Two of the others looked at each other and laughed. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“You mean because his painting style is in imitation of Bryce’s?”

The man was still smiling. “Of course. That’s exactly what I mean.”

Booth Tarkington put a hand over mine. “Sorry, we shouldn’t be making fun of a guy if he’s a friend of yours. That’s not quite kosher, is it.”

More laughter. “Booth, you can hardly use the words ‘kosher’ and ‘Bryce’ in the same sentence, old man.”

“Did you know that Reynold Bryce is dead?” I asked.

They nodded, their faces growing somber. “We just read about it in the paper this morning. We’ve been talking about it. We’re not entirely surprised.”

“Why is that? I’ve never actually met Mr. Bryce myself.”

“Let me put it this way—he wasn’t shy about expressing his opinions. Not just about Jews, but about art and literature too. If he didn’t like something he’d not only trash it, he’d try to get everyone else to do the same.”

“The paper said that a young Jewish man was seen running from his house.”

“That’s the most likely,” the redhead said. “A hotheaded young guy fresh from Russia, I’ll wager. They do things like that. Rush in and stab someone. Thank God we live in America where we behave in a civilized fashion.”

“And dispatch people neatly with guns,” Tarkington said. We all laughed.

At that moment we were hit with a blast of cold air and someone said, “Talk of the devil.”

I saw the resemblance to Gus immediately but Willie was decidedly the more handsome of the two. Actually Miss Stein’s description of him as a golden boy was not wrong. He had that same angelic air to him that I’d seen in Bryce’s paintings and in Ellie, whom I’d met on the boat. His face was framed with light blond curls. He had clear blue eyes and an overall look of surprise. He also looked very pale.

“Hail and well met, fellows,” he called, waving a hand to them as he came over to our table.

“It must be almost lunchtime. Willie’s here,” one of them called.

“I had to get out of the house today,” Willie said. “I just heard about poor old Reynold. I’m completely in shock. I can’t believe it. Who would kill him? How could anyone just walk into his apartment in that neighborhood and stab him? It doesn’t make sense.”

He looked around the group. “It had to be someone he knew, don’t you think? I mean, he had servants there and probably a coachman standing outside. Did they steal anything, do you know?”

“The papers seemed to indicate it was a Jew, taking revenge,” one of the group said.