We went up the flight of marble stairs and the maid pushed open double doors into a large room, decorated very much in the French style with brocade drapes at the windows and more brocade on curly white and gold chairs. A pleasant-looking woman who appeared to be in her forties rose from one of these chairs. “Mrs. Sullivan,” she said, holding out her hands to me. “Dear me, you really have been weathering the storm, in more ways than one, haven’t you.”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Miss Cassatt,” I said. “And I have no idea why I am here, but I received two postcards with copies of your paintings on them, and I wondered if they might have anything to do with the disappearance of my two friends, Miss Goldfarb and Miss Walcott. Are you acquainted with them? Can you tell me anything about what has happened to them?”
“I believe I can,” she said. “Won’t you sit down and take some coffee? I’ll ask Celeste to bring us some.”
“I’m afraid I’ll make your sofa rather wet,” I said.
She smiled. “No matter. Please sit.”
I perched on the edge of the sofa while Miss Cassatt went out of the room and I heard her calling in French for the maid. Then the double doors at the far end of the room started to open. A face peered around the door. I jumped up, giving a little cry. Then they were running toward me, arms open.
“Molly, you have found us at last,” Gus said. “Thank God.”
Twenty-three
It was all too much for me. I turned on them—the anger, fear, and frustration all boiling over at once. “Just what did you think you were doing, leaving me all alone and not telling me where you had gone?” I demanded. “Was that your idea of a game, because it wasn’t mine. I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been traipsing all over Paris looking for you. I thought something terrible might have happened to you.” And to my intense shame and embarrassment I burst into tears.
They sat me down, one of them on either side, and tried to comfort me while I sobbed.
“Molly, dearest,” Gus said. “Listen, do. We were so sorry to put you through such torment. We knew you’d be worried, but we couldn’t think how else to contact you. The postcards were Mary’s idea. I’m so glad you were smart enough to figure them out. We thought the child looked like Liam.”
“What do you mean—how to contact me? Why not leave a note for me if you were planning to be staying somewhere else? You had told me you’d meet me at the station—what was I to think?”
“I know, dear Molly,” Sid said. “We have agonized about what to do about you, but you see it is no game. It’s all too real and too horrible. No one can know where I am. The police are certainly looking for me. I am wanted for murder.”
I gulped back tears and looked up at her white and strained face. “For murder? You?”
She nodded.
“Reynold Bryce?” I stammered out the words. “Did you kill Reynold Bryce?”
“Of course she didn’t,” Gus said, “But she must be the prime suspect in the eyes of the police.”
“Why?” I asked.
We broke off as the maid came in with a tray of coffee and little cakes on it. I glanced at Gus.
“It’s all right. Celeste is completely loyal to Miss Cassatt, and she has been absolutely wonderful,” Gus said as Celeste poured coffee for us. “And she speaks no English, which is useful.”
All the same I waited until Celeste had disappeared again before I repeated my question. “Why do the police think you killed Reynold Bryce?”
“Because I was discovered standing over him as he bled to death,” Sid said. “Here, have some coffee to warm you up and I’ll explain.” She handed me a cup and I sipped, gratefully, although I could feel my hand still trembling.
“It was like this, Molly,” she continued. “Remember I wrote to tell you about Reynold Bryce and how Gus hoped to secure an introduction to him through her cousin and to be included in his upcoming exhibition of paintings.”
I nodded.
“The introduction took place. We attended a soirée at his house. Gus corresponded with Reynold Bryce. He seemed friendly and encouraging at first and she had high hopes that he’d include one of her paintings in the showing. She went to visit him a week ago taking several of her paintings with her. Then the next day we got a rude letter saying there was no way he’d consider any painting by her in one of his exhibitions. Poor Gus was devastated. She wrote back, begging him to reconsider, and received a curt rejection. Then on Sunday we were having tea here with Miss Cassatt and told her about Mr. Bryce’s sudden change of heart. Mary suggested it might be because he’d seen me with Gus and realized I was Jewish. She said he was rabidly anti-Semitic, a leader among the anti-Dreyfusards and went out of his way to make sure that Jewish artists and writers were not included in anything that might publicize their work.”