“Perhaps I could help you to go through the pantry to pack up the food,” I suggested but that clearly went too far.

“Certainly not, madame. That would be quite wrong,” she said. “I do not plan to stay long and I would be in much trouble if the police knew I had admitted a stranger. If you want to gain admission to this apartment to look at Mr. Bryce’s paintings, you must first ask permission from the police. Bonjour.” She gave a curt nod and then went up the steps, putting a key into the lock.

So much for my Irish powers of persuasion, I thought. I didn’t think Inspector Henri would be too willing to accept yet another story from me.

Chapter 27

Twenty-seven

I felt frustrated as I walked back to Miss Cassatt’s residence. Surely I should have been able to find out more from the housekeeper. Unfortunately she was clearly anxious to get in there, help herself to what she had come for, and then escape. I was in her way and there was no point in putting myself on her bad side. Had I learned anything from her, I wondered? Well, for one thing I knew that nobody would be at Mr. Bryce’s apartment on Sunday, if I could find a way in. Also I learned that he had not been painting much recently and his paintings now commanded a high price. So perhaps we had this all wrong—it might have been a simple art theft gone wrong. I wondered if the housekeeper knew which paintings had been hanging in the studio and whether one might be missing.

I arrived back to find Sid and Gus kneeling beside one of the crates of paintings I had retrieved from Rue des Martyrs. They were holding them up to show to Mary Cassatt, sitting across from them on the sofa.

“Honestly, you two,” came Mary’s voice from the sofa. “A more eclectic mix I have never seen, and most of it, I’m sad to say, is junk. These Fauvists, they’ll never last. Fauvism, Cubism, they are fads. They’ll vanish in a puff of smoke, hopefully giving way to good art again.”

“What about this one?” Sid held up another painting.

Mary leaned back to examine it. “That’s not bad. The artist can at least handle a brush well. Rather melancholy, but most of them are. It seems that to be modern means you can find no joy in life.”

They looked up as I came into the room, and Gus held out a hand to me. “Molly, you’re back. Any luck?”