“I see.”
“I only arrived in Paris yesterday.”
“And your first task in a strange city, after you had been sick and too weak to travel, was to come straight to Reynold Bryce, whom you apparently don’t know, to deliver a message from a child about a painting.” He paused and stroked his mustache. “Interesting, don’t you think? If it was my first day in Paris I’d be enjoying the sights, sitting in a café, going to the Louvre, and I’d wait for a convenient moment to visit a man I didn’t know. Unless, of course, the message wasn’t quite so innocent—a warning maybe? A threat? You did say it was no longer relevant.”
“No. Absolutely not.” And as I said the words I felt a chill run down my spine. They were Reynold Bryce’s words to Gus, scrawled across the postcard. “And I don’t know why you seek motives from America when surely it is most likely that the murder was committed for the simplest of reasons.”
“Such as?”
I looked around me. “It appears that Mr. Bryce was a rich man. He could have surprised a thief.” I didn’t know the French word for burglar.
“There are no signs of a break-in.”
“You spoke of his housekeeper. Was she not here?”
“Unfortunately she went to the market and when she came back…” He stopped in mid-sentence. “None of this concerns you, madame,” he said. “The French police will do their work and find the murderer, trust me. That will be all for now, but I shall probably wish to speak with you again, regarding Bryce’s family connections in America. Please write down for me your name and address in Paris and do not think of leaving the city without my permission.”
“I have no intention of leaving the city, Inspector. As I said, I have only just arrived, and wish to make the most of my stay here.”
One of the doors opened and a policeman popped his head around it. “Inspector?” he said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were busy.”
“What is it, Clement?”
“There’s something I’d like you to see in the study.”
“Very well.” He tore a sheet of paper from his book. “Please write your name and address for me, madame, and I shall return.”
As soon as he had gone I went over to the door, listening as closely as I dared, to hear what the young policeman might have found, but I could hear nothing. So I sat down and wrote my address on the paper. Then I got up and paced around, wondering how I could ask about Sid and Gus. The light in the foyer was poor so I went closer to look at the paintings. There was a lovely landscape with a row of poplar trees, and another with a bridge over a lake with water lilies. I wondered if they were Bryce’s own work until I read the signature on the latter picture. Monet. So he collected the works of other painters. If he had these paintings in a front hall, he must have a more impressive collection inside. Would there be a picture that was worth stealing among them?
On the wall tucked away to one side of the front door was another painting, smaller than the rest. It was in deep shadow. I went over to it and saw that it was one of the Angela studies. Not a completed painting, but a rough sketch. She was older than in the picture on Dodo’s nursery wall—already turning into a young woman. This time she was holding a bunch of wildflowers. She was looking at the painter with a mischievous grin. Again I was struck by the resemblance to Ellie, the girl on the ship. And as I studied her expression I saw the humor and liveliness in those eyes. This was not the face of a half-wit.
“Sorry to keep you, Mrs. Sullivan.” I spun around as the inspector returned. “Admiring the paintings, are you? These are more my kind of style. Not like that modern rubbish they’re turning out now. Fauves, this latest lot call themselves. Wild ones. I think it’s just an excuse for not being able to paint properly.” He went over to the Monet. “Now take this, for example. Here’s someone who knew how to paint. Old Monet. They were good friends, you know. He and Bryce. He’ll be upset to learn of Bryce’s death. Almost all the old Impressionists have died off now. Only that Renoir man and Degas…”
“May one ask how Mr. Bryce was killed?” I interrupted him. “Did his death indicate a violent struggle? Did it appear that he knew his attacker and was caught by surprise?”
He came closer to me, staring hard at my face. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who apparently has no interest in this case,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not a lady journalist, hoping to get a scoop?”
“I am not. But before my marriage I used to be a private investigator in New York City. I’m afraid I can’t stop being fascinated by crime.”
“Mon dieu. A lady investigator. What is the world coming to?” He shook his head.