I thanked him and took the Métro back to the city center. I remembered Ellie mentioning a teahouse on the Rue de Rivoli, so that seemed like a good place to start. I walked the length of the colonnade glancing into all the little shops and cafés until I finally found an attractive establishment called Angelina. It did look very inviting with its display of exquisite pastries and little marble tables. I stood hesitating in the doorway, wondering what to say that would not sound completely mad, when I heard voices echoing from the arched ceiling of the colonnade.
“Really, Mother. You can’t want tea at this hour. I promised Porky that we’d meet him at the Louvre.” And Justin Hartley and his family were coming toward me, only a few steps away. I couldn’t think what to do. If I ran on ahead I would surely be noticed. If I went into the tea shop their mother might well prevail and follow me inside.
“Madame wishes a table?” A chubby little man with an impressive mustache appeared at my shoulder and literally escorted me inside. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Justin and his family go past. So he had gotten his way again. For once I was grateful. I took the chair the patron had pulled up for me and sat. This was clearly going to be an extravagance, especially for one who has no idea how long her money has to last, but I really couldn’t back out without looking an awful fool, and risk another encounter with the Hartleys. I ordered a pot of tea and the smallest pastry I could find. The café owner joked, “Ah, madame wishes to preserve her excellent figure,” and I didn’t contradict him. When he brought the tea I asked, “I understand that two friends of mine, American ladies, like to frequent this tea salon. I had hoped to run into them here. One of them wears her hair cut short like this. Dark hair. Very striking. You’d remember her.”
He frowned. “No, madame. You must have confused us with another establishment. I do not recall these ladies coming in here.”
“Oh, dear. I am sorry. I wonder which other tearoom they might have meant?”
“Perhaps you are thinking of Ladurée on the Rue Royale,” he said. “Or maybe Maison Cador on the other bank of the river in Saint Germain. They are both fine places, in their way.” He shrugged as if it was almost an insult to compare them to this queen of establishments.
I sat, enjoying every sip of the tea. Being raised in Ireland tea was as familiar to me as mother’s milk and I still hadn’t learned to fully appreciate the coffee that Daniel and Sid and Gus preferred. The little pastry melted in my mouth. Quite heavenly, as Ellie had said. But when I received the bill I realized that I must not be trapped into taking tea at the other establishments. I thanked the proprietor and made my way first to Ladurée and then across the Seine to the Left Bank where I found the Maison Cador. Neither of these teahouses remembered seeing Sid and Gus. I stood for a long while outside each of them, looking around for any kind of clue. The trouble was that I didn’t know what I was looking for.
By the end of the day I had covered every notable tea salon in the city and was none the wiser. If Sid and Gus wanted to convey a message to me from a blank postcard and a picture of a woman drinking tea, they had not succeeded. I had to conclude that the postcard was meant for one of them and had no hidden meaning. I retrieved Liam, bought some vegetables and a neck bone to make soup and went back to number 35. I braced myself for Madame Hetreau’s caustic comments as I came into the front hallway and steeled myself to tackle the stairs. I had already gone up the first three or four before a voice behind me called, “Madame. One moment. I believe I have something else that might be for you.” And she held out another postcard.
Twenty-two
I almost slipped in my hurry to come down.
“I found this today,” she said. “It had been put by mistake in the slot of Monsieur DuPont who is away at the moment and I only noticed it when I was dusting. But it seems to be from the same person as your postcard yesterday, no?”
I took it from her. It was another reproduction of a painting—this time it was of a mother and child. The child was about the age of Liam, dark-haired like him, and naked in his mother’s arms. Again it was addressed to La Dame Américaine qui visite … in a hand I didn’t recognize. Again there was no message.
I held it out to Madame Hetreau. “Does this mean anything to you?”
“The child resembles your son a little perhaps.”
He did resemble Liam. So I had to take it that the postcard was meant for me. But apart from that I was completely in the dark.