“That Reynold Bryce was your father? I didn’t, until now. But I started putting two and two together and making four. The fact that he left America suddenly eighteen years ago, and that must be around your age. And his wife refused to come with him—broke off all contact with him actually. And I learned that he had a predilection for young girls and he was actually painting another one when he died. Is that why you came to Paris early—to see him and to kill him?”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I swear I didn’t know. The first visit really was a courtesy call. I’d heard about Reynold Bryce, of course, and that he had helped our family financially, and was extremely wealthy so I thought at least he’d treat me to a good meal—maybe ask me to stay with him until Peter arrived. But he didn’t want to see me. He was most unwelcoming—rather rude actually. He told me to go away; he was busy. You were right. He was painting a young girl—younger than me, I think. And the way he spoke to her and looked at her made me feel strange. And the way he looked at me too. There was something I couldn’t quite explain… he seemed angry but at the same time almost triumphant, amused, pleased with himself.”

She was looking directly at me now, willing me to understand. I suspected she was desperate to share her secret with someone. She waited until a party of four Americans had walked past us, heading for the restaurant, then she continued.