There was something else that was worrying me, and I tried to think what it was as I stared at the spring flowers growing in those gardens. Something to do with flowers. Something I had heard that morning—at Sir Toby’s villa. Suddenly I stood stock-still in the middle of the road. The two paintings, one of which had been forged. The sunflowers and the chair. And I remembered where I had heard those words spoken together before, in French. It was in the bar on the Channel steamer and the speaker had been Jean-Paul. Not the tournesols, he had said. Much simpler. The chair.

I found it hard to breathe. With this realization more things became obvious. Jean-Paul knew what I was wearing and had kept me nicely occupied all afternoon while someone dressed like me entered Sir Toby’s house, put in a forged painting, presumably taking the real one, and killed him. I shook my head, trying to shake out the thoughts that whirled around it. Stupid. Impossible. He was a fabulously rich French aristocrat. Why would he want to steal a painting when he could buy what he wanted? I started to walk, faster and faster. I examined his reactions to me. At first anger, surprise at seeing me. Then appraising, curious, pleasant; then flirtatious. He thought he recognized me, but he must have seen the resemblance to someone he knew—and realized what an opportunity he had.

So he had used me. The flirtation had been an act. He hadn’t been in the least interested in me, as he had demonstrated the night before, when he had probably gone off with Belinda because I was no longer any use to him. I recalled his frank appraisal of my dismal dress. A man in love does not notice the cut of a dress, but rather the face of a beloved. I felt hot tears of anger and embarrassment welling up in my eyes. The angry blare of a motorcar Klaxon brought me to an abrupt halt. I had reached a wider road, on the other side of which was a more ordinary neighborhood with shops, apartment blocks and smaller houses. I crossed the street, now absolutely determined to find this woman and turn her over to the police. I pictured my triumph when I brought Lafite to her. You didn’t believe me. There she is. She was the one who killed Sir Toby and do you know who made her do it?

I choked back a sob as the truth sank in. Jean-Paul. Beautiful, wonderful Jean-Paul had used and betrayed me. No wonder he had been so eager to find me a lawyer. He probably hadn’t counted on murder. At least he had a speck of conscience.

“How could you?” I said out loud.

“Eh, Jeanine. Toujours la blonde?” a voice called as a young man sped past me on a bicycle. It meant “Still a blonde?”