“I don’t think I’d want you to come up here on your own,” I said. “It is very remote, isn’t it? And the people we have passed were not altogether savory.”

“Oh, come now, Molly. Don’t tell me you never did anything rash and exciting in your youth?”

I smiled at the fact that she saw me as an old woman, even though I was not quite twenty-seven. “Yes, I’ve done plenty of rash and exciting things,” I said, “but they haven’t always been fun and I’ve put my life in danger several times.”

“Have you?” she asked. “Do tell me.”

“I have been a detective,” I said. “And now I’m married to a police captain.”

“Really?” Her look became wary suddenly. “You aren’t over here to help the police, are you?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I’m supposed to be enjoying myself with dear friends, only they’ve upped and vanished, so I’m trying to find out what happened to them.”

“Oh. I see.” She gave the great edifice one last look. “Come on, let’s go on down. It’s quite chilly up here and it might rain again.”

“I need to find a relative of my friend who lives somewhere up here,” I said. “I’m hoping he knows what might have happened to them.” As we passed the Moulin de la Galette, with its gay posters advertising the Sunday bal, I saw an old gentleman with a beard sitting at an easel, painting. I asked if he knew Maxim Noah and he shook his head, not taking his eyes from the trees he was filling in on an enormous canvas. I then asked for the Bateau-Lavoir and was given directions to that, easily enough.

“They call themselves painters,” he muttered as we turned away. “Painters? Don’t know much and don’t want to learn.”

We went down a flight of steps and came out to where a sprawling building of tacked-together timbers looked as if it was in danger of sliding off the side of the hill. As we approached the entrance I saw that this was the top floor while the rest of the building clung below to the steep hillside. It looked fragile and highly dangerous.

“Do you really think we should go in here?” Ellie asked. “It looks absolutely awful. Like a den of thieves.”

“I expect we’ll be all right,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.

She stepped back suddenly. “I don’t think we should go inside, Molly. It looks too dirty and horrid. In fact I think I’ve seen enough of Montmartre. It’s too primitive, isn’t it? How funny that some artists should live like this while others have lovely apartments in the best part of the city. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”