“Don’t worry, I’ve several things planned that won’t involve risk,” I said. “If I go and find Maxim this afternoon and get the model’s name from him, I can find out more about her. And then I’m going to talk to the housekeeper in the morning, when she’s cleaning up Mr. Bryce’s apartment. I want to hear what she’s got to say about the model, and whether she was in the studio when the housekeeper left to go shopping. I’d also like her opinion on your cousin, Gus.”
“On Willie? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Nothing, I hope. But he fell out of favor with Mr. Bryce recently and I just wondered … well, what sort of relationship he had had with him, and whether…” I stumbled, not knowing how to put this without offending.
“We asked ourselves the same thing,” Sid said. “But we didn’t know about his lack of money at the time. You want to know whether Mr. Bryce was supporting him financially and thus—”
“Hold on a minute,” Gus said. “You’re not suggesting that my cousin might have anything to do with Reynold Bryce’s death, are you? I’ve known Willie all my life. We used to play together at their summer cottage in Maine. He’s a good bit younger than I, but a sweet and funny kid. I’d say there was no malicious bone in him.”
“I’m sure he had nothing to do with the murder, Gus,” I said hastily, although I wasn’t so sure. I suspected that Willie Walcott did have a few malicious bones in him, given the right circumstances. Maybe tomorrow I’d learn whether he had been to visit Reynold Bryce recently and what had transpired between them.
Thirty
That afternoon, after I had put Liam down for his nap, I took the Métro back to my old neighborhood in Montmartre. The cafés were full but I saw no sign of Maxim or any of his artist friends. So I trudged up the many steep alleyways and steps until I reached the very summit of the hill and found Le Bateau-Lavoir building. The front door, as usual, was half-open. I stepped inside and heard no sound of voices.
“Hello?” I called. “Bonjour?”
Nobody answered me. The place was as still as a morgue. I came out again. An old man was sitting on the fence opposite, smoking a long, old-fashioned pipe. He looked up at me and grinned, revealing a toothless mouth. “You won’t find them there on a Sunday afternoon,” he said. “They’ll be at the Moulin, with everyone else.”
Of course. The afternoon dance at the Moulin de la Galette. I followed the lane around, past gardens where people were working or just enjoying the fresh air, until I came to the windmill. It was in a garden, surrounded by a high wall. I heard the thump of lively music long before I reached the entrance. The place was packed. I could hardly squeeze up the steps and in through the narrow opening in the wall.
“Two francs, mademoiselle,” a voice to my right said in my ear and I saw that there was a gatekeeper.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not staying. I’m just looking for someone who might be here.”
He gave me a patronizing smirk. “You are not the only person who tries that, mademoiselle. If you wish to enter, you must pay the same as everyone and that is two francs.”
Grudgingly I fished two coins from my purse. “Enjoy yourself,” he said. “But beware of pickpockets. Guard your wallet, eh?”
I clutched the purse to me as I forced my way into the crowd. All over the grounds tables were spread with picnics and wine, and families sat around them, laughing, talking, eating. They seemed to be mainly working-class people, dressed in their Sunday best: women in big hats, children in white lace, men in straw boaters. But among them were also young men and women dressed in the latest fashion who had chosen to escape to this environment where class didn’t matter. Those not lucky enough to secure a table stood together with glasses of wine or beer in their hands. And in the middle was the dance floor, also packed with couples dancing a suggestive dance I had never seen before. I started to thread my way between groups, looking carefully for any sign of Maxim. I remembered also the young waiter at the café who had invited Ellie to join him. I wondered if she’d be daring enough to come to something like this alone or whether her fiancé had arrived in Paris yet. But as I made painfully slow progress I saw nobody that I recognized.
“Hello, ma belle. Come and dance.” A hand came around my waist and I was propelled to the dance floor.
I turned to see a young student, his breath already reeking of wine, giving me a cheeky smile.
“No, monsieur. I do not wish to dance,” I said.
“Of course you do. A pretty demoiselle like you should not be alone. Especially one with dangerous red hair.”
“But I’m married, monsieur,” I said. “My husband would not approve.”
He laughed. “If you come here alone, that is his fault, no?” The hand on my waist pressed more forcefully.
“I am here with friends,” I said. “I’m looking for them. Have you perhaps seen an inspector from the Sùreté?”
“An inspector? Here? My god, I hope not. That would really spoil our fun. You are friends with an inspector?”
“I am. And I’m married to one.”
“My apologies, madame. It was only a jest.” He let me go, hastily.