City of Darkness and Light(105)

I got up. “I might have something that is of help,” I said. “Excuse me for a moment.” I went up to my room and returned with the wine glass. I set it on the table before the inspector. “This is a wine glass I took from Mademoiselle Stein’s Saturday party. Willie Walcott had been drinking from it. His fingerprints will be on it.”

“And what has this Mr. Walcott to do with the crime, in your opinion?”

“Probably nothing, but he and Mr. Bryce used to be good friends. There was a falling out, and they saw nothing of each other for several months. Then Mr. Walcott appeared at Mr. Bryce’s apartment the day before he died. He was angry, shouting, waving a piece of paper, and saying, ‘You’ve let me down. You’re a liar,’ or similar words.”

“And how did you find out about this?” he asked, his eyes focused on the glass.

“The housekeeper told me,” I said. “I asked her who might have been to visit Mr. Bryce before he died and she mentioned Mr. Walcott’s name. So I acquired the glass.”

“To test for Mr. Walcott’s fingerprints? Presumably yours are also on the glass now?”

“Absolutely not. I picked it up with my handkerchief, taking care not to touch the places where he had been holding it.”

He was looking at me with a modicum of respect now. “That was a smart thing to do, if you were actually involved with this case, which you are not. I am sure you are a fine detective in your way, but I am telling you this: a murder investigation belongs to the Sûreté. It is no place for amateurs and you may well do more harm than good. You may alert a suspect that we have been watching him. Or, you may find that you are his next victim. So leave the detecting work to the professionals, madame, and enjoy your stay here in Paris.”

He got up, took out his handkerchief, and carefully wrapped the glass in it, then gave me a curt bow. “You say your husband is a policeman?” he asked as he walked toward the door. “Does he let you assist him in his criminal cases?”

“Of course not,” I said and he laughed.

“Wise man,” he said and walked out.





Thirty-four



“Well?” Sid’s head came around the door the moment Inspector Henri had gone. “Have they arrested anyone yet?”

“Far from it,” I said as Sid came over to sit beside me. “I think they are completely in the dark.”

“But still looking for this supposed young Jewish man?” She frowned. “I hate being cooped up here, never knowing when the ax will fall.”

“I really think you’re worrying for nothing,” I said. “If anyone had seen you running to this address, the inspector would have questioned Mary. Had the place searched. But he hasn’t. If you want to know the truth, I believe he suspects me.”

“You? Why on earth would he do that?”

“Well, for one thing I was seen coming out of Mr. Bryce’s place this morning. And I’ve been showing too much interest in how he’s getting on toward solving the case.”

“But that’s plain silly,” Sid said. “The man is a simpleton. If you don’t solve it soon, Molly, we’ll just have to go home. We can’t stay cooped up like this.”

I felt a lurch of fear. If they went home, I’d have nowhere to stay. I couldn’t impose upon Miss Cassatt’s hospitality after Sid and Gus were gone. And Daniel wouldn’t want me to return home yet. I wished I had had a letter from him. Maybe there was one at this moment at the Montmartre address.

“Do you have any ideas at all?” Sid touched my arm, making me start. I’d obviously been staring out, lost in worry. She leaned closer. “You don’t really think that Gus’s cousin might be responsible?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “Although he came to see Reynold Bryce the day before he was killed. I’ve heard nothing to indicate he returned on the actual day.”

“Gus would be devastated,” Sid said. “They were close as children. She’s fond of him.”

Then I felt guilty that I had handed over Willie’s fingerprints and suggested to the inspector that he might have a motive.

“I did worm out of the inspector that they’ve questioned likely Jewish organizations and come up empty-handed,” I said.

“So is there anything more you can do?”

“There is one thing,” I began. “Reynold Bryce was painting a young immigrant girl. I believe she lied to the police about what happened that morning. I thought I’d go up to Montmartre and see if I can find her.”

“Do you think she’d tell you the truth if she lied to the police?” Sid asked.