I stopped to watch some children playing by the river. They were dancing around barefoot, in ragged clothing, squealing in delight as a bigger boy tried to splash them. And slowly an idea took shape in my head. Why had Reynold Bryce suddenly forsaken a country where he enjoyed considerable success and fled to Paris and never once returned home? Why had his wife not come with him? “Eighteen years” ago, the housekeeper had said. Eighteen years. And what had one of the men at the Steins’ party said about Reynold Bryce? He had thrown Pauline over because she was too old. And hadn’t one of the men at the Nouvelle Athènes said, “lock up your daughters”?
Reynold Bryce liked to have the young and the beautiful around him. The housekeeper had acknowledged that. But what if it went further? I stopped, frowning into the distance at the sturdy buildings on the Île de la Cité, because I hardly dared to form the thought, let alone say it out loud. What if the Angela in the paintings wasn’t Ellie’s aunt at all?
I turned away from the river at the impressive Orsay train station and found the hotel on the Boulevard Saint-Germain nearby. It seemed to be a pleasant and not too pretentious hotel, one that I would have enjoyed staying in myself. I realized as I approached the front desk that I still did not know Ellie’s last name.
“You have a young lady from America staying here,” I began slowly. “Her first name is Ellie and she has beautiful blonde hair, but I’m afraid she never told me her last name.”
The clerk had obviously been impressed by Ellie and her hair. His face lit up. “You mean Mademoiselle Hatcher. Eleanor Hatcher.”
“That’s right. Is she available at the moment?”
The face clouded again. “Oh, no, madame. She has left us, only this morning. She is to join her family members at the Ritz.”
“I see,” I sighed. “Thank you.”
I was now hot, tired, and frustrated and the last place I wanted to go was the Ritz. I was sorely tempted to go back to Miss Cassatt’s and then go to see Inspector Henri at the Sûreté and tell him what I knew about Ellie and what I suspected. But I couldn’t do it. In spite of the way she had tried to use me I was still rather fond of her, and I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I suspected she’d lie to me again but I had become quite good at recognizing a lie. If she didn’t want to tell me the truth, I’d have to go to the police. I’d tell her that too.
Wearily I trudged back across the Seine at the Pont de la Corcorde and then along the Rue de Rivoli, grateful for the colonnade and its deep shade, until I stood eventually in the Place Vendôme, admiring the column and the graceful sweep of buildings beyond it. I took several deep breaths before I dared to enter the Ritz. I was conscious that I now looked sweaty and red-faced and my hat was probably askew. Indeed the doorman, not the same one as on the occasion of my last visit, did eye me with suspicion and ask, “May I assist you, mademoiselle?”
I told him curtly that it was “madame” and I had come to visit my friend Miss Hatcher who was currently a guest. He gave a perfunctory nod and admitted me. I looked around carefully before I entered the lobby. The last thing I wanted at the moment was to bump into Justin Hartley. But the lobby was deserted apart from an elderly couple who were studying a map at one of the glass-topped tables and a fashionably dressed woman who was standing at the front counter. “But I don’t see how you have the nerve to charge me for that!” Her voice carried across the hotel lobby.
I went up to the front desk and asked for Miss Hatcher.
“I will call her room, madame,” he said. “Whom shall I say wishes to see her?”
“Mrs. Sullivan from New York. It’s a matter of great urgency.”
He tried an internal telephone then shook his head. “She does not appear to be in her room, madame.”
“Is she perhaps in the suite of the family with whom she is staying?”
“The Sloane family, no? I will try for you.” He did, then shook his head once more. “Maybe they are in the restaurant. It is almost time for luncheon and Americans like to eat very early.”
He indicated the direction of the restaurant. I made my way through to it with some trepidation, pausing to straighten my hat and blot my face when I came to a gilt-framed mirror in the corridor. The restaurant was breathtakingly opulent, with light pouring in from high windows, reflecting from mirrors and sparkling from chandeliers. The white-clothed tables had upholstered curved seats around them and were separated by tall potted palms. At this hour most of the booths were empty with a low buzz of conversation coming from a few tables. The maître d’ pounced on me before I had a chance to look around.