by Rhys Bowen
He smiled. “Ah, yes. The lady detective. I had forgotten that. There were fingerprints on the knife, madame, but as yet we have not identified them. But we will. Rest assured we will.”
“Only one set of fingerprints?” I asked.
He gave me a suspicious look, his head tilted a little. “You believe there was more than one killer?”
“No. I wondered … if someone is stabbed he does not always die instantly. He would try to grasp the knife and remove it. His own prints would be on it.”
He nodded approval. “Bien sûr, madame. You are right. His own fingerprints were on the knife, as well as those of several other persons.”
“Several?” I said.
“It was a common kitchen knife as found in any good kitchen or restaurant in Paris.”
“From his own kitchen, perhaps?”
“His housekeeper says certainly not. None of her knives is missing. But she does not seem to me like a particularly neat and tidy person, and she was rather hostile when we tried to question her.”
“Interesting,” I said. I was actually wondering why the housekeeper mistrusted the police, but I knew little of police interrogation tactics in Paris. Maybe she did not enjoy being bullied or threatened.
He looked up sharply. “What do you imply by that, madame?”
“Only that the sort of men who were Mr. Bryce’s social equals had probably never been in a kitchen in their lives and wouldn’t know where to find the knives,” I replied, moving away from my thoughts on the housekeeper.
“That is true, if the killer was indeed Mr. Bryce’s social equal,” he said. “He was a patron of many poor artists, was he not? And the killer was not necessarily a man. The knife was good and sharp. A healthy woman could have plunged it in.”
“Mercy me,” Mary Cassatt said in English, and took a hasty sip of her wine.
“And if the killer was not a person Mr. Bryce knew but perhaps a Jewish man, angry at his anti-Jewish sentiments, as has been suggested?”
“He was alone in the house, madame. He was hard at work, painting, and did not like to be disturbed. I do not think he would have admitted such a person, if he even bothered to answer the front door himself while his housekeeper was away.”
“The person could have forced his way in,” Mary suggested.
“Then Mr. Bryce would not have been sitting down,” I said before the inspector could answer. “The intruder would have stabbed him in his foyer, not been brought through all the way to his studio.”
“Alas, there was the window,” the inspector said. “Mr. Bryce always kept a window open because of the smell of paint and turpentine. The window was high enough above the street to make entry difficult, but an agile person could have managed it, entered when Mr. Bryce left the room, and waited for the right moment to strike.”
Mary shuddered again. “Too horrible to contemplate,” she said.
The inspector smiled. “You do not seem to have the strong stomach of your relative here,” he said. “But then she was once a detective, was she not?”
I could tell from his tone that he hadn’t quite accepted my story. He was not sure who I was and was suspicious about why I was here and whether I had anything to do with Mr. Bryce’s death. I realized I had to tread carefully or I might find myself cast in the role of prime suspect.
“But surely anyone attempting to climb in would have been seen,” I said. “The Rue François Premier is quite busy.”
“You forget those houses have small gardens facing the street. One could hide among the shrubs for the right moment.”
“Dangerous, surely,” I said. “Anyone going over to the window would spot the person immediately.”
“Criminals often enjoy risks, madame, as you, being a detective, should know. So tell me, where was this detective agency of yours?”
“In New York,” I said. “I closed it when I married. Now I am only a wife and mother and enjoy the leisure to visit family and friends.”
“Your husband is generous to allow you to travel without him.”
“He is busy at work, like most men. He thought it would be a perfect chance for me to travel when I had friends in Paris.”
“Your husband, what profession does he have?”
Oh, dear. I suspected this might be coming and didn’t really see a way to avoid it. “He is a police captain in New York,” I said. At least that might allay suspicions about me, but I now ran the risk that he would contact New York for verification. And the last thing I wanted was for Daniel to hear that I was somehow mixed up in a murder investigation.
Twenty-six
“Thank heavens he has gone,” Mary said as she returned to the salon, having escorted the inspector to the door. “Such a lot of questions. I began to think he had been tipped off that our friends were hiding out here.”
“I know. It was most uncomfortable, knowing that they were upstairs, within his reach. And he is obviously suspicious of me.”
“You met him before, I understand?”
“I went to Mr. Bryce’s house, knowing that he had been in recent contact with Sid and Gus and hoping he might know where they had gone. I arrived to find the police stationed outside and Bryce dead. In order to gain entrance I said I was a friend of his family with a message for him. I got the feeling he thought the message I had come to deliver was in some way significant and that I was hiding the truth from him.”
“Ah, so no wonder he was interested when I claimed you were also a dear friend of my family at home,” she laughed. “What a mess, Molly.” She broke off and extended a hand to me. “I may call you Molly, may I not? Since we are now almost related?”
“Please do,” I said. “And I can’t thank you enough for taking us in.”
“The little one looks as if he’s ready to sleep,” she said, looking fondly at Liam who was snuggled against me, sucking his thumb. “I can finally have Celeste show you to the room I have prepared for you. Or do you want to let him meet his anxious aunts first?”
I glanced down at Liam. “I think we should make the most of a sleepy child and put him down,” I said. “Sid and Gus will have ample time to spoil him later.”
Mary smiled and rang the bell. Celeste appeared and escorted me up two flights of stairs. It was an attic room like the one in Montmartre, with French doors opening onto a balcony, but much more cozily and elegantly furnished with blue and white wallpaper and a blue and white chenille bedspread and curtains. The crib had been assembled in the far corner, and looked most inviting with lace pillows. I put Liam down. His thumb came into his mouth and he was asleep straight away. I went over and opened the French windows, stepping out onto the narrow balcony. The street below was quiet, apart from the distant sound of a horse’s hoofs moving at a fast trot as it pulled a light carriage or a cab. The sky beyond the rooftops held the last lingering glow of red and etched in black against that sky the Eiffel Tower rose. Seen close like this it was an awe-inspiring sight. It reminded me that whatever was happening, whatever difficulties we might be facing, we were, after all, in Paris.
If they could see me now in Ireland, I thought, and then I remembered that other disturbing fact. One person who knew me from Ireland, who wanted my destruction, was also here in this city. Thus sobered I sat at the little writing desk and wrote to Daniel, telling him that I would be staying for a while at the charming residence of the painter Mary Cassatt and that all was well with Liam and me. I had already enjoyed meeting interesting artists and poets and could see the Eiffel Tower from my window. When I read it through it sounded quite jolly. I just hoped that he was safe and well and the message would cheer him up. I sealed the envelope then went down to join the others.
In spite of everything we spent a pleasant evening together. Mary was careful to make sure that the drapes were closed before Sid and Gus came into the salon at the front of the house. “I think that policeman just wanted to question other American painters for details of Bryce’s life,” Mary said, “but one can’t be too sure.
He may have come here on a tip and wanted to observe my reaction.”
“We were scared stiff when he stayed so long, weren’t we, Sid?” Gus said. “I suggested we hide in the wardrobe, just in case he decided to come looking for us.”
“But I said there wasn’t much point. Our belongings were all over the room, which might have given away our presence if he decided to come up and look.”
“Thank heavens he didn’t,” Mary said. “I should have been so flustered if he’d wanted to go upstairs I couldn’t have invented a good reason for a bedroom that was clearly occupied. But we will have to be careful. Maybe we shouldn’t use this room unless the drapes are drawn. I’m going to ask Celeste to check whether anyone is watching this house.”
“In which case I wonder if I’ll be followed when I go out,” I said.
“Surely not. Now that he knows your husband is a fellow policeman,” Mary said. “He must think that your behavior is beyond reproach.”
Silently I thought that she didn’t know much about the police. I’d encountered several whose behavior left a lot to be desired.
Dinner was delicious. Mary might have retained her Pennsylvania accent but the cooking was pure French with even the vegetables covered in sauces delicate enough to make one weep. We drank wine and even managed to laugh a little.
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Gus said. “Will you be going to Gertrude Stein’s, Mary?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll bother,” she replied. “I find these new young artists too tedious in their pretentious desire to be modern.”
“But you could take Molly with you,” Gus said. “You never know, she might learn something about Reynold Bryce.”
“That is a name never to be mentioned in the Stein household,” Mary said.
“Don’t be so sure.” I looked up from my coffee cup. “They may well enjoy discussing him now that he is dead. Carcasses often attract vultures, you know.”
The others laughed.
“That might be true,” Mary said. “I’m quite willing to go if you’d like to, Molly. The Steins’ salon is something to be experienced, at least once if you want to feel the pulse of the Parisian art world.”
“We certainly enjoyed it when we went,” Sid said. “I must say I’m beginning to develop cabin fever, however pleasant our surroundings are.”
“It’s not that,” Gus said. “It’s this terrible thing hanging over your head. We’re all waiting for doom to fall.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“I’ll go straight to work in the morning,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “The first thing to do is to see if I can interview the housekeeper, and maybe find a way to get in and see the studio for myself.”
“But what do you hope to find there?” Gus asked.
“I’m not sure, and it’s possible that the police have already carried away any incriminating evidence, but it’s always good to start with the scene of the crime. At least, that was what Paddy Riley, my old mentor, used to say.”
“From what Inspector Henri said the housekeeper didn’t sound like a pleasant person,” Mary said.
“Maybe she just had an aversion to the police,” I suggested. “Some people do. Besides, I’ll be using all of my Irish gift of the blarney. I’ll have her eating out of my hand.”
“Isn’t Molly wonderful?” Gus said. “You should see all the clever cases she has solved back in New York.”
I wished they weren’t quite so confident in my abilities. For one thing I was not at all sure that I could charm a hostile Frenchwoman when my French vocabulary was sadly lacking. Still, I had promised to do my best. Liam was sleeping soundly when I went up to bed. I stood looking down at him, thinking how easy life was for babies and how quickly they adapt. He had come across an ocean, then from a seaside pension to a noisy Montmartre attic, and now to this tranquil street and had slept peacefully in each of them. I bent to kiss his forehead.
“I wish your daddy was here,” I whispered. “He’d know what to do.”
And he’d make sure that I stayed well away from a murder case, I reminded myself. So maybe it was a good thing that he was thousands of miles away in New York. I climbed into bed and lay listening to distant sounds. I was safe. I was among friends. I should have been able to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. How could I possibly find out who killed Reynold Bryce? I was not the police, able to compare fingerprints or examine the details of Bryce’s life, and I didn’t have the ability to question large numbers of people. I’d be floundering in the dark as usual.
Start with what you know: that was another of Paddy Riley’s favorite sayings. What did I know about Reynold Bryce? He had inherited wealth and had established a reputation for himself in the States as a painter of rather sentimental Victorian pictures. Then he had abandoned America and his wife and gone to live in Paris. He had never returned to the States. Why was that? Had it been a hasty departure? Could he have perhaps run off to Paris with another woman? But then it would have been the subject of general gossip. Why had he left his wife behind, or had she refused to accompany him?
What else did I know? He was bigoted, prejudiced, and opinionated. Such people make enemies. I also got a hint that he had an eye for the ladies. Was there one lady in particular at the moment? The housekeeper would know about that, surely.
Apart from that he frequented the American Club, where I was denied entry. I knew that he was a leader among the anti-Dreyfusards, a friend of Degas and of Monet. One of my first tasks should be to find out when and where his funeral would be held. Surely his old friend Monet would come to Paris for the funeral. Perhaps other friends would be there to chat and reminisce about him. With some sort of plan now in my head, I finally fell asleep.
* * *
I was awoken by a tap on my door and Celeste came in, bearing a cup of tea on a tray. “A fine summer day, madame,” she said. “Your friends say you prefer tea in the morning to coffee.” She set down the tray. “If you have laundry to be done, this is the time to give it to me.”
“I’m afraid my baby’s clothes get extremely dirty,” I said, but she waved this aside. “No problem, madame. I will take them when I come back for your tray.”
It seemed odd to have someone waiting on me again, and I couldn’t help thinking about little Aggie and her willingness to do the laundry. I pictured her scrawny form bent over the washboard as she scrubbed away. Poor young thing. She never had a chance to enjoy life.
Liam awoke and finding himself in a strange room, cried for me. I took him into bed with me and nursed him, bringing a feeling of peace to both of us. When I took him down to breakfast he was delighted to find his aunts from across the street waiting to play with him and didn’t complain at all when I slipped out. It was indeed a lovely day. The yellow stone glowed against a blue sky. It was the sort of day for picnics by the river, strolls though the gardens, shopping on the Boulevard Haussmann. But instead I turned onto the Rue François Premier and made for Reynold Bryce’s ground-floor apartment on the circle at the far end of the street, close to the river. I was relieved to find no policeman standing outside, but then wondered if that meant that the place was now locked up and the housekeeper would not be there either. What would happen to her? I wondered. Had Reynold Bryce left a provision for her in his will? Ah, that would be another avenue to pursue, if I could find out who his lawyer was. He was a wealthy man. To whom had that wealth been left?
I stood on the front steps of the building, staring at the little garden behind the railings. Sid had indeed been agile to have climbed into the tree and then have dropped down onto the street. To me, wearing a long, tight skirt, it looked almost impossible. But then terror gives people skills they didn’t know they possessed. Had the murderer really entered and left by that route? If so he must also be strong and agile. I looked at the windows. They now appeared to be shut—or was that one on the end not quite closed? But climbing up would be even harder than climbing down. There was a gate in the rail
ings. I wondered if it was unlocked. I came back down the steps and walked around to it. I had just reached in to jiggle the lock open when someone called, “What are you doing, madame?”
I withdrew my hand rapidly and turned to see a gaunt, hard-faced, elderly woman in black, wearing an old-fashioned black bonnet, coming toward me at a rapid rate.
I glanced hastily around the little garden and my eye fell on the lilac bush. “Very well. I confess,” I said. “I love the smell of lilac and I wanted to pick a small sprig to take with me. Are these not public gardens?”
“No, madame, they are not. They are the private property of this building.”
“I am sorry. I am a visitor to Paris. Do you live here?”
“Yes, madame. Until now, that is. I was the housekeeper of the American, Reynold Bryce. You heard of his tragic demise, I expect.”
“I did. My condolences, madame. It must have been a great shock for you. And a great loss.”
“Indeed,” she said. “I had taken care of Monsieur Bryce since he came to Paris nearly twenty years ago. He was like a son to me.”
“He was a good employer, then?”
“Of course. I would not have stayed with an inferior employer. He was the best, madame. Generous. Liked my cooking. Of course I learned to cook the sort of food that Americans like, and he learned to appreciate the finer ways of French cooking.” She glanced up at the windows, now with shades drawn. “I won’t say he was the easiest man, especially if he was working. He did not like to be disturbed. And he liked to get his own way. One could not cross him. But that is how the great men are, isn’t it? Great art means great temperament.”
“And he lived here alone, all this time?” I asked.
“I was in residence, madame.”
“But I meant that he never remarried.”
“He had a wife at home in America, madame.” She sounded shocked.
