“Not blackmail. Just coming from a position of strength for the first time. And showing them that you can’t be pushed around.”

“But it does sound like fun. I thought maybe I’d stay in Paris. It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And romantic,” she added. “Maybe I’ll find myself a dashing Frenchman.”

She got up, smoothed down her skirt, then held out her hand to me. “Thank you again. I’d better go back now. They’ll be missing me.”

And she walked off down the hallway, past the mirrors, and into the restaurant, her little head held defiantly high.

Chapter 33

Thirty-three

I was feeling quite satisfied with myself as I walked back down the hallway and into the main lobby of the Ritz. I had figured out Ellie’s connection to Reynold Bryce. I hadn’t found his killer but I had eliminated one suspect. At least I hoped I had eliminated her. A tiny sliver of doubt crept into my head. She had lied most expertly before now. She had shown herself to be devious, ruthless, and self-serving. But her account of what happened at Reynold Bryce’s house rang true, and beneath that façade of bravado she was still a young and frightened girl.

So that now left two people I should go and see: Willie Walcott and the young model Shosette. Of course it still could turn out to be a stranger, a Jewish activist angry at Mr. Bryce’s tirades against Jews, but then the question arose as to how he could have gained entrance. The housekeeper was out and had presumably locked the front door behind her. If the doorbell had rung Mr. Bryce would have answered it himself. That meant he wouldn’t have been sitting in his chair when he was killed. There was the open window but it would have taken a good deal of gall to enter the garden and climb in that way, knowing that Mr. Bryce was in the house. In the room, actually. If he’d heard someone scrabbling at the window ledge he’d have gone to look. He’d have shouted. People would have heard. So a stranger was unlikely.

I was deep in thought and not at all alert for danger when suddenly a hand grabbed me by the wrist. It was all I could do not to scream. I looked down and saw Mrs. Hartley, Justin’s mother, sitting in one of the high-backed chairs.

“It is you! I thought it was when I saw you going into the restaurant. Little Molly Murphy. What on earth are you doing here?”

She looked much older than when I saw her last and she sounded friendly enough, but I was well aware that I had almost killed her son, and surely no mother forgives that.

“I’m visiting friends in Paris, Mrs. Hartley,” I said. “I’m a married woman now, with a young son.”