“To a better neighborhood,” someone else commented. “Her paintings actually sell for real money.”
“Do you know where this neighborhood might be?” I asked impatiently.
They shrugged, having little interest in a woman painter. Then one of them looked out of the window. “Monsieur Degas would know,” he said. “Surely he and La Cassatt were good friends?”
“And where would I find this Monsieur Degas?”
“He usually stops in here for an absinthe.” They looked at each other for confirmation.
“I haven’t seen him since he heard of the death of Reynold Bryce. Those two were great friends, were they not?”
“They were both anti-Dreyfusards. I don’t know about friends. I thought it was with Monet that Bryce was so friendly. Not that one sees Monet anymore, now that he has gone into hibernation outside the city.”
Really they were most annoying in the way they went off on tangents.
“So does anyone know where M. Degas lives?” I asked.
“Around here somewhere. One often sees him.”
My frustration was about to boil over when one of them said, “You are in luck, madame. Here he comes now.” And the thin, dark man with the glowering face was striding toward the café door.
“That must be my signal to leave,” Maxim said. “I know what he thinks about me and it’s not pretty.”
“Sit down, Maxim.” Picasso yanked on his arm. “He won’t want to join us. You know what he thinks of our painting. He despairs of all of us equally.”
The tall man pushed open the door, looked across at the group at the table, glanced at me with a glimmer of interest, then nodded to the waiter. “The usual, Bernarde.” Then he sat himself down with his back to the rest of the company and took out the newspaper to read.
“Monsieur Degas,” the well-dressed member of our table whose name I had not yet learned called across to him. “Will you not join us?” The speaker grinned to his friends and I suspected he had only said this to annoy.
“Thank you, but no. I am mourning the loss of a good friend and have no wish for companionship or light banter,” Degas replied.
“Then perhaps you can assist this lady who visits from America. She wishes to know the address of Mary Cassatt. She has recently moved, no?”
Degas turned to look at me. “Mary Cassatt?” he said. “Yes, she moved away. She now lives in the civilized and rarefied air of the first arrondissement. On the Rue de Marignan, madame. Just off the Champs-élysées. I believe, if my memory does not fail me, that it is number ten. In any case there is a small café directly opposite with a striped awning and her house has an impressive green front door.”
“Thank you, monsieur.” I could have hugged him.
“You come from America to visit Miss Cassatt?” he asked, nodding as the waiter put the glass of green liquid in front of him.
“Oh, she’s American?” I blurted out and saw him looking at me curiously.
“But naturally. Now that Reynold Bryce is no more, we must count her as the premier Impressionist from your country. A fine painter, for a woman.”
I chose to ignore that last line. I had encountered it often enough when I had been told that I was not a bad detective, for a woman.
“If you wish to buy one of her paintings, I think you must be prepared to spend a good amount,” he went on. “Her work has become popular, both here and in her homeland. She paints sentimental subjects, you see—babies, families, all suitable for any drawing room. Not like the subjects that some of us choose.” And he gave a wry smile. “And now that Bryce is dead, no doubt his paintings will command a higher price.” The smile faded. “Such a loss. Such a waste. And they still haven’t found out who did this vile deed. Curse the damned Jews. If I ever find the man that did this, I will happily strangle him personally.”
“You are quite sure it was a Jew who killed Bryce, are you?” one of the men at the table called across to Degas.
“But naturally. Did they not say that a young Jewish man was seen running from Bryce’s house?”
“Propaganda!” a raised voice shouted. I think it was that of Maxim Noah. “Blame everything on the Jews, no? So convenient.”