He held up his hand to silence me. “We have received cables from the police in Boston. Mr. Bryce has no family to speak of.”

“Second and third cousins, Inspector. Also he has a wife,” I said. “They were never divorced, so I presume she has a good claim on his estate.”

His eyes narrowed. “Madame, we are well aware of this wife. Our colleagues in Boston are checking on her with a great deal of interest. As you say, she stands to inherit a considerable fortune. And if you have been sent here by her, my supposition should be that she sent you here to arrange for his murder.”

“You know that can’t be true,” I said, trying not to sound flustered because I realized I had put my foot in my mouth royally this time. “I only arrived here the day after his murder. I have witnesses to attest to my being in Le Havre until that date.”

“So you were not sent here by his wife, then?”

“Of course not. I don’t know the woman. Never met her.”

“So why this unhealthy interest in the murder of Reynold Bryce? If a remote cousin wanted to see one of his paintings, I do not think you’d risk sneaking into a crime scene to catch a glimpse of it. Not even if this person was your dearest friend. I know I wouldn’t take such chances.”

“Maybe it is the detective in me that wants to see justice done?” I suggested.

“You wish to solve this case yourself and prove the police to be idiots?”

“Of course not. I’m just interested. For example, Inspector, it was not made clear that he had a young model in the room and that she left in anger that morning. She would have been the first person on my list of suspects. What do you know about her?”

“Naturally she was brought in for questioning instantly. She’s a young Russian immigrant. Came here with her brother about three years ago. Her real name is Hodel Klein. She calls herself Josette Petit to sound more French and less Jewish. She lives with other young refugee girls in a shack on Montmartre. Her French is extremely limited but I understood that much.”

This time I understood the pronunciation of her first name. Josette, not Shosette. The housekeeper’s accent had been strange.

“And is she a suspect in your mind?”

“No, madame, she is not.”

“Why not? The housekeeper said she walked out that morning, upset.”