“You come from America to visit Miss Cassatt?” he asked, nodding as the waiter put the glass of green liquid in front of him.

“Oh, she’s American?” I blurted out and saw him looking at me curiously.

“But naturally. Now that Reynold Bryce is no more, we must count her as the premier Impressionist from your country. A fine painter, for a woman.”

I chose to ignore that last line. I had encountered it often enough when I had been told that I was not a bad detective, for a woman.

“If you wish to buy one of her paintings, I think you must be prepared to spend a good amount,” he went on. “Her work has become popular, both here and in her homeland. She paints sentimental subjects, you see—babies, families, all suitable for any drawing room. Not like the subjects that some of us choose.” And he gave a wry smile. “And now that Bryce is dead, no doubt his paintings will command a higher price.” The smile faded. “Such a loss. Such a waste. And they still haven’t found out who did this vile deed. Curse the damned Jews. If I ever find the man that did this, I will happily strangle him personally.”

“You are quite sure it was a Jew who killed Bryce, are you?” one of the men at the table called across to Degas.

“But naturally. Did they not say that a young Jewish man was seen running from Bryce’s house?”

“Propaganda!” a raised voice shouted. I think it was that of Maxim Noah. “Blame everything on the Jews, no? So convenient.”

I had no wish to get into a political debate. I thanked Mr. Degas hastily, nodded to the group of artists, and left. Mary Cassatt, I said to myself. An American painter. Had she sent me the postcards, and if so, why?

As I crossed Pigalle to the Métro station I felt a tiny spark of optimism for the first time. I didn’t remember Sid and Gus mentioning Mary Cassatt, but she was an unmarried American woman painter, so it was quite likely that Sid and Gus might have made her acquaintance. But so what? I asked myself. They had written about Willie Walcott and Maxim Noah and neither of them had any idea where Sid and Gus might have gone. But one of the cards was mailed on the day after they vanished. And there was the likeness to Liam. Surely all those were significant. But why not address the postcard with my real name? Unless, of course, they did not want anyone to know I was staying with them. Again my thoughts went back to the Italian gang and the fact that I too might be in danger.