Sieurac glared at the woman, angry but forlorn at the same time. The others took in the spectacle with either surprise or amusement, or both. Then the woman released them, striding unsteadily to the bar and saying in a soft voice, “A drink, please.”
“We were planning on dinner at the Chat Noir,” Mrs. Poll said to Sieurac, bringing his attention back to the table. “You are welcome to join us.”
“The Chat Noir is filled with poseurs and half wits,” he answered bluntly.
“But the shadow-shows are said to be quite imaginative.”
“Shadow-shows? That’s what it has come to. Shadow-shows. I have no desire to go to the Chat Noir and see shadow-shows.”
“Then, it has been a pleasure, monsieur,” Aichele said, standing quickly.
Mrs. Poll rose more slowly. “Good evening, M. Sieurac. I wish you the best of luck.”
The woman stood at the bar but turned her back as Aichele and Mrs. Poll passed. Mrs. Poll gave the waiter an extra ten francs so Sieurac’s evening could go on as long as he wanted. The door was closing behind them when Aichele happened to turn and look back into the cafe. He saw through the smoky lamplight that the woman had planted herself squarely in Sieurac’s lap. She held his chin in the palm of one hand and rested the fingertips of the other against his cheek.
It was a five block walk downhill to the Chat Noir.
“Isn’t it true that all great artists lead tempestuous lives?” Aichele said.
“You could say that. But all artists who lead tempestuous lives are not great artists.”
“Of course. But I honestly do like View of Pont Neuf. And I just might buy it. The prices in Galerie Lefevre are certainly right.”
“A true reflection of the value of the work, in my opinion. If you hung View of Pont Neuf on the wall with five other paintings, it would be the last one anybody would notice.”
“I would not buy it to attract attention. It is a competent rendering of the Pont Neuf. Granted, it is not a Renoir, but that is just the point. I might enjoy looking back someday at what the Pont Neuf actually looked like in 1889.”
“Then buy a photograph.”
“It is not the same,”
“Well, you are right about that. But personally, I prefer the view of the Pont Neuf which I carry in my mind’s eye to either M. Sieurac’s work or a photograph.”
They arrived at the Chat Noir. The frosted glass of the double doors fairly throbbed from the excitement within. By the standard of Montmartre nightlife, they were absurdly early, but lucky to get a table. “Phryne” was the night’s presentation, although any story would have played to a capacity crowd. M. Riviere’s shadow-shows were the absolute sensation of the city.
Monday afternoon of the following week, Mrs. Poll arrived at Aichele’s flat on Rue St. Severin and was about to begin the dusting. He diverted her with a glass of red wine.
“There have been some interesting developments with regard to our artist friend M. Sieurac,” Aichele said. “His wife paid me a call the very next day after our meeting. She is really quite pleasant when she’s not in her cups. Some of the hangers-on in Café Dan-court knew who I was, and my profession, probably from my days at the Prefecture. And it so happens she is confronted with a matter requiring the services of a private detective. Namely, she thinks her husband is being swindled by M. St. Cloud.”
“It would not be the first time an artist was taken advantage of by a gallery owner,” Mrs. Poll said. “What is it that makes her suspicious?”
“The exhibit we saw is Sieurac’s second at Galerie Lefevre. The first was about eight months ago. All the pieces in the first exhibit were sold, and almost all the work in the current show has been sold as well. Yet despite this apparent demand for Sieurac’s work, M. St. Cloud continues to set extremely low prices for it. Ridiculously low, according to Mme. Sieurac. And of course her husband’s share is proportionately meager. She suspects M. St. Cloud is up to something, but has no idea what. Her husband is reluctant to press the issue, but she did persuade him to ask M. St. Cloud for a list of the buyers, which, oddly enough, he keeps saying he will produce but somehow never does. Coupled with the fact that the gallery is almost always empty, as you could predict from the small showing at the opening, I think she has a right to be suspicious. I told Mme. Sieurac I would look into the situation, and that definitely includes asking your opinion of the matter.”
Mrs. Poll shrugged. “There are any number of ways M. St. Cloud could cheat Sieurac. He could actually charge the buyers much more for the paintings and pocket the difference, though that is highly unlikely. I seriously doubt that Sieurac’s work could ever fetch more than the prices M. St. Cloud has set for them. It is probably all just a coincidence. On the one hand, the Sieuracs have high expectations, and on the other, the apparent demand for his work might well be the result of the same low prices they are complaining about.”
“Well, I did visit the gallery again,” Aichele said. “And indeed, most of the work was sold. Of course M. St. Cloud was not about to tell me who any of the buyers were. In fact his whole attitude was downright rude, even though I made it abundantly clear I wanted to buy a painting.”
“View of Pont Neuf, I suppose?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. But it is not available. And all the time I was there, not a soul came in. Does that mean M. St. Cloud sells the paintings after hours?”
“That is possible.”
“But so many?”
“It is odd, I admit.”
“The next step was to talk to Sieurac himself. I decided to pay a visit to his studio, the location of which I learned during a brief stop at Café Dan-court. I had an engagement already scheduled for that afternoon, so the visit did have to be arranged for a later time. I have since then sent him two messages, asking for an appointment, and received no reply. So I plan on making an unannounced visit later today, and if you think it would be more interesting than dusting, you are invited to join me.”
Mrs. Poll did have her sympathy for Sieurac, but the low esteem in which she held his work was shown by the time she took thinking the proposition over, and that she agreed to come only if they also stopped at Cimetière Montmartre to put flowers on the grave of an actor she once knew.
The walk from the omnibus stop on Boulevard de Rochechouart up Rue des Martyrs to Rue Antoinette was something of a trek. And if that was not enough, the concierge at Number 40 pointed them up another four flights of stairs to Sieurac’s attic studio.
They paused at the door to catch their breath. It was made of rough, bare planks and had neither handle nor knob. It could only be padlocked shut from the outside with a hasp, which hung empty.
Aichele rapped on the wood several times. The door moved a few inches, and an ominous stillness seeped out the opening. Aichele instinctively gave the door a crisp push. It swung open with a dry creak.
The scene was one of chaos and clutter, and horror.
“My God,” Mrs. Poll whispered.
The studio was large, probably thirty feet on a side. But the room itself seemed smaller because of its steeply sloped ceiling, which was the building’s roofline as well. It slanted downward from the top of the one full wall to a point only a foot or two above the floor on the opposite wall. Three small windows were cut into it and were the only source of natural light. They leaked when it rained, as shown by the long, moldy streaks on the plaster, running down from their corners.
There were half a dozen pieces of furniture altogether. A black drawing room table, its finish long since scraped and chipped beyond repair, lay on its side under the windows. Another table, made of the same rough planks as the door, had been thrust against the low end of the sloped ceiling with such force that one corner was embedded in the plaster. There was a tattered sofa near the door, and three bentwood chairs, all knocked over, were scattered along the length of the room.