Gus touched Sid’s arm. “And do you think he’d be able to help us? He could go anywhere within the Jewish community without arousing suspicion. He could attend meetings at synagogues and of the pro-Dreyfusard brigade. They might have an idea who carried out this murder.”

Sid hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t think I want to get anyone else involved, especially not Maxim. If he knows we’re in hiding he may be questioned by police and have to reveal our hiding place. Or appear to be a suspect himself. For the same reason you can’t contact Willie Walcott, Gus. We can’t put family members in danger.”

“I could go and talk to Willie Walcott,” I said. “I got the feeling he knew Mr. Bryce quite well.” And as I said the words I felt a sudden chill. Gertrude Stein had described Willie Walcott as a very pretty boy. And I remembered the petulant look on his face when he had said that Bryce was painting again and didn’t want to be disturbed. Could there be something to Sid’s suggestion after all?

“He will probably be at the Steins’ tonight,” Mary said. “Willie likes to see and be seen, if you know what I mean. I believe he likes the social aspects of art more than the actual painting.”

“What do you think of him as a painter, Mary?” Gus asked.

“Technique’s all right, I suppose, but I’d call him another of the copiers. He can give you a good, lifelike rendition of the Seine, but it is entirely in the style of Monet or Reynold Bryce. I’m sure such pictures sell well at home, but I don’t think any of you Walcotts are lacking for money, are you?”

“I heard that his father had cut off his allowance when he dropped out of Harvard,” I said.

“When did you hear that?” Gus demanded sharply.

“When I met him at the café in Montparnasse. The other fellows said that he was good at sponging off his friends for meals.”

“How strange,” Gus turned to Sid. “We never got that impression, did we? He let us think he was doing awfully well, that he was chummy with Reynold Bryce, and moved in the right circles.”

I’m sure he was chummy with Reynold Bryce, I thought. Out loud I said, “I’ll cross-question him tonight, if he comes to Miss Stein’s salon.”

Celeste appeared at the doorway. “Madame Sullivan, your son is awake and crying.”

I jumped up. “Excuse me,” I said. “Duty calls.”