Paris, 20 November, 1922
Russell quickly locates Hemingway, heading south in the direction of the Musée de Cluny, and trails discretely behind him. He seems to be retracing her steps from that morning almost exactly, walking practically to her hotel before turning right to enter the Jardin du Luxembourg from the east. He walks at a steady but unhurried pace along the gravel paths through the formal, sedate and nearly empty park. Despite the poor weather and her aching side and shoulder, Russell is quite content. Braced by her meal, she is pleased to be walking through the calm and order of the park, allowing her muscles to warm and loosen and her mind to calm and focus. Although it is difficult for her to leave the murder investigation to Holmes, she is optimistic that she’ll be able to resume the hunt with him in Lausanne. In the meantime, she understands the value of her current task and is looking forward to meeting the journalist, intrigued by his writing and curious whether her impression will hold once she speaks with him.
Traversing the park east to west, Hemingway eventually reaches the Musée du Luxembourg, located in the north western corner of the gardens on the rue de Vaugirard. The museum, once an orangery of the Luxembourg Palace, now exhibits the works of contemporary French artists. Russell follows Hemingway inside and sheds her damp coat and scarf before seeking him out. She finds him standing before two works of Cézanne and comes to stand by his side gazing at the paintings.
“Between the two, which do you prefer, The Bay of Marseille or The Farmyard?” asks Russell, keeping her eyes on the paintings.
Hemingway glances quickly at Russell before returning his gaze to the painting and leaning in to quietly respond. “An interesting question. Did you follow me all the way from the café to ask my opinion on the art of contemporary French painters?”
Keeping her eyes locked in front of her, Russell replies in a conspiratorial tone. “No. I came to ask you if you wanted to be a spy. But I am curious as to what intrigues you about these two paintings.”
With a bark of laughter, Hemingway turns directly toward her. “A spy? With an artistic eye?”
Russell flashes a smile and then resumes her study of the Cézanne’s. “A spy with an observant eye.”
Taking his cue from her, Hemingway looks back toward the paintings. “I knew you were following me. That should count for something.”
“Very little, I’m afraid. You’d need blinders on not to notice someone trailing after you in a deserted park on a rainy day. But the paintings? What do you see in them?”
“I noticed you before that, you know. In the café. You sat at a table in the back. You ate a large meal. An old man joined you. Your old man?”
“You used the window reflection to observe me. That does count. And here I thought you only had eyes for the woman sitting in front of the window.”
Hemingway turns to Russell with an expression of open surprise but manages to recover his nonchalant façade after a few moments. “Her? Well, yes, she’s pretty enough. But I know the poseur who calls her his mistress. She goes in for the old pompous Victorian type. Come to think of it, maybe you do to. What is it about beautiful women and old men?”
Refusing to look directly at Hemingway, Russell points her chin to the paintings and asks “What is it about young men who won’t answer a lady’s question? What do you see in these paintings, Mr. Hemingway?”
Chuckling now in open admiration, Hemingway gives up all pretence of looking at the paintings. “You are a scheming one. You know my name. What else do you know about me?”
“Quite a bit actually. We have a mutual acquaintance, a former ambulance driver like yourself. I know you served in Italy and were badly wounded. You are a journalist, quite talented, and have recently returned from assignment in Turkey. And I know you like to write in cafés, work very hard at it and plan to be an author of significance. What I do not know, is what you see in these paintings.”
Stunned momentarily by this litany of facts, Hemingway decides to finally answer her question directly. “Truth. I see truth, or a way to truth.”
“Couldn’t a photograph give you truth?”
“Some photographs, maybe. The important thing is that the artist reveals the truth in the image. Look at this Cézanne – the image is a view of the bay of Marseille from L’Estaque on
a sunny day, buildings in the foreground, mountains in the background. But look how it’s rendered. You can feel the intensity of the sun in the sharp geometry of the buildings, see the movement in the texture of the water. Look how the patches of green march along the shore and how the angle of the smoke, the jetty, the rooflines, and the mountains pull the image together toward a point just outside the frame. The painting has cohesion and depth – it shows something real and palpable – the truth of the bay on a sunny day. I study these paintings to help my writing. I’ll show with words something as true as Cézanne paints. I can’t explain it exactly, not yet anyway. I’m not sure I even want to. I have to have some secrets, right, to be an author of significance.”
Directing her gaze to the other Cézanne painting, Russell comments “The Farmyard. That’s a painting that speaks of secrets, don’t you think? The walls on either side make it feel like we are sneaking a peak at something hidden. The sun is shining on the building, like a spotlight, but the door is closed, and the windows are shuttered. The dead tree makes me wonder if the farm is abandoned. The grass and the trees have movement, our view directed to the left to something we can’t see, the buildings obstructing our view to what’s behind them. There’s a story there, maybe even a sinister one. What do you think?”
With her question, Russell looks back to Hemingway, and is surprised to meet his eyes staring intently at her. Unwilling to demure, her eyes remain locked on his, challenging him to look away first. “Beautiful, bold and intelligent,” says Hemingway. “I think there’s a story here. Maybe even a sinister one. Who are you?”
“Russell.” Breaking her gaze to extend her hand in greeting, “Miss Mary Russell.”
“Pleased to meet you Miss Mary Russell. But who are you?”
“My vocation? I’m a theologian.”
Hemingway reacts with another bark of laughter. “Dangerous business, theology?”
“My injuries, you mean? These I procured while on holiday. A bit of a miscalculation on my part.”
While they talk, Russell turns and slowly moves around the gallery, studying the paintings on the wall, Hemingway keeping pace with her. Russell can’t help but smile. She is enjoying her conversation with this intense, self-assured, and perceptive man, goading him with half-truths, keeping him guessing. He is eager, and it is quite flattering. There is much that she finds familiar in Hemingway, his confidence, intensity and intelligence similar to Holmes’, however his outspoken and frank admiration, pursuit even, is entirely and refreshingly different.
“What about this Degas, Semiramis Building Babylon? An unusually historical theme compared to most of the works here” says Russell.
“You could be the model for Semiramis.”
This elicited Russell’s own bark of laughter. “A queen? Commander of an empire, triumphant warrior, builder of wonders, wise ruler? You flatter me.”
“Mysterious, other worldly. Degas painted Semiramis the centre of attention but slightly out of focus. Like you. Who are you, Miss Russell?”
Casting her eyes across the paintings in the gallery, Russell moves across the room. “I could be this one by Renoir, The Reader.”
Joining her to study the painting, “Yes, I can see that, reading, in a café. Luminous, intelligent, self-possessed. The bright red lips are all wrong though, too demanding of attention for you, well, unless it served your purpose. If I were to paint you, I’d have you looking up from the book. Your eyes are so lively, observant. You are too engaged in your surroundings to be buried in a book for long. Actually, you can almost see it in the painting. She’s about to look up, ready for anything, don’t you think?”
“I think, Mr. Hemingway, that you could make an excellent spy.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you? Why do you need a spy? And why me?”
“Yes, I am serious. Journalists, good ones anyway, can make excellent informants. They are observant and resourceful, insert themselves into situations, ask lots of questions and no-one doubts their motive. Your assignment in Turkey gives you relevant experience and necessary background to the issue at hand. And your features in the Toronto Star have drawn the attention of a very smart and powerful man in the British government. Fortunately, it is he, not I, who requires a spy. I am just acting as an intermediary.”
“Pity. I think I’d enjoy spying for you,” says Hemingway with a lingering gaze. Returning to a casual tone, “Politics doesn’t really interest me, and I have had my fill of war zones. Besides, I’m on my way to Switzerland tomorrow.”
“Yes. I know. Most convenient.”
To that statement, Hemingway has absolutely no reply other than a sharp stare.
“You would be paid handsomely, Mr. Hemingway. There could be danger.”
“Now you aren’t playing fair. Money and adventure? Hard for a man to refuse.”
Hemingway strolls away from Russell, walking the galleries, barely glancing at the paintings, until after 15 minutes or so he returns to Cézanne’s Farmyard and studies it anew. Russell draws up alongside him and waits for him to speak.
“I think, Miss Russell, that the secret of the farmyard is enough for me. I’m writing well, finding the truth and have good prospects for getting published. If I keep my focus, you’ll see, you’ll be reading my novels instead of by-lines.”
“You’ll be in Lausanne anyway, tracking the progress of the peace negotiations.”
“Yes, covering the wireless. Busy work, tedious and time consuming but not distracting. What you’re talking about, entrenching myself in the Château d’Ouchy, digging deep, that would derail my focus.”
Unwilling to lie, even for, or perhaps especially not for Mycroft, Russell chooses honesty and nods in agreement. “Yes, yes it would. But only for a time.”
“That’s it? You’re not a very persuasive intermediary, Miss Russell,” scolds Hemingway teasingly. “Perhaps you should stay with theology?”
Matching his playful tone, Russell replies, “So. You require enticement? Let’s see. The money would be significant. It could alleviate your need to work, fill your stomach, heat your flat. Instead of taking refuge in cafés, you could write uninterrupted.”
“In Paris it is very easy to be poor and happy.”
“The danger, then. It is quite real. You could prove your mettle.”
“I had a war for that, and a leg full of shrapnel.”
“Hmm, I could appeal to your sense of God and Country, but I doubt such traditional ideals would hold much sway.”
“No sway at all. Too many dirty deeds done in the name of church and state.”
“Then I think I will appeal to your stomach, Mr. Hemingway. Would you care to accompany me to a café for a meal?”
“Didn’t you just eat?”
“But you didn’t.”
“I find that hunger sharpens the mind, allows one to think more clearly.”
“So I’ve been told,” grumbles Russell. “However, I’m recuperating and so should you. You lost a lot of weight in Turkey.”
“Just how long have you been observing me?”
“Just today. The sag in your clothes gives you away. If not a meal, another rum St. James? Given the opportunity, I may persuade you yet. Your choice.”
“You are persistent, Miss Russell, and I am persuaded. For a meal and a drink, that is. And since it’s my choice, I propose La Closerie des Lilas. It’s an excellent café not far from here. But you’ll have to promise to answer a few of my questions.”
Walking at a comfortable pace, Russell deflects Hemingway’s more probing questions about who she is and her purpose in Paris by asking him about his favourite walks and haunts in the city, learning all about Shakespeare and Company, his favourite bookstore, the flourishing literary and artistic community of the Left Bank and his disdain for literary poseurs. Arriving at the café, Hemingway enters as if he owns it, greeting the staff by name, claiming a favourite table, and ordering drinks for them both. The thick mahogany table is large and square, easily able to seat four but set for two. The chairs and place settings are arranged diagonal to one another, on either side of the far corner, thus affording a view back across the room toward the entrance and front windows.
Hemingway settles Russell into the seat to his left, while he takes the seat to her right, drawing his chair almost alongside hers so that the two share the same view through the windows to the wet and dreary garden and boulevard du Montparnasse beyond. He sits as if in his own living room, legs outstretched, hands behind his head, and waits comfortably for Russell to peruse the menu. Their drinks arrive; Calvados, an apple brandy from Normandy, and Hemingway orders burgundy snails, pate with toasts, and hard-boiled eggs with mayonnaise sauce for them to share.
Russell, although trying to portray herself as similarly relaxed and content, is wary. Not usually swayed by rugged good looks and a winsome smile, she is surprised by her reaction to him, to find him so appealing. But Hemingway’s manner – young, confident, witty, and unabashedly interested in her is stimulating, bordering on intoxicating. Intellectually, her caution comes both from his actions, he is after all married, and her reaction, for the same reason. Not to mention that she has a job to do, so far without success, and must stay focused. But she also feels something more instinctual. She has the distinct sense that she’s in the presence of a predator, not in actual physical danger, but at risk nevertheless. Hemingway’s allure is unmistakable, all the more so because he knows how to wield it, and Russell is on high alert.
It is in that state of mind that Russell welcomes LeRocque with the warmth of a paramour as he enters the café alone about 20 minutes later. Seeing him enter and scan the crowd, she waves and calls out his name, rising to meet him with a grimace, quickly replaced with a wide smile as he makes his way over to them. She gives him a brief hug and kiss on the cheek and takes his hand in hers to lead him to the table.
“Mr. Hemingway. You remember Martin. He’s the common acquaintance I mentioned.”
To Russell’s surprise and relief, LeRocque seems to fall immediately into step with her sudden affections, accepting her hug and kiss in the offhand manner of a lover or spouse so used to such intimacies that they go virtually unnoticed. Holmes himself, never one to publicly display his affections, would have been hard pressed to react so naturally, thinks Russell, which immediately presents a new conundrum for her to consider. How has LeRocque pulled off the act so effortlessly?
As Russell resumes her seat, LeRocque pulls over a chair, sets the back against the table opposite Hemingway and straddles it as he folds his arms across the chair back. Hemingway, forced to pull his legs in to accommodate LeRocque, sets his chair square to the table and leans slightly forward, feet firmly planted, and swirls his drink with one hand while the other lightly taps the table. Russell watches, rather bemused, as the two men appear to position themselves as if in a contest and proceed to size each other up, utterly ignoring her for the moment.
“Martin. Martin LeRocque. This is a surprise. It’s been a long time. Still pounding the pavement for the Sūreté?” Hemingway’s tone suggests disdain both for the work and LeRocque’s presumed rank.
“Ernest Hemingway. It has been awhile. Lieutenant now. Homicide. And you? Still living in cafés, penning for the papers?” Running his eyes over Hemingway’s loose and dishevelled clothing, close cropped hair and pale countenance, he continues, “Tough assignment, I’ll wager. You’re looking a bit beat up.”
“War correspondence. Nothing I can’t handle” replies Hemingway with a verbal swagger. Eyes remaining fixed on Martin, he takes a big swallow from his drink.
Their opening gambit seemingly a draw, LeRocque looks pointedly at Russell as he asks, “So Hem, your wife?” Returning his gaze to Hemingway, “How is Hadley? Still putting up with your bohemian lifestyle?”
Returning LeRocque’s look, he responds bluntly, “She has a cold.” Looking to Russell, to see her reaction, “And your wife, LeRocque? What’s her name? Simone? What’s she up to?”
“I don’t really know” he replies softly, looking over Hemingway’s shoulder lost in thought. Half remembering himself he glances down and clarifies, “We’re separated.”
There is an awkward silence during which LeRocque seems to completely deflate, the alpha male wrangling of a moment before completely forgotten. Resting his elbows on the back of the chair, he closes his eyes as he runs his fingers through his hair. He holds his head for a moment, drawing a deep breath, before dropping his hands to the table as he exhales. The waiter arrives with their food, and LeRocque looks up blank faced, as if just remembering where he was. The waiter asks the newcomer if he wants to see a menu, which LeRocque declines, ordering a café crème. Looking to Russell he says quietly, as if to himself, “I see you found Hemingway.”
Placing her hand on LeRocque’s, giving it a squeeze to try and get his attention and bring him back into the moment, “Yes. Yes, I did. We met at the Musée du Luxembourg. It’s a remarkable collection. We discussed the truth to be found in the paintings of Cézanne.”
LeRocque does not reply, does not seem to have even heard, and stares vaguely into the distance. Hemingway tries to get his attention. “LeRocque, tell me. How did you and Miss Russell meet?”
The waiter arrives with LeRocque’s coffee and jars the Lieutenant from his reverie.
Hemingway waits a moment, and then asks again, “LeRocque? Miss Russell?”
With the shake of his head, LeRocque snaps into the moment. “What? Oh. We met on an investigation.” He turns to Russell and says with urgency, “Listen. Mary. I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I need your help. She’s missing. Simone. I think she’s in danger. We’ve got to find her.”
Hemingway interjects, “Your wife’s in danger and you need your girlfriend’s help? Look at her, what could she do?”
LeRocque turns to Hemingway, confused, until realization gives rise to a blush as he glances to Russell. Russell realizes now that LeRocque had seemed to play the part of paramour so well not through skill at playacting but because he’d been too distracted to take notice of her affectionate manner. Not exactly flattering, thinks Russell, but it does highlight how worried he must be about Simone. LeRocque gives her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it, straightens his shoulders, and says with the curl of a smile on his lips. “Trust me, Hem. You have no idea what my girlfriend is capable of.”
Hemingway bristles, as much from LeRocque’s claim to Russell the woman as to his superior understanding of her. Pointing his empty glass at LeRocque he sneers, “You’re police, for God’s sake. Why don’t you man up and leave her out of it?”
The insult unmistakable, LeRocque says with steel in his voice, “Still picking fights, Hem. Showing your brawn for the ladies. Mary won’t be so easily impressed.”
Hemingway, leaning toward LeRocque with his fists planted on the table. “She’s already injured, and you’d put her in danger. I think it’s time you leave.”
LeRocque mirrors Hemingway’s position. “Back off, Hem. And go home. You’re out of your depth and we don’t have time for this.”
Up until this point, Russell has been observing this display of masculine posturing with something between fascination and disbelief. However, if left to escalate further it would surely draw the attention of the other patrons in the café. Clearing her throat to gain their attention, she draws her knife from her sling and uses it to stab an egg from the plate and point it with a glare first at LeRocque, then at Hemingway, dulling the threat of the weapon to a matronly admonishment. “Gentleman. No one is leaving until I say so.”
Russell waits until she sees both men drop their shoulders and reach for their drinks before she takes a bite of the egg, returns the remainder to her plate, wipes her knife clean and tucks it back into her sling.
“Mr. Hemingway, please, bear with us for a moment. I need to speak with Martin. He is correct to come to me for help which I’ll explain if I can once I’ve heard his news.” Hemingway shrugs and looks away as if he doesn’t care but listens carefully as the two quickly exchange information.
“Martin. It’s been, what, less than 24 hours since we saw her at the hospital. What makes you think she’s missing?” asks Russell.
“We were supposed to meet today. For lunch. She didn’t show.”
“She could have forgotten, overslept? It was a late night.”
“No, you don’t understand. There is no way she would have missed this. Besides, I’d already talked to her once today, over the phone.”
“Maybe she was held up? Car broke down, something like that?”
“I waited. A long time. I’m telling you, she wouldn’t have missed this.”
“There has to be more to it, Martin, for you to be so worried.”
“Right, well, there’s the phone call. This morning. She was asking me all kinds of questions, about you, the investigation we’re working on. She knows better. That I can’t talk about it. That I don’t, won’t. But she really pressed, you know, first tried to cajole me into it, then demanded, then begged. Just doesn’t make sense. Why would she care? Why not wait until she saw me? It’s all wrong.”
“Alright. Anything else?”
LeRocque hesitates for a moment and then responds with a blush, “Em, I think I’m being followed.”
Kicking herself for having asked, and a second time for failing to stop LeRocque when she saw his hesitation, Russell quickly considers what to do. Hemingway is no fool, she thinks, and between asking him to be a spy, and his overhearing references to murder investigations, and now being followed, it’s too late now for discretion. Better to know what she’s faced with and figure out what to do about Hemingway afterward. “Followed?”
“Well, you know how I drive, it’s not so easy for someone to keep up. I noticed the same car kept turning up. It could be a coincidence, I suppose, but I don’t think so.”
“Since when?”
“Since lunch, I think. When Simone didn’t show up at the restaurant, I went to her office. She didn’t come in today, by the way. From there I went over to The 36,” faltering a bit “and then I came here.”
Hemingway can no longer hold his tongue and blurts his own question. “How’d you know to come here.” Russell holds up her hand to silence LeRocque and looks sharply to Hemingway. “You already know the answer to that. Think of a better question.” Turning back to LeRocque, “What else?”
With a fresh wave of red colouring his ears, LeRocque digs in his trouser pocket, pulls out a small piece of paper and passes it to Russell. “I almost forgot. I, ah, found this in the car.”
Russell unfolds the piece of paper to see a list written in Holmes’ hand; reservation at Greek restaurant, return shirt, pick-up tale of Hansel and Gretel. Russell wishes LeRocque had given her the note from the start. Although it doesn’t reveal anything she hadn’t deduced for herself, it would have saved time and she could have kept Hemingway out of it. From the first item on the list, reservation at Greek restaurant, she knows Holmes is engaged with the murder investigation, pursuing the Greek connection, and considers it his priority. From the fairy tale reference, she knows that he, like she, suspects LeRocque is being followed to get to Holmes and herself,Hansel and Gretel. He’s asked Russell to pick up the tale, meaning draw the tail away from himself so he can disappear, gaining time and a tactical advantage in the murder investigation. Russell considers what to do about Hemingway and decides it’s only prudent to lead their pursuers away from him as well. Russell’s first order of business, therefore, will be to return shirt, that is, accompany LeRocque to Simone’s home and determine if and how her disappearance relates to their errands. The matter of recruiting the journalist will have to be put on hold as she allows herself to be followed, seemingly unawares, to Simone’s.
Russell turns to Hemingway. “Have you solved it?”
“Yes. LeRocque knows I frequent cafés so it’s the obvious place to look assuming he knew you were looking for me – which obviously he did. What does the note say?”
“Is that really your question? I expect more from you, Mr. Hemingway,” says Russell, passing the note to him to read for himself.
Silence descends at the table for a few moments, with LeRocque grateful not to be the pupil in this examination and Hemingway struggling to meet her challenge. Hemingway, his jaw working as he lets the note float to the table, says “Touché, it’s coded. Knowing what it says gets me no closer to what it means. Miss Russell, I think you have some explaining to do. What’s happening here, it isn’t theology and you sure don’t seem like an intermediary.”
Russell responds with a low chuckle. “I am a theologian. And my connection to you is as an intermediary. Actually, everything I’ve said is true. Or correct, I should say. The truth, as you understand it, is somewhat more involved. And I’m afraid I don’t have time to explain.”
“You could start right there. Why not? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find Simone.” Turning to Martin and looking him in the eye, “Or at least try. I agree, she may be in danger. I think we should go to her house and look it over carefully together.” Russell starts to rise, slowly and stiffly, as she continues talking. “Mr. Hemingway, I’m sorry, but…”
“No” replies Hemingway.
“What?” ask LeRocque and Russell simultaneously.
“I said, no. This is absurd. I mean, look at you. You’re going to hobble your way into God knows what? Some kind of domestic dispute? A kidnapping? This isn’t some penny dreadful with secret messages and villains in cloaks. A woman’s missing. He’s being followed? It’s for the police to sort out.”
“No. Not the police,” growls LeRocque, low and fierce, hands balled into fists.
Both Russell and Hemingway are startled by LeRocque’s vehemence. Russell studies him hard and makes a decision.
“No. Not the police. Too dangerous.”
“What?” says Hemingway incredulously. “Better them than you.”
“Not for me, for Simone. It’s too dangerous for Simone. Mr. Hemingway, you’re just going to have to trust me. Absurd or not, this is what I do. I hobble my way into things, particularly things the police are ill suited for, and solve them. With considerable success, I might add.”
Russell takes a moment to study Hemingway, his reaction to her words and manner, and sees that he is not persuaded. She suspects that no matter how smart, competent and authoritative a woman presents herself, he would not believe her word alone. Weighing her options, what might convince Hemingway most efficiently, she turns back to LeRocque who is, like Hemingway, still seated at the table. She looks into his eyes as she leans down to him, affectionately pushes his hair away from his brow, cups his jaw in her hand, and gives him a lingering kiss on the lips. “If you can’t trust me, Mr. Hemingway, then trust Martin. He wouldn’t have asked his girlfriend if he had any doubt in her abilities.”
Hemingway looks between the two of them, seeing Russell’s confidence and LeRocque’s awe, and is sufficiently convinced to give them both the benefit of the doubt. With a shrug of the shoulders and a call over his shoulder for another drink, he says “It’s on you, LeRocque. I hope you don’t regret it.”
LeRocque stands, throws some money on the table and heads to the door.
“Cloak and dagger, Mr. Hemingway. How’s that for an enticement? I would have liked to continue our discussion. We could have learned something from one another, I think. Another time, perhaps.”
“Yes, another time” says Hemingway quietly to Russell’s departing back.