“We are trying to find out who might have a reason to kill Reynold Bryce,” he said. “We can fill in details of his life in Paris but we have no knowledge of his life in America. For all we know he had enemies over there.”
“Mr. Bryce has not lived in America for many years,” I said.
He shrugged. “Maybe he had swindled someone, or he stood to inherit money, or was leaving his fortune to the wrong person. There are many reasons that might make a person choose to kill. Old hatreds can simmer on for years.” He paused. Apart from the ticking of a clock in a nearby room and the sound of a chair being moved, there was silence in that foyer.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you with any of this,” I said, now desperately racking my brains for a message that would not implicate me in any way. “My message was simply from a young cousin, thanking Cousin Reynold for the picture that he painted for her tenth birthday.”
“I’ll need the names of these cousins,” he said. “And you say you’ve just arrived in Paris. Are you sure you haven’t attempted to see Mr. Bryce before?”
“Of course not. I’ve only just arrived in Paris.”
He was continuing to stare hard at me. “The housekeeper reported an American woman visitor on the day he was killed. Where were you two days ago?”
“That is easy to answer. I was at a pension in Le Havre with a group of American women. I was recovering from a very bad case of seasickness and too weak to travel.”
“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.