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.”
The door opened slowly and I found myself staring not at Maxim Noah but at a face I recognized as Josette herself. In the flesh she looked even younger and more vulnerable, bleary eyed as if just woken from sleep. “Maxim not here,” she said in hesitant French.
“Oh, that’s a pity,” I replied. “Are you Josette?”
She looked wary. “Who told you?”
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I saw your painting when I was visiting Reynold Bryce,” I said and noted her startled reaction. “I had a message to give him from a relative in America. This relative wanted to buy one of his paintings. He showed me the painting he was working on. The lovely painting of you, ma petite.”
“Reynold Bryce is dead,” she said flatly.
“I heard. I’m so sorry. And before he could finish your portrait too. May I come in?” I didn’t wait for an invitation but barged past her and she didn’t try to stop me. “Still, I am sure you will find plenty of work as a model,” I went on. “You are so beautiful.”
She smiled shyly. “Thank you.”
“I also saw a picture of you that Monsieur Noah painted. Are there any more for sale?”
“He does not like to paint me,” she said. “He does not like me to be a model either.”
Then of course I wondered why I had been so dense. This was surely Jojo, the mistress of whom he’d been so protective.
“I understand.” I nodded. “He does not like other men to see you. But he allowed Monsieur Bryce to paint you with no clothes on.”
She was looking away now, one hand playing with her hair like an embarrassed child. “He did not know,” she whispered. “The money was good. I thought there would be no harm.”
“But there was harm, wasn’t there?” I said sharply. She looked up with frightened eyes. “That’s why you were upset and ran away that morning.”
“Who are you?” she asked. “Why do you come here?”
“A friend,” I said. “A friend who knows about the history and nature of Reynold Bryce. I know that he liked young girls. And he couldn’t keep his hands off them.”