After lunch we walked together up the crooked cobbled streets of Montmartre. Actually I was glad to have company as a woman walking alone always feels a little vulnerable, especially in an area of narrow alleys like this—wild, bohemian, untamed. I wanted to seek out Maxim Noah, Sid’s cousin, just in case he had any information about what might have happened to them. I had no idea where he lived and worked but I did now know that a group of artists could be found at the building they called Le Bateau-Lavoir—the laundry boat—and I suspected that Montmartre was small enough that artists knew each other. Narrow cobbled streets led to flights of steps. Respectable stone houses now gave way to shacks as we went higher. There were goats tethered on a plot of grass and someone was growing what looked like beans and asparagus in a small garden behind a shed. It was a strange transformation to be in this primitive and rural environment and yet only steps from a civilized city. Ellie, of course, found it enchanting, especially when we came up the final twisty street to the summit and the great half-built dome of the church reared above us dazzling white, while below us the whole city was spread at our feet.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” she said, spreading wide her arms as if to embrace it. “Being up here with you makes one forget all of one’s troubles, doesn’t it? The rest of the world simply doesn’t matter. I am all-powerful.”
I looked at her fondly. “You are too young to have troubles,” I said. “Inconveniences, to be sure, but…”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “And I can’t tell you. It’s something I have to figure out and get through on my own.” She turned away from me, staring out to where the city melted into distance and the great shape of the Eiffel Tower dominated all else. Then suddenly she swung around, all smiles again. “I’m so glad I met you, Molly. It’s good to have a friend in a strange city, isn’t it?”
I agreed that it was.
“Molly, would you do me a favor? Would you say that we’ve been together all the time I’ve been here? That we’ve seen the sights together?”
“Why should I say that?”
She hesitated, looking down at her neat little shoes, now rather mud-splattered. “Just in case anyone finds out about my being here alone and wants to know.”
I took it that by “anyone” she meant Peter. “How could anyone find out, unless you tell them?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. I think I’m safe, but…” She looked around, then exclaimed. “Look. There is the windmill that Jean told us about. The one with the dancing.”
“I don’t think I’d want you to come up here on your own,” I said. “It is very remote, isn’t it? And the people we have passed were not altogether savory.”
“Oh, come now, Molly. Don’t tell me you never did anything rash and exciting in your youth?”
I smiled at the fact that she saw me as an old woman, even though I was not quite twenty-seven. “Yes, I’ve done plenty of rash and exciting things,” I said, “but they haven’t always been fun and I’ve put my life in danger several times.”
“Have you?” she asked. “Do tell me.”
“I have been a detective,” I said. “And now I’m married to a police captain.”
“Really?” Her look became wary suddenly. “You aren’t over here to help the police, are you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m supposed to be enjoying myself with dear friends, only they’ve upped and vanished, so I’m trying to find out what happened to them.”
“Oh. I see.” She gave the great edifice one last look. “Come on, let’s go on down. It’s quite chilly up here and it might rain again.”
“I need to find a relative of my friend who lives somewhere up here,” I said. “I’m hoping he knows what might have happened to them.” As we passed the Moulin de la Galette, with its gay posters advertising the Sunday bal, I saw an old gentleman with a beard sitting at an easel, painting. I asked if he knew Maxim Noah and he shook his head, not taking his eyes from the trees he was filling in on an enormous canvas. I then asked for the Bateau-Lavoir and was given directions to that, easily enough.
“They call themselves painters,” he muttered as we turned away. “Painters? Don’t know much and don’t want to learn.”
We went down a flight of steps and came out to where a sprawling building of tacked-together timbers looked as if it was in danger of sliding off the side of the hill. As we approached the entrance I saw that this was the top floor while the rest of the building clung below to the steep hillside. It looked fragile and highly dangerous.
“Do you really think we should go in here?” Ellie asked. “It looks absolutely awful. Like a den of thieves.”
“I expect we’ll be all right,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
She stepped back suddenly. “I don’t think we should go inside, Molly. It looks too dirty and horrid. In fact I think I’ve seen enough of Montmartre. It’s too primitive, isn’t it? How funny that some artists should live like this while others have lovely apartments in the best part of the city. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“You mean Mr. Bryce? He’s the only one I know of who lived in the best part of the city. And he’s dead, poor man. That doesn’t seem fair either, does it?”
“I suppose not.” She twisted a strand of hair around a finger, staring at the open door of the Bateau-Lavoir hanging crookedly. “Look, why don’t we go back to the city. I know a heavenly little tearoom on the Rue de Rivoli. They make cakes to die for. Won’t you come with me?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I have to find my friend’s cousin and see what he can tell me. But you don’t have to come with me. I understand.”
“If you’re really sure.” She stared at me, then at that half-open door. “I have to go now,” she said. “You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?”
“I’m sure I will.”