City of Darkness and Light(102)

“Leaving the knife on the table.”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s the problem, isn’t it? My fingerprints will be on that knife. I keep waiting for the police to come and find me.”

“Since they don’t have your fingerprints on file and since the housekeeper has given a description of the assailant being a slim, dark young man I don’t think that will happen,” I said.

I saw a glimmer of hope in those eyes. “You mean I’m safe?”

“I think you’re safe,” I said. “Of course, you’ll be carrying this secret with you for the rest of your life, if you’re smart. It’s not the sort of thing you should share with your fiancé.”

She nodded. “Good Lord, no, I couldn’t share it with Peter.” She reached out a slim white hand and put it over mine. “I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier. I’d been so frightened.”

“I understand.” I smiled at her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Would you like one last piece of advice from me?” I said. She nodded. “Don’t marry him. He seems like a spoiled and unpleasant young man. Marriage is for a terribly long time with someone you don’t love.”

She nodded again. “You may be right. But I can’t stay at home any longer, not now that I know the truth.”

“If I were you,” I said slowly, “I’d have a talk with your adoptive mother. Tell her you know the truth and you want the money that was settled on you now. Then I’d go to New York and start a life of your own.”

“That sounds a little like blackmail.”

“Not blackmail. Just coming from a position of strength for the first time. And showing them that you can’t be pushed around.”

“But it does sound like fun. I thought maybe I’d stay in Paris. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And romantic,” she added. “Maybe I’ll find myself a dashing Frenchman.”

She got up, smoothed down her skirt, then held out her hand to me. “Thank you again. I’d better go back now. They’ll be missing me.”

And she walked off down the hallway, past the mirrors, and into the restaurant, her little head held defiantly high.





Thirty-three



I was feeling quite satisfied with myself as I walked back down the hallway and into the main lobby of the Ritz. I had figured out Ellie’s connection to Reynold Bryce. I hadn’t found his killer but I had eliminated one suspect. At least I hoped I had eliminated her. A tiny sliver of doubt crept into my head. She had lied most expertly before now. She had shown herself to be devious, ruthless, and self-serving. But her account of what happened at Reynold Bryce’s house rang true, and beneath that façade of bravado she was still a young and frightened girl.

So that now left two people I should go and see: Willie Walcott and the young model Shosette. Of course it still could turn out to be a stranger, a Jewish activist angry at Mr. Bryce’s tirades against Jews, but then the question arose as to how he could have gained entrance. The housekeeper was out and had presumably locked the front door behind her. If the doorbell had rung Mr. Bryce would have answered it himself. That meant he wouldn’t have been sitting in his chair when he was killed. There was the open window but it would have taken a good deal of gall to enter the garden and climb in that way, knowing that Mr. Bryce was in the house. In the room, actually. If he’d heard someone scrabbling at the window ledge he’d have gone to look. He’d have shouted. People would have heard. So a stranger was unlikely.

I was deep in thought and not at all alert for danger when suddenly a hand grabbed me by the wrist. It was all I could do not to scream. I looked down and saw Mrs. Hartley, Justin’s mother, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs.

“It is you! I thought it was when I saw you going into the restaurant. Little Molly Murphy. What on earth are you doing here?”

She looked much older than when I saw her last and she sounded friendly enough, but I was well aware that I had almost killed her son, and surely no mother forgives that.

“I’m visiting friends in Paris, Mrs. Hartley,” I said. “I’m a married woman now, with a young son.”

“Well, isn’t that grand.” She beamed at me. “We wondered where you’d gone, when you left home. Of course I always knew you’d make something of yourself. You were too good for that cottage. I saw it then. And you have made something of yourself. Isn’t that grand?”

There was something about the innocence of her smile, the lack of that patrician edge to her voice that made me realize this wasn’t the same woman I used to know. Something had happened to her. Something in her mind had gone.