I had no wish to get into a political debate. I thanked Mr. Degas hastily, nodded to the group of artists, and left. Mary Cassatt, I said to myself. An American painter. Had she sent me the postcards, and if so, why?
As I crossed Pigalle to the Métro station I felt a tiny spark of optimism for the first time. I didn’t remember Sid and Gus mentioning Mary Cassatt, but she was an unmarried American woman painter, so it was quite likely that Sid and Gus might have made her acquaintance. But so what? I asked myself. They had written about Willie Walcott and Maxim Noah and neither of them had any idea where Sid and Gus might have gone. But one of the cards was mailed on the day after they vanished. And there was the likeness to Liam. Surely all those were significant. But why not address the postcard with my real name? Unless, of course, they did not want anyone to know I was staying with them. Again my thoughts went back to the Italian gang and the fact that I too might be in danger.
I didn’t care that it was still midmorning. I would find this Miss Cassatt and then if the interview led to nothing helpful, I’d make the rounds of hospitals and go to the police. With resolute step I descended into the darkness of the Métro and was soon on my way to the Champs-élysées. It was a long street, I knew, and I had no idea where the Rue de Marignan might be found along its length. So I decided to start at one end, at the Place de la Concorde and work my way up to the Arc de Triomphe. As I came up the steps into the noise and traffic of that great oval space the sky was heavy with the promise of more rain. In fact it felt as if it might also thunder. Not a pleasing prospect. I started to walk up the avenue, first passing between gardens with buildings that looked like palaces set back among the trees. On a sunny day it would have been a delightful stroll, but the first drops of rain pattered onto me within a few minutes and I was forced to put up my brolly. After the gardens I came to a traffic circle with the Rue Montaigne leading off to the left. This was a name I recognized. I had taken that road to the Rue Fran?ois Premier, where Reynold Bryce had lived and died. Miss Cassatt had indeed moved to a good area of the city. Either she was independently wealthy like Mr. Bryce, or her paintings sold well, or … I considered a third possibility … she had a rich lover. Such things were accepted in Paris, so I was told.
I hadn’t gone much further up the Champs-élysées before the heavens opened and rain came down in a great deluge. The gravel path turned to mud beneath my feet, then to puddles, then small lakes. Wind whipped the rain to drench my skirt as I struggled to control the umbrella and then, to crown it all, there was a flash followed by a crash of thunder almost overhead. I was horribly aware that I was walking under trees. I put my head down and stomped on resolutely. I was so intent on battling the storm that I almost walked past the Rue de Marignan. It was a narrow, treeless side street, and thank God it wasn’t very long, as another clap of thunder rumbled overhead. But it appeared that number 10 was at the far end. I sloshed miserably forward, telling myself I was a fool for undertaking this in such weather. Miss Cassatt would not be pleased to see a drowned rat on her doorstep and I’d probably come away having learned nothing new.
At last I found it—an impressive white stone building with the obligatory wrought-iron balconies and, as M. Degas had remembered, a solid green front door. I knocked on this with some trepidation. It was opened cautiously by a maid, unmistakably French in a black dress and frilled white apron.
“Oui, Madame?” she asked.
“I have come to see Miss Cassatt,” I said. “My name is Sullivan. Madame Sullivan. I have just arrived in Paris and think she might know two friends of mine.”
“Please come in.” She opened the door wider so that I could step into a foyer. It had a white marble floor onto which I was now dripping. “You are American?”
“I am from Ireland, but I live in New York, where my friends also live. I am sorry to disturb Miss Cassatt so early in the day, but it is a matter of importance.” At least I hope that is what I was saying. I was feeling too cold, miserable, and depressed to be able to think clearly in a foreign tongue.
“Please wait here,” the maid said. “I will tell Mademoiselle Cassatt that you have arrived. And may I take your umbrella? The weather, it is most inclement, no?”
I agreed that it was. She went up a flight of stairs while I attempted to make myself look more respectable in the gilt-framed mirror. I looked up as the maid returned down the stairs. “Miss Cassatt will be happy to receive you,” she said. “Please follow me.”