They didn’t believe her, I thought jubilantly as I moved out of the group and let them pass, eyeing me with strange stares. Justin and Henrietta thought I was a figment of their mother’s fantasy. I stood, watching and waiting, until they went up the stairs, then I slipped out. Thank goodness I’d not have to go to the Ritz again. That had been too close for comfort.
I was glad when I finally saw the Rue de Marignan ahead of me and knocked on Mary’s front door. Celeste opened it, giving me a strange and wary glance. “Ah, you have returned at last, madame. There is a gentleman waiting to see you. He has been waiting for some time.”
“A gentleman?”
“From the S?reté, madame. In the front salon.”
“And my son? I ought to attend to him first.”
“All is well with him, madame. I have just made him a puree of vegetables, so he is well-fed.”
“Thank you, Celeste. I’d better see the inspector right away then. I wonder what he wants now?”
She gave a wonderfully Gallic shrug. I took off my hat, left it on the hat stand in the hall, then went through to the front salon. Inspector Henri had been sitting on one of the gilt armchairs. He got up as I came in. “Ah, Madame Sullivan. You return at last. Have you had an interesting stroll this morning? Or perhaps it was shopping in the Boulevard Haussmann? Or meeting a friend for coffee?” He motioned to a chair opposite him. I sat. He resumed his former place.
“I did meet a young friend at the Ritz,” I said. “But what brings you back here, Inspector? Have you been kind enough to come to tell me that the murder of Monsieur Bryce is solved and you have caught the murderer?”
“Alas no, madame. But I think we may be getting closer. I have come because I am interested to know what you were doing at Monsieur Bryce’s apartment this morning.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I muttered. That dratted housekeeper spilled the beans after all. But he went on. “My man recognized you when you left, but he is puzzled because he did not see you enter.”
“He wouldn’t have,” I said, weighing whether the truth would be preferable to a lie at this juncture. “I came in through the courtyard and up the janitor’s stair.”
“And may one ask why?”
I was still fishing desperately for a good explanation for this behavior. “The primary reason being that one of your men was standing outside and would not have let me enter.”
“But why should you want to enter in the first place?”
“Ah. It is as I told you—a member of Mr. Bryce’s family was interested in buying one of his paintings. She asked me to select one for her and I had promised to do so. I met the housekeeper who said that everything was to be packed into crates today, so I realized that I would have to take a look at his paintings myself so that the family was not cheated out of his best work. This family member was prepared to pay fair market value, although it is quite possible that the family member may inherit the estate anyway, so it was only fair…”
He held up his hand to silence me. “We have received cables from the police in Boston. Mr. Bryce has no family to speak of.”
“Second and third cousins, Inspector. Also he has a wife,” I said. “They were never divorced, so I presume she has a good claim on his estate.”
His eyes narrowed. “Madame, we are well aware of this wife. Our colleagues in Boston are checking on her with a great deal of interest. As you say, she stands to inherit a considerable fortune. And if you have been sent here by her, my supposition should be that she sent you here to arrange for his murder.”
“You know that can’t be true,” I said, trying not to sound flustered because I realized I had put my foot in my mouth royally this time. “I only arrived here the day after his murder. I have witnesses to attest to my being in Le Havre until that date.”
“So you were not sent here by his wife, then?”
“Of course not. I don’t know the woman. Never met her.”
“So why this unhealthy interest in the murder of Reynold Bryce? If a remote cousin wanted to see one of his paintings, I do not think you’d risk sneaking into a crime scene to catch a glimpse of it. Not even if this person was your dearest friend. I know I wouldn’t take such chances.”
“Maybe it is the detective in me that wants to see justice done?” I suggested.
“You wish to solve this case yourself and prove the police to be idiots?”
“Of course not. I’m just interested. For example, Inspector, it was not made clear that he had a young model in the room and that she left in anger that morning. She would have been the first person on my list of suspects. What do you know about her?”
“Naturally she was brought in for questioning instantly. She’s a young Russian immigrant. Came here with her brother about three years ago. Her real name is Hodel Klein. She calls herself Josette Petit to sound more French and less Jewish. She lives with other young refugee girls in a shack on Montmartre. Her French is extremely limited but I understood that much.”
This time I understood the pronunciation of her first name. Josette, not Shosette. The housekeeper’s accent had been strange.
“And is she a suspect in your mind?”
“No, madame, she is not.”