“So she was definitely not in the apartment when he was killed?”

She looked around. “I cannot say ‘definitely.’ She could have hidden but I do not see how she could have slipped out past us. I was at the front steps, you understand.”

“There is a way out through the basement, is there not?”

“Yes, but usually it is kept locked and not easy to find for those who do not know the building well.”

I found it, I thought. Others could too.

“And anyway,” she said, looking up as she placed a pile of white shirts into the trunk. “Why would she want to kill Monsieur Bryce? He was giving her employment.”

“You said yourself they had an argument that morning and she went out and slammed the door.”

“Monsieur was a temperamental man. He often fought with people. Perhaps she was temperamental too. That sort often are. But what cause would she have to kill him?”

“That is the main question, isn’t it,” I said. “What cause would anyone have to kill him?”

“I can’t answer that. Perhaps the answer lies across the ocean. One thing I ask myself is why all these people suddenly arrive on my doorstep from America—after all these years?”

I was suddenly alert. “All which people?”

“You, for one,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. “You arrive, saying you bring a message from his family. That is what the other young woman said too.”

“Which other?”

“The one who resembles the painting in the foyer, with the blonde hair.”

“Ah,” I nodded. “I know the person of whom you speak. She came to visit him the day before he died, no?”

“She did, madame. But he was occupied and told her to go away. He was annoyed that she was here. He said to me, ‘It’s never over, is it, Claudette? Now it starts again. It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life.’ I asked him, ‘What is, monsieur?’ And he said, ‘That specter.’”

“‘Specter’? He meant the young blonde girl?”

“He said no more. But she returned the next day.”

“The day he was killed?” I could hear my voice, shrill and louder than I intended. I hoped it had not carried to the policeman outside.

“That very day, madame. She arrived when he had just finished his lunch and gone back to his studio. She looked very… flustered. Her cheeks pink. She said she had to see him. It was important. So I took her through to him. He said, ‘Leave us, Claudette.’ And I did. I went through to clean up the dining table—”

“But did you get a chance to hear what was said?”

“Madame, I am not the sort who listens at keyholes,” she said defensively. “But I did overhear the young lady say, ‘I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money.’”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “And what happened after that?”