I awoke at first light, my nerves taut and my brain telling me to get up as there was work to be done. A mist from the river hung at the end of the street and hid the rising sun, but it promised to be another fine day. I looked down at Liam, still sleeping peacefully in his crib. No cares in the world, I thought. He probably won’t even remember that he nearly died in a bomb blast, that his nursemaid covered him with her own body as the roof came down. He doesn’t know that his father’s life is constantly in danger or that his mother has to try to find a murderer. I went to the bathroom to complete my toilet before he awoke, then nursed him and carried him down for the boiled egg that had become his new favorite food.
When he was finally settled on a rug in the salon with Sid and Gus I slipped away, joining the morning crowds on the Métro back to Place Pigalle. I came up to see that the area around the fountain in the middle of the Place was now full of young women, some of them skimpily clad, one actually wearing a bustier and fishnet stockings, others dressed more demurely. One or two were smoking. Others were drinking coffee or something stronger as they sat chatting with artists. I walked among them, looking for the girl in Reynold Bryce’s painting, but didn’t see her.
“Are you new?” one girl called to me. “Yes, you. You must be new or you wouldn’t be stupid enough to stand on my pitch.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not a model. I’m looking for one myself.”
“Oh, you’re a painter, are you?” Her demeanor toward me changed and she took a provocative pose. “My rates are reasonable and they say I have the best legs in Paris.”
“I’m looking for a particular type,” I said. “Young-looking. Big dark eyes. Lots of dark hair. I saw a picture of her and now I have to paint her too.”
The woman looked around, then shrugged. “I don’t know who you mean,” she said.
“So a model who resembles that description doesn’t come to the market?”
She shrugged. “I’ve never seen her and I’m here regularly.”
Another brilliant thought struck me. “What about a model called Pauline? Used to pose for Reynold Bryce?”
“Pauline?” She looked amused. “Pose for him? That’s an interesting way of putting it.” She leaned toward me blowing stale cigarette breath in my face. “You don’t want to paint her, my dear. Too much temperament. Besides, she’s already chatting with Monsieur Degas over there.”
“She’s here?” I looked around until I spotted Degas’s tall, lean form. Then I saw the girl he was talking to. “That’s Pauline?”
“That’s right. Pauline Hubert. Used to be Bryce’s mistress.”
I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, staring at her. She was beautiful, with ash-blonde hair piled high on her head, perfect bone structure, and an air of patrician purity about her. And she was young. In her early twenties at the most. So what sort of joke had been shared when that man at the Steins’ declared she was too old?
I hesitated then made my way toward her. I wasn’t at all sure what I was going to say. Degas saw me first. “Ah, it’s the young lady from America. Bonjour, madame. What brings you to our model market? Curiosity? Don’t be embarrassed. There are many tourists who are curious about us. They think this must be a den of vice, but it is simply a way for artists to find the body they wish to paint. I’m trying to persuade Pauline here that I would like to paint her in her bathtub. So far she resists.” And he gave me a wicked smile.
“Pauline?” I pretended to be surprised. “Were you not painted by Reynold Bryce once?”
“He painted me, yes.” The eyes that observed me were cold and I could tell she was trying to work out who I was. “Several times. But he was satisfied with none of them. He was not a man who was easily satisfied.”
“You must be sad to learn of his passing,” I said.
She shrugged. “It means nothing to me. That is all ancient history now. Frankly I was glad to walk away from him. Old and boring, and too possessive.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, a reporter?”
“Possibly,” I said, holding her gaze.
She looked at Degas then shrugged. “I can tell you nothing. Frankly I don’t think he was worth killing. One only kills a person who stirs up deep and violent emotions. Love, hate, jealousy. They might drive someone to kill. But Reynold—he was of your generation, Monsieur Degas.”
“Thank you for the compliment, mademoiselle,” Degas said, looked at me, and grinned. “This old man of the past still manages to sell his paintings for a nice amount. If you pose for me, chérie, your face will be seen around the world. And that nice little body too.”