City of Darkness and Light

by Rhys Bowen

  “Oh, but I think you do know, Miss Hatcher,” I said. “And it’s up to you. You can have the conversation with me, or with the inspector from the Sûreté.”

  Those blue eyes opened wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. I’m talking about Reynold Bryce’s murder. I was curious as to why you didn’t mention that you had seen Mr. Bryce on the day he died.”

  “It didn’t come up in casual conversation. Why should I tell you anything?” she glared defiantly. “I hardly know you.”

  “And yet you wanted me to lie that we had been together during all of your stay in Paris. At the time I thought you merely wanted to give your in-laws the impression that you were chaperoned during your stay here if they discovered you had been in Paris longer than you had told them. But later I realized it was quite different. You wanted an alibi, didn’t you?”

  “For what?”

  “For killing Reynold Bryce.”

  “But I didn’t kill him.” She looked around in case anybody was within earshot, then took my arm, dragged me into an alcove, and sank onto the bench there like a deflated balloon. “I swear I didn’t kill him.”

  “That’s not what the police think,” I said. “They know you came to visit him right before he died. The housekeeper has testified that you looked flustered and uneasy and insisted on seeing him. And she heard you say, ‘I don’t want your money.’” I decided to risk pushing this one step further. “And the Hôtel d’Alsace is missing one knife from their kitchen—a knife that has fingerprints on it.”

  She gave a sob and buried her face in her hands. “Then it’s all over, isn’t it? The truth will come out and Peter will never want to marry me now.”

  “I believe they still use the guillotine in France,” I said matter-of-factly.

  She dropped her hands with a look of pure terror on her face. “But I didn’t kill him,” she whispered.

  “The police won’t believe you. After all, you had the best motive, didn’t you?”

  She looked utterly hopeless and a tear trickled down her cheek. “How did you find out?”

  “That Reynold Bryce was your father? I didn’t, until now. But I started putting two and two together and making four. The fact that he left America suddenly eighteen years ago, and that must be around your age. And his wife refused to come with him—broke off all contact with him actually. And I learned that he had a predilection for young girls and he was actually painting another one when he died. Is that why you came to Paris early—to see him and to kill him?”

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I swear I didn’t know. The first visit really was a courtesy call. I’d heard about Reynold Bryce, of course, and that he had helped our family financially, and was extremely wealthy so I thought at least he’d treat me to a good meal—maybe ask me to stay with him until Peter arrived. But he didn’t want to see me. He was most unwelcoming—rather rude actually. He told me to go away; he was busy. You were right. He was painting a young girl—younger than me, I think. And the way he spoke to her and looked at her made me feel strange. And the way he looked at me too. There was something I couldn’t quite explain … he seemed angry but at the same time almost triumphant, amused, pleased with himself.”

  She was looking directly at me now, willing me to understand. I suspected she was desperate to share her secret with someone. She waited until a party of four Americans had walked past us, heading for the restaurant, then she continued.

  “So I came away feeling annoyed and upset. I couldn’t understand his attitude to me. Wouldn’t he have been glad to see someone from home, a member of a family he used to know well? And then it hit me. Certain things I’d overheard at home and not understood. Conversations that were broken off when I came into the room. Something my stepfather had said: ‘How long are you going to let this charade continue?’ and ‘Thank God she’ll soon be married off and no longer be your responsibility.’” She paused, staring out blankly past me into the hallway. “I thought he was just being his usual horrible self. But there was that painting in Mr. Bryce’s hallway and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. You know, one of the Angela paintings. It must have been one of the last ones because my aunt Adelaide looks quite grown up. But the problem was it looked so exactly like me that it was frightening. And then I realized the truth about what had happened and why he’d fled to Paris. Aunt Adelaide was really my mother. He must have seduced her and when she found out she was going to have a baby it was too much for her delicate nature. She’d always been naïve and led a very sheltered life. She must have been so overwhelmed that she had a nervous breakdown. And my adoptive mother was the only sister who was married at the time and wanted to have a baby of her own, so I was handed over to her. And everybody who knew kept quiet. But silly Mama must have spilled the beans to my stepfather.”

  “I see,” I said. “Yes, that is how it must have been. How very tragic. So you decided to kill your father. To make him pay for what he had done.”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s what I decided to do. If he had welcomed me, told me the truth, wanted me in his life, I might have forgiven him. But that complete and utter rejection—it was too much. There he was, enjoying a good life—rich, famous—when my poor little mother’s life had been ruined forever. I decided that such a man does not deserve to live. I slipped into the hotel kitchen and took a sharp knife and carried it in my purse to my father’s house.”

  “And the housekeeper admitted you? Weren’t you scared that she’d be a witness to his murder?”

  “I didn’t think about that. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I did worry about the young girl being there. I thought I’d somehow have to lure him away or find an excuse to get rid of her. But when I went into his studio he was alone. And the housekeeper left us alone too. I told him I’d figured out the truth and he looked amused and said, ‘Good for you. Obviously smarter than your mother, then.’

  “Then he asked me why I had come. What I wanted from him. Was it money? I said I’d come to kill him. I got out the knife. I told him how he’d ruined my mother’s life and my life and he didn’t care about us at all. As I came toward him he didn’t look afraid—amused rather. He got up, grabbed my wrist, and twisted it until I had to drop the knife.

  “‘Now stop being a fool. Go home and forget all about me,’ he said. ‘And we’ll say no more about this absurd incident. If you come back, I’ll have you locked up as insane—do you understand?’ I turned and ran out of the house.”

  “Leaving the knife on the table.”

  She nodded. “Yes. That’s the problem, isn’t it? My fingerprints will be on that knife. I keep waiting for the police to come and find me.”

  “Since they don’t have your fingerprints on file and since the housekeeper has given a description of the assailant being a slim, dark young man I don’t think that will happen,” I said.

  I saw a glimmer of hope in those eyes. “You mean I’m safe?”

  “I think you’re safe,” I said. “Of course, you’ll be carrying this secret with you for the rest of your life, if you’re smart. It’s not the sort of thing you should share with your fiancé.”

  She nodded. “Good Lord, no, I couldn’t share it with Peter.” She reached out a slim white hand and put it over mine. “I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier. I’d been so frightened.”

  “I understand.” I smiled at her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Would you like one last piece of advice from me?” I said. She nodded. “Don’t marry him. He seems like a spoiled and unpleasant young man. Marriage is for a terribly long time with someone you don’t love.”

  She nodded again. “You may be right. But I can’t stay at home any longer, not now that I know the truth.”

  “If I were you,” I said slowly, “I’d have a talk with your adoptive mother. Tell her you know the truth and you want the money that was settled on you now. Then I’d go to New York and start a life of your own
.”

  “That sounds a little like blackmail.”

  “Not blackmail. Just coming from a position of strength for the first time. And showing them that you can’t be pushed around.”

  “But it does sound like fun. I thought maybe I’d stay in Paris. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And romantic,” she added. “Maybe I’ll find myself a dashing Frenchman.”

  She got up, smoothed down her skirt, then held out her hand to me. “Thank you again. I’d better go back now. They’ll be missing me.”

  And she walked off down the hallway, past the mirrors, and into the restaurant, her little head held defiantly high.

  Thirty-three

  I was feeling quite satisfied with myself as I walked back down the hallway and into the main lobby of the Ritz. I had figured out Ellie’s connection to Reynold Bryce. I hadn’t found his killer but I had eliminated one suspect. At least I hoped I had eliminated her. A tiny sliver of doubt crept into my head. She had lied most expertly before now. She had shown herself to be devious, ruthless, and self-serving. But her account of what happened at Reynold Bryce’s house rang true, and beneath that façade of bravado she was still a young and frightened girl.

  So that now left two people I should go and see: Willie Walcott and the young model Shosette. Of course it still could turn out to be a stranger, a Jewish activist angry at Mr. Bryce’s tirades against Jews, but then the question arose as to how he could have gained entrance. The housekeeper was out and had presumably locked the front door behind her. If the doorbell had rung Mr. Bryce would have answered it himself. That meant he wouldn’t have been sitting in his chair when he was killed. There was the open window but it would have taken a good deal of gall to enter the garden and climb in that way, knowing that Mr. Bryce was in the house. In the room, actually. If he’d heard someone scrabbling at the window ledge he’d have gone to look. He’d have shouted. People would have heard. So a stranger was unlikely.

  I was deep in thought and not at all alert for danger when suddenly a hand grabbed me by the wrist. It was all I could do not to scream. I looked down and saw Mrs. Hartley, Justin’s mother, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs.

  “It is you! I thought it was when I saw you going into the restaurant. Little Molly Murphy. What on earth are you doing here?”

  She looked much older than when I saw her last and she sounded friendly enough, but I was well aware that I had almost killed her son, and surely no mother forgives that.

  “I’m visiting friends in Paris, Mrs. Hartley,” I said. “I’m a married woman now, with a young son.”

  “Well, isn’t that grand.” She beamed at me. “We wondered where you’d gone, when you left home. Of course I always knew you’d make something of yourself. You were too good for that cottage. I saw it then. And you have made something of yourself. Isn’t that grand?”

  There was something about the innocence of her smile, the lack of that patrician edge to her voice that made me realize this wasn’t the same woman I used to know. Something had happened to her. Something in her mind had gone.

  “I must be going, I’m afraid,” I said. “I have friends expecting me for lunch.”

  “Well, isn’t that grand,” she said, now stroking the hand she held. “But what a pity you can’t stay and meet my children. Justin is here, you know. And Henrietta. They’re out shopping, but they will be returning soon. Can’t you stay?”

  “I really can’t,” I said.

  “Then I’ll give them your best wishes, shall I? I know they both remember you fondly. You remember Justin, don’t you? Such a handsome boy. Such a pity he had that terrible riding accident. He had to leave the army, you know. Still, he always would take awful risks when he rode. Just like his father. My husband is dead now, you know. Justin is now lord of the manor. Isn’t that grand? He takes good care of me. And the girls come to visit. And my grandchildren. I wish you’d come back to Ireland and visit me too. You always were such a bright little thing.”

  I wondered how I could make her let go of me without causing a fuss. “I really must go, Mrs. Hartley. So lovely to see you again.”

  “And you too, my dear.” She patted my hand and I took the opportunity to pull it away. Then she looked up, smiled, and said, “Oh, here they come now!”

  I moved away quickly, ducking into a group of people heading for the restaurant. As I left I heard her say, “You’ll never guess who I have been talking to? Little Molly Murphy.”

  And I heard Henrietta’s reply. “Have you, Mother. How lovely. See, we’ve brought you your favorite chocolates.”

  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 Sûreté, 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 wit
h 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?”