“You come from America to visit Miss Cassatt?” he asked, nodding as the waiter put the glass of green liquid in front of him.
“Oh, she’s American?” I blurted out and saw him looking at me curiously.
“But naturally. Now that Reynold Bryce is no more, we must count her as the premier Impressionist from your country. A fine painter, for a woman.”
I chose to ignore that last line. I had encountered it often enough when I had been told that I was not a bad detective, for a woman.
“If you wish to buy one of her paintings, I think you must be prepared to spend a good amount,” he went on. “Her work has become popular, both here and in her homeland. She paints sentimental subjects, you see—babies, families, all suitable for any drawing room. Not like the subjects that some of us choose.” And he gave a wry smile. “And now that Bryce is dead, no doubt his paintings will command a higher price.” The smile faded. “Such a loss. Such a waste. And they still haven’t found out who did this vile deed. Curse the damned Jews. If I ever find the man that did this, I will happily strangle him personally.”
“You are quite sure it was a Jew who killed Bryce, are you?” one of the men at the table called across to Degas.
“But naturally. Did they not say that a young Jewish man was seen running from Bryce’s house?”
“Propaganda!” a raised voice shouted. I think it was that of Maxim Noah. “Blame everything on the Jews, no? So convenient.”
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 François 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.