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 railings. 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.

“I knew this,” I said. “But she never came to visit him—never once in all these years?”

“No, madame. There was a falling out, but she was a good Catholic. She did not believe in divorce.”