hair on the back of Mason’s neck prickled. Forcing herself to assume an air of calm grief, she said, “All I can say, Inspector, is that nothing about my dear sister was conventional.”
“True, true. Artists are a world unto themselves. I hope I have not unduly alarmed you with my little observation.”
“Not at all, Inspector. I appreciate your interest.”
He took her hand and kissed it gallantly. “Let me assure you, Mademoiselle, if the death of your sister is not what it appears to be, I will find out. And if that is the case, I will prosecute the person responsible to the full extent of the law. That, Mademoiselle, is my promise to you.”
Chapter 6
Mason rumbled along in the coach on the Boulevard de Clichy. At any other time, she would have been enjoying its plush surroundings, reliving the ecstasy she’d experienced here the day before. But now that it was upon her, she was nervous about telling Garrett the truth. And the incident with the policeman had unsettled her.
Over breakfast, Lisette had said, “Duval knows something.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Mason had argued. “How could he?”
“He suspects something, or he wouldn’t have come here.”
“The suicide note. Why didn’t I think of that? It would have been so easy to scribble something.”
“Details are that man’s specialty. They say he loves to sink his teeth into the little things you’d never even think of. And once he does, he never lets go. He’s like a bulldog.”
Mason had lost her appetite. “I get the picture, Lisette,” she said testily.
But Lisette leaned across the table and hissed softly, “France has the toughest penalties for fraud in all of Europe. Juno knew of a man Duval nailed for cashing one of his mother’s war-widow pension checks after she died. A first offense! And he ended up spending ten years in Santé Prison.”
Now the coach was pulling up in front of a building on Place de Clichy, close to the Hippodrome. Garrett stood in the doorway of the building shaking hands with a man. The sign on the window told her it was a realtor’s office. When he saw the coach, he excused himself and hurried toward her.
She took a breath, remembering the speech she’d rehearsed, trying to quell her trepidation. When he opened the door and helped her out, she said, without preliminary, “I have something to tell you.”
“That’s a coincidence. I have something to tell you. How’s this for an idea? The Mason Caldwell Pavilion.”
He caught her completely off guard. “What?”
He was nearly vibrating with excitement. “The Mason Caldwell Pavilion—at the World’s Fair.”
“But the paintings were turned down by the Exposition.”
“They’ll change their minds. And even if they don’t, we’ll do it independently. A pavilion of our own with nothing but Mason’s paintings in it.”
“But…that’s impossible.”
“Far from it. Courbet did it at the 1855 Fair, and Manet again in 1867. Only our pavilion will be bigger and grander. I know plenty of people in the art world with money to spare who might very well be talked into contributing to such a noble venture. I’ve already put some feelers out this morning.”
Incredulously, she asked, “Is that why you were at the realtor’s?”
“No, I was there to buy the building where Mason had her studio in Montmartre.”
“You bought the building? But…why?”
“Because it’s hallowed ground. It should be preserved as a museum. A place where people can come and pay homage.”
“You’re joking!”
“Not in the least. This can happen if you and I take the necessary steps and work together now. I’ve been up all night thinking about this. It hit me out of nowhere, like a thunderbolt, and I’ve never been more excited about anything.”
“But…a pavilion…buying the apartment building for a museum…isn’t that a little…extreme?”
“I told you, your sister is special, unique.”
“But there are many unique artists out there.”
“You still don’t understand, Amy. It’s not just her art. It’s her life. Walk with me while I explain.”
He hooked her arm through his and began to walk down the wide boulevard to where it dead-ended at the Hippodrome and Rue Caulaincourt. “Richard, I need to tell you something—”
“Wait. Let me get this out while it’s still fresh in my mind. Mason worked for years without selling a single painting. She suffered crushing poverty, near starvation, and nothing but rejection. And yet she believed in herself and her vision, and nothing stopped her. She didn’t care about commercial success or what the critics said about her. She always found the energy and means to put oil on canvas day after day after day, no matter what, oblivious to the opinion of the world. She was a paragon of honesty, purity, and dedication. She really was a Joan of Art.”
Mason squirmed beside him. It wasn’t true. She’d never been that poor. She’d suffered bouts of laziness. God knew she was full of self-doubt. And she desperately wanted commercial and critical success.
“But the thing that gives a genuine epic quality to her life,” he went on, “is her death. The suicide. It breaks our hearts that anyone so talented, so courageous, could come to that point. Yet, at the same time, it gives her story a mythic power and resonance that will echo down through the ages. It’s almost as if the unconscious part of her genius realized that her mission was complete, her entire life was a work of art, and the suicide was necessary to complete it with a poignant, bittersweet flourish.”
Mason’s heart was sinking. He was saying that the suicide was vital to the legend, and the legend was vital both to the appeal of the paintings and to his fascination with them.
He guided her across Rue Caulaincourt. “What I’m trying to tell you, Amy, is that Mason is something new to art. The artist as outsider, heroic idealist, martyr. I believe this idea has the power to shake the world. If we make it happen—you and I. If we nurture the legend. If we present her work to the proper critics in the proper way. Above all, if we can gather her work and display it before the adjudicaters of public taste who will come to the Exposition from all over the globe this summer, then…it can happen. It will happen!”
Dear God, how can I ever tell him now?
She looked up and saw before her the gates of the Cimetière de Montmartre. What were they doing here? He led her along an uneven cobblestone path lined with gloomy mausoleums and sarcophagi. The monuments were stained black with soot, some of them cracking with age and neglect. As the walkway took them down a flight of stairs, the sun went behind a cloud and a chill wind whipped them. She felt oppressed by the macabre energy of the place and shivered with dread.
On the lower
