City of Darkness and Light

by Rhys Bowen

  So my first thought was to rush back to Liam to make sure he was all right. But then it struck me: Where could I take him to be out of harm’s way? With a heavy child in my arms I’d be an easy target. It would be simple to push me in front of a subway train if I had a baby in my arms—or in front of an approaching carriage or automobile. Or even to grab Liam from a passing vehicle. I stood by the gilt railings that surround the Jardin du Luxembourg in an absolute agony of indecision. Was Liam safer with the baker’s wife? Didn’t Italians love their babies? Surely no gang could be blackhearted enough to murder a baby to punish his father. I decided I’d seek out Willie Walcott before I returned home. It would be one less time I’d have to leave Liam.

  Fortunately a policeman, with rain dripping from the brim of his cap, was patrolling the gardens, or I would have walked unnecessary yards in the wrong direction. He pointed me to the Boulevard du Montparnasse at the far end of the park. Accordingly I trudged along, my brolly about to give up the unequal task of battling the wind and rain, feeling miserable and scared and horribly alone. I knew Miss Stein now, I tried to tell myself. She was someone I could turn to if I really needed help. I knew the baker’s wife. I wasn’t quite alone. It just felt that way.

  I came at last to the Boulevard du Montparnasse and again I was in luck. The Closerie des Lilas was actually on the corner where it joined the Boulevard Saint-Michel. It had an awning over outside tables and chairs, looking damp and abandoned at this moment. There were lights on inside and I could see heads, including womens’ hats, indicating that this café might be an acceptable place for me to venture alone. I felt a pleasant draft of warmth as I went inside along with the enticing aroma of brewing coffee. A bell jangled above the door and a young man in an apron came over to me. “Bonjour, madame,” he said, wiping his hands on the apron. “Are you here to join someone?”

  I was about to ask my questions and then leave again but the coffee smell was too good to refuse. “I’m alone, monsieur. Maybe some friends will be coming in later. I’d just like a coffee.”

  “You are from England?” he asked in English.

  “From America. Originally from Ireland.”

  “Ah. From America. We have many American visitors who come to this café. Poets, playwrights, artists. Which are you?”

  “I’m not…” I began then changed my mind. “I write a little poetry,” I said, remembering that Sid had been asked to join a group of poets. “I’m newly arrived here.”

  “Ah, then you should meet Monsieur Tarkington.” He turned his attention to a table by the far window at which a group of men were sitting. “He considers himself a fine poet—don’t you, monsieur?”

  “Don’t I what?”

  “Albert thinks you consider yourself a fine poet,” a young man with red hair said. The person who was being addressed, the Monsieur Tarkington, was an older, more sober-looking individual than the rest of his companions, in his dark three-piece suit with a watch chain draped across his vest. He had a sad-looking, not very handsome face.

  “The very finest,” he said. “Although the world likes to think of me only as a novelist. Novels make money, so I write them, but poetry is the true stuff of art. You’re a poetess yourself, madame?”

  “I write a little,” I said, stretching the truth.

  He stood up. “Booth Tarkington. Come on over and join us. We’re deep in discussion on whether poetry per se needs form.”

  I went over and took the chair he had pulled out for me. Coffee was brought and I drank gratefully. The damp coldness had combined with my fear to chill me to the bone. I noticed that some of the men at the table were drinking something bright green in small glasses. It was a fascinating color but I didn’t like to ask them what it was, not wanting to appear a neophyte.

  “So you’ve just arrived in Paris, have you?” the young redhead asked, eyeing me with interest.

  “I have and I’m trying to locate a couple of friends. One is also a poet, a Miss Elena Goldfarb from New York, and the other is the painter Willie Walcott.”

  “I met the Goldfarb woman once at a reading,” another of them said. “A week or so ago. She read a poem. Not at all bad.”

  “But you haven’t seen her since?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “What about Willie Walcott then?”

  “Oh, him. He’s in here all the time,” the red-haired one said. “Stay put and he’ll show up. Especially if it’s around mealtime and someone might treat him to food. Willie is a great cadger, in spite of the fact that he must be dripping with family money.”

  “I heard his father had cut off his allowance because he dropped out of Harvard,” the dark one at the end of the table said. “So he has to rely on selling his paintings or the charity of his friends.”

  “Rather the latter than the former, I suspect,” Booth Tarkington said. “From what I saw the boy didn’t have too much talent. More a copier than an innovator—still stuck in Impressionism. At any rate he hasn’t managed to impress any of the top name dealers. Vollard won’t touch him.”

  “Reynold Bryce seemed to take a shine to him,” someone suggested.

  Two of the others looked at each other and laughed. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

  “You mean because his painting style is in imitation of Bryce’s?”

  The man was still smiling. “Of course. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Booth Tarkington put a hand over mine. “Sorry, we shouldn’t be making fun of a guy if he’s a friend of yours. That’s not quite kosher, is it.”

  More laughter. “Booth, you can hardly use the words ‘kosher’ and ‘Bryce’ in the same sentence, old man.”

  “Did you know that Reynold Bryce is dead?” I asked.

  They nodded, their faces growing somber. “We just read about it in the paper this morning. We’ve been talking about it. We’re not entirely surprised.”

  “Why is that? I’ve never actually met Mr. Bryce myself.”

  “Let me put it this way—he wasn’t shy about expressing his opinions. Not just about Jews, but about art and literature too. If he didn’t like something he’d not only trash it, he’d try to get everyone else to do the same.”

  “The paper said that a young Jewish man was seen running from his house.”

  “That’s the most likely,” the redhead said. “A hotheaded young guy fresh from Russia, I’ll wager. They do things like that. Rush in and stab someone. Thank God we live in America where we behave in a civilized fashion.”

  “And dispatch people neatly with guns,” Tarkington said. We all laughed.

  At that moment we were hit with a blast of cold air and someone said, “Talk of the devil.”

  I saw the resemblance to Gus immediately but Willie was decidedly the more handsome of the two. Actually Miss Stein’s description of him as a golden boy was not wrong. He had that same angelic air to him that I’d seen in Bryce’s paintings and in Ellie, whom I’d met on the boat. His face was framed with light blond curls. He had clear blue eyes and an overall look of surprise. He also looked very pale.

  “Hail and well met, fellows,” he called, waving a hand to them as he came over to our table.

  “It must be almost lunchtime. Willie’s here,” one of them called.

  “I had to get out of the house today,” Willie said. “I just heard about poor old Reynold. I’m completely in shock. I can’t believe it. Who would kill him? How could anyone just walk into his apartment in that neighborhood and stab him? It doesn’t make sense.”

  He looked around the group. “It had to be someone he knew, don’t you think? I mean, he had servants there and probably a coachman standing outside. Did they steal anything, do you know?”

  “The papers seemed to indicate it was a Jew, taking revenge,” one of the group said.

  Willie sighed. “That’s probably the most likely. Reynold was becoming more rabidly anti-Semitic by the minute. He said if they reinstated Dreyfus to his former rank he’d leave Paris and go
home and if you knew what Reynold felt about home, that was indeed a rash statement. But what a stroke of bad luck for me. He had promised to put two of my paintings in his next exhibition.”

  He came over to the table and gave me an inquiring look.

  “A friend of yours, Willie,” Booth Tarkington said. “Asking after you. Came all the way from America to catch up with you. Did you leave a broken heart behind?”

  Willie frowned as he stared at me. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  “No, you haven’t, Mr. Walcott,” I said hastily because I could feel all those eyes on me, “But I am a good friend of your cousin Augusta. In fact I came over to stay with them—at their invitation—only to find that they are not here. So I wondered if perhaps Gus had told you anything that might shed light on where they’ve gone.”

  “Oh, so you’re the Irish girl.” He smiled at me now, such a devastating smile. “Yes Augusta did mention that they were expecting an Irish friend from New York. But you say they are not at their apartment?”

  “No. I’ve been there two days and no sign of them, and no note.”

  “That’s certainly strange.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside me. “Maybe they got fed up with the primitive conditions of Montmartre. That is where they moved to, isn’t it? ‘Wanting to be in the heart of the art world,’ so they said. As if Montmartre is any more the heart than Montparnasse is. I told them that but Augusta’s companion seemed to be rather opinionated and apparently some relative of hers is a painter there and she seemed to think he was the cat’s whisker when it came to the art world.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “She discovered a long-lost cousin. Maxim Noah, wasn’t that his name?”

  Willie Walcott shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell with me. Anyhow they wanted to be closer to what he called the Navel of Creativity.”

  “They haven’t moved again,” I said. “They’ve left all their things.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you,” he said. “The last time I saw them was a couple of weeks ago when I told them I’d set up a meeting with Reynold Bryce for them. They were very thrilled. I never did hear how it turned out because Reynold told me he was busy on a new painting and didn’t want to be disturbed.” And he made a strange face, looking for a moment like a petulant child.

  There was no point in staying any longer. I rose to my feet. “I have to go,” I said. “Maybe I could have your address, Mr. Walcott, and give you mine, just in case you hear anything about your cousin.”

  Willie Walcott and I exchanged addresses. “Do come up and visit me if you feel like it. Don’t be put off by the girls who live on the first floor,” he said. “They are dancers, not what you might think they are.” He promised to get in touch with me if he heard anything about Sid and Gus. I got up and tried to pay for my coffee. Protests came from all around the table. “But we haven’t even started discussing your poetry yet. You simply can’t go.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll come back another time.”

  “Come to the poetry circle on Monday. It’s a lively group,” the redheaded one said. “We meet here, but it tends to be something stronger than coffee.”

  I left them and found that the rain had eased to a fine misty drizzle. I followed the Boulevard Saint-Michel in the direction of the Seine, anxious now to get back to Liam and frankly at a loss of what to do next. At least Willie Walcott had suggested someone else I might contact—the Jewish relative that Sid had met, who had clearly impressed her, much to the annoyance of Willie Walcott. And my Montmartre painter friends would surely be able to help me locate him. But it seemed like one of those childhood games in which one stumbles around blindfolded and everyone yells out “warmer” and “colder” as one seeks for something. I was getting nowhere and time was ticking on.

  On the Boulevard Saint-Michel students were now pouring out of buildings on my right, making for the small cafés and bistros along the street. They laughed and shouted to one another, apparently without a care in the world except for a small group that stood up on a fountain, shouting through a bull horn. “Justice for Drefus now!” they chanted. “Reinstate him. Punish the true guilty one.”

  Their words were answered with some cheers and some catcalls. I hurried past, not wanting to get caught up in a brawl.

  As I approached the Île de la Cité a great bell tolled, ringing the Angelus for midday. I suspected it must come from Notre-Dame and longed to see that church for myself. But I had no time to play sightseer and besides, I needed to steer clear of any sights that might attract tourists like Justin Hartley and his family. As if in answer to the great bell of the cathedral other bells took up the midday chime across the city until the air reverberated with their sound. It was a while now since I had lived in a Catholic country and the sound of the Angelus stirred something in me—a memory of the safer, simpler days of my childhood when the church played a big part in my life.

  I crossed the river to the island and hesitated as I approached the Prefecture of Police. Should I perhaps seek out Inspector Henri and file an official missing persons report? Or … and here I hesitated, not wanting to consider the thought that lurked at the back of my mind … ask if any bodies brought into local morgues might match the description of my friends. I approached the guard on duty then turned away again. One more day, I told myself. I’ll give it one more day. At least I now knew where to come.

  The great cacophony of bells had died away, leaving the sound lingering in the air—except for one small bell that continued to ring somewhere close by on my left. It seemed to be coming from inside the courtyard of the Palais de Justice. Suddenly I was filled with a deep desire to be in a church again. My past experiences hadn’t been positive, but that had nothing to do with God—more with bad priests. I followed the sound until I came to what was obviously a thin, tall church attached to the stout walls of the palace. I found an entrance, went in, and stood, mouth agape. The walls were entirely composed of tall stained-glass windows rising as if to heaven. At the far end was an exquisite rose window and as I stood there the sun must have peeped between clouds because stripes of colored light illuminated the floor. At the high altar a priest was saying mass while a few devout souls knelt in the front pews.

  I stood there, gazing in awe, and found myself praying. “Let them be safe, oh God. Holy Mother, keep them safe. Keep my husband safe. Keep my son safe.” It didn’t seem right to pray for myself, but I hoped that God and the Holy Mother might take that prayer for granted. As I turned to leave I noticed I wasn’t alone. Someone was standing at a side altar, gazing up at the window above. For a second I almost believed I was seeing an angel—and then I realized that the vision in blue and white with long white-blonde hair curling around her shoulders was none other than Ellie, the girl I had met on the ship.

  Nineteen

  She was staring, lost in thought or contemplation as a shaft of light fell on her, completely oblivious to my presence or that of anyone else. I went over to her and she started in alarm as she perceived someone beside her.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  For a second she looked as if she might shy away, like a nervous colt, then her face broke into a smile of recognition. “Why, it’s you. We met on the ship, didn’t we?” she whispered. “How lovely to see you again. Isn’t this glorious? I’ve been coming every day since I arrived and I still can’t get over the beauty of it.”

  “It is glorious,” I agreed.

  An old woman in black turned to glare at us. We grinned to each other and made our exit. The rain had indeed stopped and a watery sun had appeared between dark clouds.

  “So have you been enjoying your freedom in Paris?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know her last name. “I’m afraid I only know you as Ellie, and that wouldn’t be quite proper, would it?”

  “Who cares about being proper.” She laughed. “We’re in Paris where nothing is supposed to be proper. Do call me Ellie. My given name is Eleano
r May, which I hate. And yours is?”

  “Molly Sullivan,” I said. “Please do call me Molly since we’re not required to be formal here.”

  She nodded. “In answer to your question I’ve been having an absolutely glorious time, Molly. Enjoying every single moment of it.” She looked around. “Look, I’m going to get some lunch. Will you join me? It’s a lovely city but it’s rather sad to always eat alone.”

  “I really shouldn’t,” I said looking around me as the midday crowd crossed to the Right Bank of the river. “I’ve left a woman looking after my baby son.”

  I saw her face fall and realized how young she still was. “Do you not have to eat with your chaperone? Or have you managed to escape from her?”

  “Oh, she’s already gone.” A mischievous smile lit up her face. “I’m all alone until Peter gets here at the end of the week. Isn’t it thrilling?”

  “How did you manage that?” I asked, having observed the most attentive chaperone on the ship.

  “It was rather simple really. Everyone at home thought I was going to meet Peter and his family at the Ritz as soon as I arrived. The dreadful mademoiselle thought that too. So her job was only to escort me to Paris and deliver me to the Ritz—which she did. Peter thinks I’m arriving at the end of the week, at the same moment he gets here, so I’ve fooled all of them.”

  She looked and sounded like a naughty ten year old.

  “How did you manage to pull that off?” I asked.

  “Simple. You just tell people what they want to hear. I’ve become rather good at it.”

  “But won’t there be trouble when Peter finds out you’ve been staying at the Ritz for a week without him?”