I was examining the room, inch by inch, when I heard a sound. It was the clatter of something being dropped nearby. In an instant I crossed the room and flicked down the light switch, leaving me blundering in darkness. I opened the door an inch or two and listened. Somebody was definitely moving about the apartment. I knew I should make for the window as quickly as possible, but curiosity made me hesitate. I eased the door open and started to tiptoe across the dining room. There was another clunk, this time sounding dangerously close, probably inside the kitchen. The kitchen door was now closed and I didn’t dare to open it.
Much as I wanted to see who was in there, common sense won out. If it was the police I had no way to explain my presence. If it was the murderer returned to retrieve something incriminating, I’d be the next victim and if it was the housekeeper, making another raid on her master’s belongings, then there was no way I could pump her for information in the future if she encountered me here. I felt my way back across the studio, eased myself out of the window onto the stepladder, then folded it up, and let myself out of the garden as silently as possible. The street was still deserted. I crossed the circle and went to stand behind the fountain that graced the middle. After what seemed like hours of standing and holding a stepladder, I saw a figure emerge from Reynold Bryce’s building. It was the housekeeper again and this time she was carrying two bulging canvas bags.
I smiled to myself as I watched her scurry off. She’d cleared out her room of her own possessions yesterday, so today she was clearly stealing. It might be a good piece of knowledge to hold over her when I went back tomorrow to find out more about that model. I walked back to Mary’s house, returned the stepladder, and changed into more normal garb.
“We’re glad to see you in one piece,” Sid said as I appeared in the salon where they were drinking coffee. “We half expected to hear you’d been dragged away in chains.”
“It was touch and go for a while,” I said. “The housekeeper returned while I was there. Luckily she was so intent on helping herself to Mr. Bryce’s things that I was able to slip away again.”
“Mercy me,” Mary said. “And did you learn anything important from this risky endeavor?”
“Yes, I did, actually. Reynold Bryce was painting a portrait of a young girl when he died. The paint was still slightly wet. And it was the same girl that Maxim Noah painted in your picture, Gus.”
“Really? You think she was in the house when he died?” Gus asked. “Or—you don’t think she killed him, do you?”
“That’s what we have to find out. I thought I’d go and seek out Maxim Noah and get the name of the young woman from him. I wish I’d known this last night because I could have asked him at the Steins’ party.”
“He was there?” Sid’s expression brightened.
“He was, and he sent you his best regards.”
“You didn’t tell him where we were?”
“Of course not. I stuck to our story that you had been taken ill while visiting the countryside and were still there, recuperating.”
“That’s good,” Sid smiled again.
“And I also tried to ask him what the Jewish community was saying about the death of Reynold Bryce.”
“That was smart of you, Molly,” Sid said. “And what did he say?”
“He said he never attended a synagogue and wanted nothing to do with his religion. He said he was stuck with his race, but his real religion was art.”
“That’s a lot of help,” Gus said. “Still we now have a real lead to follow, don’t we? If Molly can track down the model we might be getting close to the truth.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” Mary asked. “I mean, if she did kill Reynold, or she was in cahoots with who did it, you’re running an awful risk, Molly. Some of these models—well, they aren’t the best sort of girls. They can also work as prostitutes by night, you know. She could be involved with a criminal type who came there to rob Reynold, or blackmail him.…”
“She’s right, Molly.”
“Don’t worry. I said I was going to ask Maxim Noah about her. He’ll know what sort of girl she is. And I expect the police must have checked her out by now. If she has criminal connections they’ll have taken her in.” I took the cup of coffee that Gus had poured for me. “I wish I could find an excuse to go and talk to Inspector Henri. I’m dying to find out how far along they are with their investigation.”
“The French police don’t take kindly to interference,” Mary said.
“Neither do the New York police,” I said. “My husband will never share details of any crime he’s working on with me.”
“That’s because you’d run straight out and try to solve it before him,” Sid said, with a grin.
“Contrary to popular belief I do not go around looking for trouble,” I said. “Trouble just seems to come and find me.”
“Do be careful, Molly,” Gus said. “Maybe it would be a good idea to ask the police how they are getting along, and if they are making good progress, then you can stop taking these risks.”