“And Reynold Bryce?” I asked. “Can you sell his paintings at the drop of a hat?”

“He never brought his paintings to me. Perhaps he feared I might reject them, or perhaps he thought he could do better without the middle man. And maybe that was true. He always sold well with Americans who like pretty landscapes on their walls. Personally I always felt he was a good journeyman, a good craftsman but lacking in brilliance. You compare his paintings of the Seine to Monet’s and you’ll see the difference. Monet’s light glows on the water, the trees are alive in the wind. To view his painting is an experience of the heart, while Bryce’s are merely for the eyes.”

“They are saying the price of his paintings will rise now that he is dead,” I said and he laughed.

“What a mercenary thought from such charming lips. Possibly true. It will rise because there are few paintings available for sale. Supply and demand, you know. He had money. He didn’t need to paint. Again proving he was only a journeyman. The others—Renoir, Degas—they would die if they were not allowed to paint.”

“Who do you think might have killed him?” I asked.

“Bryce?” He shrugged, making his whole large body shake like a half-inflated balloon. “Any number of people. He said exactly what he thought and didn’t care whose toes he trod on.”

“But surely you don’t kill someone because he insults you?”

“I do not personally, madame, but there are many in Paris who might. We are a passionate mob, madame. A mongrel mob from all over the world. We fight duels over women and over perceived insults. But one hears he was stabbed with a kitchen knife. This was not a spur of the moment act of passion. Someone came prepared to kill him. And a common kitchen knife too. So it all points to the Jewish immigrant they suggest—poor and fanatic. A dangerous combination.”

Mary appeared at my side then. “Are you about ready to leave? They’ll go on all night and I’m getting too old for such things.”

“Oh, no, Mademoiselle Cassatt. You will be forever young. When are you going to bring me more paintings? My little gallery is bare without them,” Vollard said.

“You are a flatterer, Monsieur Vollard,” she replied, “but I am going to start work on a new piece. This lady’s charming son is absolutely made to be a model, if I can ever get him to sit still.”

We took our leave and were assisted into a cab.

“Well?” Mary asked as we set off. “Did you discover anything?”