I wandered around the market once more, then abandoned this particular search and tried the Nouvelle Athènes. but it must have been too early for the painters. Their usual table was empty. I would have to come back later, after I had tackled the housekeeper. I couldn’t risk missing her at Reynold Bryce’s. And as I descended into the gloom of the Métro I thought about Pauline. From what she said her affair with Reynold Bryce had ended some time ago and was as much her decision as his. She had the temperament to stab someone, but had made it clear that he wasn’t worth stabbing. And the interesting fact was that she didn’t know the little dark waif whom Reynold Bryce had been most recently painting. Nobody did. So who was she and where did he find her?
I stepped into the Métro car and we rattled off into darkness. I have to confess that I felt a knot of apprehension in my throat as I walked down from the Champs-élysées to the Rue Fran?ois Premier. I had to approach this conversation with the housekeeper in the correct manner. I’d only have one chance and if she shut the door on me, then that would be that. There was an added complication that the police might be guarding the place or even sitting inside with the housekeeper to make sure she didn’t take anything. I had no idea what I might say to them to gain admittance.
As I approached the Rue I saw that there was indeed a young policeman standing in the street. Oh, dear. Now what? I wondered if there was any way into the building from the rear. There was often a janitor in residence in such buildings, wasn’t there? And trash would not be carried through that fancy front entrance. I prowled the outside of the building and halfway down the block, where the Rue Bayard approached the Seine, I found a small wooden door, propped open by a garbage can. I went through a cobbled archway and found myself in that central area between buildings. In contrast to the attractive fa?ades that faced the street, these walls were unadorned. There was even laundry hanging from one window on the far side, and it didn’t smell too good either. I crept along, hugging the wall, until I came to what had to be Reynold Bryce’s building. And I was right. Behind an iron railing a narrow flight of steps went down to a door. I stepped down gingerly, tried the door. It resisted at first but in response to a good shove from my shoulder it creaked open. I was in a basement, in complete darkness apart from the light that came in through the open door. I heard the roar of what must have been a furnace and smelled the odor of laundry and garbage. At least if it was in darkness I was not in danger of bumping into a custodian down here. I felt my way forward until I found a flight of stone stairs going up. I followed them until my hands touched another door. A crack of light was coming under it. I turned the knob and opened it a few inches. I was staring at the back of the elevator. I came out and inched my way around until I was in the foyer. No sign of any police presence and the front door to Reynold Bryce’s suite was ajar. I tiptoed past the elevator, across the marble floor, and in through that door.
Still no sign of a policeman. I still hadn’t come up with anything credible to say if I encountered one, but spurred on by success so far I listened for noises indicating where the housekeeper might be working. Hearing nothing I peeked into the salon, then went through to the dining room and the studio. There was no sign that she had been in any of them. Everything lay as I saw it last with a film of dust over the long mahogany table. I returned and pushed open the swing door to the kitchen. Pots and pans had been stacked in boxes and the shelves had been cleared. So at least I knew she had been working here. I returned to the foyer and went down the hall leading to the bedrooms. I froze as I heard a muttered exclamation coming from Bryce’s bedroom, then I tiptoed toward the sound. The housekeeper was in there, taking items out of the chest of drawers. For a moment I wondered if she had counted the handkerchiefs and noticed that one was now missing. She went on removing shirts and underclothing and placing them in a trunk that now lay on the feather mattress of the stripped bed.
Now I had to think how to attract her attention without startling her and making her cry out. I retreated a few paces then called, “Madame, are you here? A message for you from the inspector.”
She came out, her eyes darting nervously, wiping down her hands on her apron. “The inspector? What does he want now?”
Then she stopped when she saw me. “You? What do you want? You are not from the police. You should not be here. Get out immediately or I will summon the constable outside.”
“Ah, but he let me in, madame,” I said. “The inspector understands that as a representative of the Bryce family in America I would want to ask you some questions and be here when you pack up his things.”
“What kind of questions?” she snapped. “I don’t need to answer any questions. There is nothing I can tell you.”
“You could begin by telling me what was in those large bags I saw you carrying away yesterday.” I held her gaze and noticed the eyes darting nervously again. She ran her tongue over her thin lips.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last.
“Of course you do. You went in and helped yourself to Mr. Bryce’s things. As a representative of Mr. Bryce’s cousin—who may well inherit all of this, I should report this criminal act to the police. I have not done so, but I will if you do not help me now.”