“I don’t know. She’d have no objection to chatting with me if she wasn’t involved in his murder, would she?”
“Do you really think you should speak to her? Would the police approve?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
“Then, Molly, please don’t go.” Sid touched my arm. “I don’t want you to risk getting into trouble. Really I don’t.”
“The inspector never need know,” I said. “I can pose as Mr. Bryce’s relative from America again. Ask innocent questions.”
“But don’t you think you might be putting yourself in danger?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “If she shares a house with a lot of refugee girls I wouldn’t be out of earshot of help. It’s broad daylight, Sid. And Montmartre is a busy place. And if she invites me alone to the cellar I won’t go.”
Sid laughed. I got up. “I’d better go and feed that child. I’ve been neglecting him horribly lately.”
“Frankly I don’t think he’s noticed,” Sid said. “Gus and I have been amusing him nonstop and Celeste has been feeding him all kinds of delicacies. He’s becoming thoroughly spoiled. Oh, and do you know what he did this morning?” She went on as I reached the door. “He stood by himself. If he wasn’t wearing all those annoying skirts he’d be walking.”
My child had stood by himself and I wasn’t there to see it, I thought as I went upstairs. What kind of mother was I? Was it really more important to solve this case and to clear Sid, or to be there for Liam? I considered this and decided that Liam was being fed and amused and quite safe. He’d survive without his mother around him for a few days.
When I tried to nurse him I noticed he was not as interested as he used to be. So that chapter of our lives was drawing to a close. I felt a sadness but also, it must be confessed, some relief too. I changed him, put him down for his afternoon nap, then joined the others for lunch before I set out again.
“You’ll be needing new soles on those shoes before the week is up,” Mary said as I bid them adieu. “You must have covered every inch of Paris by now.”
“My feet certainly feel that way.”
“Then take a rest this afternoon. Put your feet up. Read a book,” she suggested. “I’m sure what you’re about to do can wait until tomorrow. And remember the inspector has forbidden you to interview any more suspects.”
Sid and I looked at each other. “I’m going to check in with Sid and Gus’s old landlady,” I said. “I hope a letter from Daniel might have arrived by now.”
I didn’t look at her as I left the room. The inspector couldn’t stop me having a pleasant chat with a young girl, I decided as I pinned on my hat and left the house. Montmartre was in siesta mode as I came up the steps to Place Pigalle. The busy evening scene had not yet started. The ingredients for the evening meal had already been purchased. The shops were still shut for their long lunch hour. I stopped first of all at the Rue des Martyrs. Madame Hetreau looked surprised to see me. “I thought you’d be off in the country by now,” she said.
“I am visiting Paris to do some shopping,” I replied, “and wondered if any letters had arrived here for me. Letters from America, I mean.”
She shrugged. “Nothing that I’ve seen.”
My spirits fell. “If a letter does come from New York for me it will be from my husband,” I said. “Please keep it for me. I have written to give him my new address, but he won’t have received it yet.”
“I suppose I can do that,” she said ungraciously. I suspected she was wanting a fee for holding my mail.
“I’d be most grateful,” I forced myself to say.
“Old cow,” I muttered as I walked out again. For all I knew a letter had come from Daniel and she had destroyed it. Well, there was nothing I could do about it. He’d get my letter with my new address soon and all would be well. I started up the street, then turned to my right following the narrow road as it curved up to the summit of the hill. I was out of breath by the time I came out to the gardens and open areas at the top and Paris lay before me, the Seine sparkling today in bright afternoon sunlight. The sound of stonemasons working on the nearby church echoed in the still air. It would have been pleasant to have sat for a while on a convenient wall and just enjoyed the sunshine and the view, but I forced myself to get down to business.
A man was walking past with a laden donkey. I asked him if he knew where some Russian refugee girls might be living. He shook his head and if my limited French was correct he muttered that refugees should stay where they were, with several cuss words thrown in. The clip-clop of his donkey’s hoofs on the cobblestones died away and there was nobody else around to ask. I decided that the logical place to go would be Le Bateau-Lavoir. Maxim Noah had painted Josette, after all. He or one of his fellow artists would know where she might be found. I followed the street around until I came to the rickety old building, perched precariously on the steep hillside. The door was open and I let myself in. This building too lay in afternoon slumber. Not a single sound anywhere. I tapped cautiously on Maxim’s door. There was no answer. I tapped again. “Hello,” I called. “Is anybody home? It’s Mrs. Sullivan from America. The friend of your cousin, Maxim.”