday. It’s a lively group,” the redheaded one said. “We meet here, but it tends to be something stronger than coffee.”
I left them and found that the rain had eased to a fine misty drizzle. I followed the Boulevard Saint-Michel in the direction of the Seine, anxious now to get back to Liam and frankly at a loss of what to do next. At least Willie Walcott had suggested someone else I might contact—the Jewish relative that Sid had met, who had clearly impressed her, much to the annoyance of Willie Walcott. And my Montmartre painter friends would surely be able to help me locate him. But it seemed like one of those childhood games in which one stumbles around blindfolded and everyone yells out “warmer” and “colder” as one seeks for something. I was getting nowhere and time was ticking on.
On the Boulevard Saint-Michel students were now pouring out of buildings on my right, making for the small cafés and bistros along the street. They laughed and shouted to one another, apparently without a care in the world except for a small group that stood up on a fountain, shouting through a bull horn. “Justice for Drefus now!” they chanted. “Reinstate him. Punish the true guilty one.”
Their words were answered with some cheers and some catcalls. I hurried past, not wanting to get caught up in a brawl.
As I approached the ?le de la Cité a great bell tolled, ringing the Angelus for midday. I suspected it must come from Notre-Dame and longed to see that church for myself. But I had no time to play sightseer and besides, I needed to steer clear of any sights that might attract tourists like Justin Hartley and his family. As if in answer to the great bell of the cathedral other bells took up the midday chime across the city until the air reverberated with their sound. It was a while now since I had lived in a Catholic country and the sound of the Angelus stirred something in me—a memory of the safer, simpler days of my childhood when the church played a big part in my life.