The inspector was now giving me a patronizing smile that annoyed me. “She left because her employer sent her home. He said he didn’t feel like painting anymore that day and told her to go away and enjoy herself. She was upset because she was only going to be paid for a half day and she had counted on a full day’s pay. Other than that she said he paid well, she was glad to get the work, and she’d only been sitting for him for a few days so she knew very little about him.”

“And you don’t think she might have returned that afternoon when the housekeeper was out—to kill him?”

“For what reason?” he asked. “He was employing her. She was getting good money. And nothing was taken from the house.” He leaned toward me. “Furthermore there is one good reason that I believe she was not responsible for his murder.” He paused. “Her fingerprints are not on the knife.”

“You were able to take fingerprints from the knife?”

“Several sets. One of them smaller, probably from a woman. Of course if the knife was used in a restaurant kitchen it is possible that it was touched by several hands there. But the little Jewish girl. No. She was not among them. Neither were her fingerprints on the windowsill and we are sure the killer must have made his exit that way, because the housekeeper was never far from the front door and would have seen anyone trying to escape through the foyer.”

“So you have not yet managed to identify any of the fingerprints on the knife?” I asked.

“If I had, I should not share that information with you.”

“I just wondered whether the gossip is correct and it really was a young Jewish man who killed him. I expect you’ve collected fingerprints at various synagogues and Jewish meeting places?”

“We have rounded up several of the leading Dreyfusards. They all have perfect alibis and what’s more they know nothing of this murder. If it was committed by a young Jew then he was acting as a lone wolf and our chances of bagging him are small unless he is arrested again on another crime. If I were he, I would have fled to a Jewish community in another country—Austria, Hungary, Germany, even England.”

“So it sounds as if you’re giving up,” I said bluntly.

“Of course we are not giving up. Someone always knows. Someone will talk. You’ll see.”

I got up. “I might have something that is of help,” I said. “Excuse me for a moment.” I went up to my room and returned with the wine glass. I set it on the table before the inspector. “This is a wine glass I took from Mademoiselle Stein’s Saturday party. Willie Walcott had been drinking from it. His fingerprints will be on it.”