The Confectioner's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

sort.’
    Finally, Evan unlocks the door, peering out with interest. He’s overweight, balding, but has a lively face behind huge spectacles, and an obvious soft spot for my friend.
    ‘Evan, this is Petra.’ Cass flashes her most charming smile. ‘She’s got a mystery on her hands and is in need of some expert advice.’
    ‘Couldn’t this have waited until Monday morning?’ He is trying hard to remain peeved, but a smile threatens the corner of his mouth.
    ‘You know how slow the faculty is with visitor cards. Ten minutes?’
    Evan’s office is in the main library, on the second floor. A desk lamp illuminates a tiny room, crammed with papers, cards, boxes of periodicals and, of course, books. The smell of take-away chips lingers. A bottle of whisky stands half-empty next to a glass. Evan catches me looking.
    ‘The sole perk of working more hours than I’m paid for.’ He smiles. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re after?’
    Cass nudges me. Briefly, I explain her theory and what we’re hoping to find. Evan takes his time looking at the photograph.
    ‘I hate to break it to you,’ he says kindly, ‘but this might be a bit of a wild-goose chase. Do you have anything else to go on, except for this name and a date?’
    A blush creeps down my neck as I shake my head.
    ‘Sorry, I wish I knew more.’
    ‘Not to worry,’ he claps his hands, ‘there’s no harm in checking the archives. I’ll be back in a minute.’
    When he returns, his arms are full of heavy ring binders, each stuffed with what look like magazines.
    ‘The archive card does have an entry for that date, and “Clermont”,’ he pants, face bright, ‘but it’s vague. Apparently, the reference is in one of these.’
    Cass groans, hefting a few of the folders out of his arms.
    ‘These are exhibition catalogues,’ she explains, pushing one at me. ‘They list everything that’s been exhibited in certain galleries, year by year. We’ll have to go through the lot to find out.’
    I tell them that I don’t want to take up their time, but they both wave away my protests. A warm hush descends upon the room, broken only by turning pages. I look at Evan, frowning over his second folder. Cass, equally absorbed, is leaning against the radiator.
    ‘Thanks, both of you,’ I tell them, touched.
    Cass only winks. ‘You know I love secrets.’
    My eyes are starting to blur from page after page of tiny writing when Evan yells.
    ‘Here!’
    We crowd around the desk, squeezing into the tight space.
    ‘It’s from an independent gallery in London,’ he tells us, checking the front page. ‘I don’t think they’re very well funded, but they focus on exactly the period you’re interested in. Look, near the bottom.’
    It is a reference to a portrait, oil on canvas, c .1910. The artist is Piet Ahlers, the title: Mademoiselles at Pâtisserie Clermont .
    ‘Evan, you’re a genius!’ Cass gushes.
    My heart is thrumming, even as I notice the title of the catalogue.
    ‘This is old, it’s dated nineteen eighty-three.’
    ‘It’s the only one I have.’ Evan shrugs apologetically. ‘I can’t say now for certain, but five years ago, that painting was on display.’

Chapter Six
    December 1909
    Montmartre was another world; the streets rose and twisted, screaming with advertisements for absinthe, cabarets, dancers. Some bars promised heaven, while others offered all the temptations of hell. Motor cars and carriages stood waiting for their masters, the men in white silk scarves come to experience the filth and thrill of the underworld. Gui’s group were turned away from the larger establishments, their worn clothes unwelcome beneath the lights.
    They stumbled deeper into the rabbit warren, to other bars, tatty and pungent with sweat and tobacco, warmed by gaslight and the breath of the crowd.
    Here, the girls were not haughty or prim but wild. They flung their arms and twisted their torsos, dancing to the music of accordions and guitars, their hair