“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I muttered. “I don’t have all the time in the world, you know. I have left my baby and have to get back to him. And I’ll certainly let Mr. Bryce know how unhelpful you were to a visitor from New York.”

“What’s going on, Harry?” A man in unmistakably American tweeds came to the front door. He gave me a friendly smile. “Is old Harry here being as stuffy and difficult as usual?”

“I’m trying to find the address of one of your members,” I said. “I have an important message to deliver to him. But apparently Harry is not allowed to give out information about members and I, as a woman, am not allowed in.”

The man laughed. “Quite right. If they relaxed those rules we’d have every wife in Paris hunting down her husband when he needs to escape for a bit of peace and quiet.”

“This is no joking matter,” I said coldly. “I have an important message for one of your members and it needs to be delivered to him immediately.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t get upset. Look, if you’d care to write it down, I’ll make sure he gets it when he next shows up.”

“It’s Mr. Reynold Bryce,” I said. “Does he come in often?”

“Reynold Bryce?” The expression on his face changed. “Oh, I see.” He exchanged a glance with the doorman that I didn’t quite understand.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Are you a family member?” he asked.

“No, just a friend of the family.”

“Look here,” he said. “We think there might be something strange going on. Mr. McBride, the newspaperman from New York, went around to see Bryce a couple of days ago. But when he got there he found policemen stationed outside the house. They wouldn’t let him in and they wouldn’t tell him anything. We’ve checked the newspapers since and no mention of Reynold Bryce, so we can’t think what might have happened.”

“All the more reason for me to go there myself,” I said. “I have to find out what’s happening, for his family’s sake.”

“Of course you do,” he said. “I’d escort you there myself, but I’m due at a meeting with my bank manager. And one does not keep one’s bank manager waiting, especially if one wants to eat next month.”

“So you know Mr. Bryce’s address?”

“It’s on Rue François Premier,” he said. “I don’t know the number, but I presume you’ll deduce which one it is if it still has policemen outside. If not, the neighbors will know. They are a nosy lot, the French. They like to keep an eye on what’s going on around them.”

“And the Rue François? Is it far from here? I have to get back to my child and…”