City of Darkness and Light(88)

I wondered who might know about the details of Reynold Bryce’s private life and be willing to talk about it. I tried moving about the room, invisible, and listening in with the hope of overhearing gossip, but I didn’t hear his name mentioned once. This was the Parisian art world of today, I gathered. Reynold Bryce belonged to yesterday and as such he had become irrelevant. But one thing I could surmise—they didn’t think that one of their own might be responsible or they’d have been discussing it.

I tried infiltrating groups and asking questions but at any gathering where people know each other intimately they showed no interest in an outsider. I was looking for Mary, hoping that we could make an early exit when I felt someone take my hand. It was that rather frightening Creole man, Vollard.

“You are looking for something, madame,” he said. “And you do not find it. A lost lover, maybe? A new lover?”

I laughed. “I am happily married, monsieur.”

“So is everyone in this room. That does not preclude the taking of lovers. It is an amusing sport and less exhausting than tennis. Everyone does it.”

I wondered for one awful moment whether he was suggesting that he might fill that role for me. But then he went on. “You are a fish out of water here. Why did you come?”

“I’m newly arrived in Paris. I’m staying with my friend Mary Cassatt. She thought I should experience the Steins’ salon at least once.”

“Ah, La Cassatt. Is she painting these days? Tell her to work harder. She is one whose work I can sell at the drop of a hat. And the best prices too.”

“And Reynold Bryce?” I asked. “Can you sell his paintings at the drop of a hat?”

“He never brought his paintings to me. Perhaps he feared I might reject them, or perhaps he thought he could do better without the middle man. And maybe that was true. He always sold well with Americans who like pretty landscapes on their walls. Personally I always felt he was a good journeyman, a good craftsman but lacking in brilliance. You compare his paintings of the Seine to Monet’s and you’ll see the difference. Monet’s light glows on the water, the trees are alive in the wind. To view his painting is an experience of the heart, while Bryce’s are merely for the eyes.”

“They are saying the price of his paintings will rise now that he is dead,” I said and he laughed.

“What a mercenary thought from such charming lips. Possibly true. It will rise because there are few paintings available for sale. Supply and demand, you know. He had money. He didn’t need to paint. Again proving he was only a journeyman. The others—Renoir, Degas—they would die if they were not allowed to paint.”

“Who do you think might have killed him?” I asked.

“Bryce?” He shrugged, making his whole large body shake like a half-inflated balloon. “Any number of people. He said exactly what he thought and didn’t care whose toes he trod on.”

“But surely you don’t kill someone because he insults you?”

“I do not personally, madame, but there are many in Paris who might. We are a passionate mob, madame. A mongrel mob from all over the world. We fight duels over women and over perceived insults. But one hears he was stabbed with a kitchen knife. This was not a spur of the moment act of passion. Someone came prepared to kill him. And a common kitchen knife too. So it all points to the Jewish immigrant they suggest—poor and fanatic. A dangerous combination.”

Mary appeared at my side then. “Are you about ready to leave? They’ll go on all night and I’m getting too old for such things.”

“Oh, no, Mademoiselle Cassatt. You will be forever young. When are you going to bring me more paintings? My little gallery is bare without them,” Vollard said.

“You are a flatterer, Monsieur Vollard,” she replied, “but I am going to start work on a new piece. This lady’s charming son is absolutely made to be a model, if I can ever get him to sit still.”

We took our leave and were assisted into a cab.

“Well?” Mary asked as we set off. “Did you discover anything?”

“Not much. Most of them weren’t at all interested in Reynold Bryce or his death. The consensus is that it was indeed the Jewish fanatic. But I did have a long chat with Willie Walcott and he had definitely been a close friend of Bryce’s, shall we say, and was peeved that Bryce had found a ‘new toy,’ as he put it. So I’m rather curious to know who or what that new toy was. I can see I’ll have to have another chat with the housekeeper when she comes to clean the place on Monday. But I really want to take a look for myself tomorrow, if Sid will lend me her trousers.”