“And yet you think you can paint other women and I won’t mind?”

“It is the head that interests me, you silly goose,” he said. “You can sit beside me, if you wish. And she is an American. A visitor. No threat to you.”

“She is no better than she should be.” Fernande was still glaring at me. “No respectable woman sits alone in the evening.”

“I assure you I do not want to sit alone,” I said. “I was supposed to stay with friends here, but something must have happened to them. They have vanished. Nobody has seen them.”

“Did you find your Mr. Reynold Bryce? Did he not know where they are?” Picasso asked.

“I—” I stopped, remembering the inspector’s desire to keep the murder hushed up for now. “I went to his residence but I was not able to speak to him.”

“If these friends are American, she should go to La Stein,” Fernande said. “That place is always full of Americans. So boring.”

I remembered he had mentioned something about La Stein that morning. “‘La Stein’—what is that?”

“You mean who is that,” he said. “She is an American lady. A rich American lady. She buys paintings. She bought one of mine so she must have good taste for an American. And there are always gatherings at her house.”

“Where is this house?” I asked.

“On the Left Bank, by the Jardin du Luxembourg,” he said. “Rue de Fleurus. What is the number, Fernande?”

She shrugged. “Why should I remember? I only went there once with you and it was boring. Nobody spoke French and they ignored me. Me, I do not like being ignored, especially by you.”

“As if I ever ignore you, my darling. You know I cannot bear to be parted from you for an instant.” He gazed at her with such intensity that I felt distinctly embarrassed.

“Rue de Fleurus,” I repeated, before they could fall into a passionate embrace, right there in the restaurant.

“Ask anybody. They will know the number. Her parties are loud and go on all night.”

“Thank you,” I said. My wine and the rum in the dessert suddenly made the room swing around. “I must go back to my son,” I said.

“If you decide you would like to model for me, you can usually find me at the café, if I am not working,” Picasso called after me. “And if I work, I’m at Le Bateau-Lavoir.”

I thought that any woman who went to model for Picasso would be taking her life in her hands. And I smiled until those words echoed in my head. Had Sid and Gus taken their life in their hands doing something foolish? These people in Paris were not like New Yorkers. They were passionate and wild and jealous. They spoke of duels and pistols. And one of them had killed Mr. Reynold Bryce, a respectable American, in his own home.