This made her laugh. But then she said, “So he was the young Jewish man they saw running away from Reynold Bryce’s house, and all this time I thought it was me.”

I nodded.

“Why did he kill Mr. Bryce? Because he insulted Jews?”

“That was only part of the reason. The young refugee girl I told you about is his sister. Reynold Bryce had a predilection for young girls. He was painting her and then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. When Maxim went to confront him Bryce was most insulting—not only about Jews but also about his painting. In fact he told Maxim that he’d only promised to include his paintings in the exhibition because he wanted Maxim’s sister. The knife was lying there on the table. Maxim was in a blind rage.”

“So he didn’t mean to kill Reynold Bryce,” Sid said. “He wasn’t a natural killer.”

“He meant to kill me,” I said. “He had a knife pressed into my side and was trying to drag me into the middle of the cemetery, but Monsieur Degas came by. I shouted out to him and managed to escape. I got a little cut as I wrenched myself away.”

“A little cut? It looks awful.” Sid took my hand. “Molly, you’re so brave. And you’ve saved my life. I thought I was headed for the guillotine. I’m not allowed to hug you, I suppose.”

“Probably not.” I looked down at the strapping at my waist then squeezed her hand.

“What can I do to make it up to you?” Sid asked.

I looked at her fondly. “You and Gus have done plenty for me over the years. You don’t need to make it up to me. But just don’t disappear and scare me again!”

Postscript

Postscript

Maxim Noah, or rather Jakob Klein, was apprehended by police as he attempted to board a train from Paris. Inspector Henri came later that afternoon to give me the news.

“You should have heeded my warning, madame, and left police work to the police,” he said, looking at my white face. “You nearly paid for your curiosity with your life. This Jakob Klein, he fought like a tiger. A dangerous man.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wanted justice. And I did not think I was putting myself in danger. My husband tells me I am too reckless.”

“He is right. But it is a pity you are a married woman, Madame Sullivan. You are a good detective. You took the pieces of the puzzle and put them together.”

“Only with luck,” I said, diplomatically.

“Do not count on luck to aid you every time,” he wagged a finger at me, but he managed the ghost of a smile as he left me.