“And what did he say?”

The first man smirked. “He said, ‘You’re never too old for that sort of thing, are you?’”

They realized I was standing with them and the speaker gave an embarrassed cough. “My apologies, ma’am. Poor form.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Has anyone heard when his funeral will be?” I asked.

“I heard he wanted his body shipped home and a grand state funeral in Boston.”

“That sounds like Reynold. Never slow about coming forward, was he?”

“I wonder if they will release his body if they don’t apprehend his murderer,” I said and saw their reaction. Ladies, even reporters, do not speak about bodies and murderers. I excused myself and moved away. Pauline Hubert had been cast aside because she was too old. That sounded like a good motive for murder. And then there was the invisible wife in America. The good Catholic who didn’t believe in divorce. Might she want to marry again or to get her hands on his money and have paid someone to come over and finish off her husband?

I wished I could ask Daniel to check into Mrs. Reynold Bryce, but I couldn’t. He had enough on his plate and wouldn’t be pleased to hear his wife was showing interest in a Parisian murder.

***

The evening went on. More people arrived until the salon was crowded to the point of not being able to move. The air was heavy with that strange scented smoke of French cigarettes and I felt hot and clammy. The noise level had risen until it was almost unbearable, with everyone around me shouting to be heard. I had put down my drink as I was in constant danger of someone jogging my elbow. Mary was swallowed up somewhere in the crowd. I looked around, feeling like a wallflower, as one does at a gathering where one knows nobody, and saw Maxim Noah, standing at the fringe of the crowd looking as awkward as I felt. His face lit up as he noticed me. “Madame Sullivan, the friend of my cousin. I did not expect to see you here? What news of Elena—did she return to Paris?”

“No, and they are going to stay away for the present,” I said. “They have been ill.”

“I am so sorry. Will you be going to visit them?”

“Possibly soon.”

“Please give them my very best wishes for their recovery.”

“I will,” I said. I noticed that he appeared to be alone. So was Picasso. So the artists didn’t bring their mistresses with them to social events. “Do you come to Miss Stein’s salon often?” I asked.

He smiled. He had a most disarming smile. “I get one good meal a week this way. And I hope that one day she may buy one of my paintings.”

“Everyone is talking about Reynold Bryce,” I said. “You heard about his murder, I’m sure.”