Sid hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t think I want to get anyone else involved, especially not Maxim. If he knows we’re in hiding he may be questioned by police and have to reveal our hiding place. Or appear to be a suspect himself. For the same reason you can’t contact Willie Walcott, Gus. We can’t put family members in danger.”
“I could go and talk to Willie Walcott,” I said. “I got the feeling he knew Mr. Bryce quite well.” And as I said the words I felt a sudden chill. Gertrude Stein had described Willie Walcott as a very pretty boy. And I remembered the petulant look on his face when he had said that Bryce was painting again and didn’t want to be disturbed. Could there be something to Sid’s suggestion after all?
“He will probably be at the Steins’ tonight,” Mary said. “Willie likes to see and be seen, if you know what I mean. I believe he likes the social aspects of art more than the actual painting.”
“What do you think of him as a painter, Mary?” Gus asked.
“Technique’s all right, I suppose, but I’d call him another of the copiers. He can give you a good, lifelike rendition of the Seine, but it is entirely in the style of Monet or Reynold Bryce. I’m sure such pictures sell well at home, but I don’t think any of you Walcotts are lacking for money, are you?”
“I heard that his father had cut off his allowance when he dropped out of Harvard,” I said.
“When did you hear that?” Gus demanded sharply.
“When I met him at the café in Montparnasse. The other fellows said that he was good at sponging off his friends for meals.”
“How strange,” Gus turned to Sid. “We never got that impression, did we? He let us think he was doing awfully well, that he was chummy with Reynold Bryce, and moved in the right circles.”
I’m sure he was chummy with Reynold Bryce, I thought. Out loud I said, “I’ll cross-question him tonight, if he comes to Miss Stein’s salon.”
Celeste appeared at the doorway. “Madame Sullivan, your son is awake and crying.”
I jumped up. “Excuse me,” I said. “Duty calls.”
Duty calls, I repeated to myself as I went up the stairs. It seemed as if life these days was one long round of duty: to my husband, my child, and now to my friends. I tried to remember if ever there was a time when I was carefree. Not for many years, if ever. How I had envied Sid and Gus their freedom to do exactly what they chose on a whim. Well, at this moment I didn’t envy them, and it was my duty to help them.
After I had fed Liam and we had taken our own midday meal Mary contacted some friends about borrowing a baby carriage. I went to pick it up and then Mary and I took Liam for a stroll along the Seine. Liam was enthralled by the traffic on the river and Mary and I enjoyed the lively Saturday afternoon scene—families picnicking on the grass, lovers walking arm in arm, a brightly decorated pleasure craft going past.
“How I love Paris,” Mary said. “It’s always so full of life and people know how to enjoy themselves. In America work always comes first. Never in France.” She turned to look at me. “Now your friends have the right idea. They have learned how to live for the moment.”
“They have money. It helps,” I said. “Without it I imagine they’d have very different lives.”
Mary paused, looking out across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. “Do you think you’ll be able to help them?” she asked. “I can’t bear the thought of Sid shut in a French jail. She’d go mad.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But I can’t possibly do as good a job as the police. I have no access to any evidence they took from Mr. Bryce’s house. What if someone had been blackmailing him? Or he had just broken up with an unsuitable woman? I have no way of finding out those things. In fact I’m beginning to think that their best hope is to leave the country. If Sid dresses properly as a woman again, who would think of stopping them?”
“Unless the police have their names by now. A woman who goes around dressed in male garb does attract attention, you know. I think they are quite safe for the moment in my house.”
“It’s very good of you to take this risk,” I said.
She smiled. “We women have to stick together,” she said.
Twenty-eight
That evening we dined early and then Mary and I set off for the Steins’ apartment on Rue de Fleurus. I was prepared to take the Métro and then walk but Mary insisted on hiring a cab. “The Métro on Saturday night is full of undesirables,” she said, “and later on, when we return, it will be full of drunks.”
I must say it was pleasant to be clip-clopping across the Seine, past the imposing shape of Les Invalides and then down several attractive boulevards lined with bars and restaurants just coming to life until we reached the Rue de Fleurus. Other cabs were disgorging their passengers outside the Steins’ building while younger, impoverished artists were approaching on foot, some carrying paintings under their arms.