As I approached the Rue I saw that there was indeed a young policeman standing in the street. Oh, dear. Now what? I wondered if there was any way into the building from the rear. There was often a janitor in residence in such buildings, wasn’t there? And trash would not be carried through that fancy front entrance. I prowled the outside of the building and halfway down the block, where the Rue Bayard approached the Seine, I found a small wooden door, propped open by a garbage can. I went through a cobbled archway and found myself in that central area between buildings. In contrast to the attractive façades that faced the street, these walls were unadorned. There was even laundry hanging from one window on the far side, and it didn’t smell too good either. I crept along, hugging the wall, until I came to what had to be Reynold Bryce’s building. And I was right. Behind an iron railing a narrow flight of steps went down to a door. I stepped down gingerly, tried the door. It resisted at first but in response to a good shove from my shoulder it creaked open. I was in a basement, in complete darkness apart from the light that came in through the open door. I heard the roar of what must have been a furnace and smelled the odor of laundry and garbage. At least if it was in darkness I was not in danger of bumping into a custodian down here. I felt my way forward until I found a flight of stone stairs going up. I followed them until my hands touched another door. A crack of light was coming under it. I turned the knob and opened it a few inches. I was staring at the back of the elevator. I came out and inched my way around until I was in the foyer. No sign of any police presence and the front door to Reynold Bryce’s suite was ajar. I tiptoed past the elevator, across the marble floor, and in through that door.