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There was nothing particularly distinctive about them. One was slightly balding. Both were medium height and weight. But if the neighbors saw me, I assume they saw the men as well, perhaps more than once. And the Madame Renard that I saw—surely someone would have noticed her. She must have left at some point.”
    The inspector thought for a moment, letting the silence grow in the room that I now felt was distinctly warm and stuffy. He was waiting for me to tell him more, to reveal something, to betray myself. I kept my mouth shut and thought how he would look on canvas with his rather red mouth and his long yellow teeth. His fingers were stained brownish yellow, too, and he began tapping one restlessly on his knee so that I guessed he needed a smoke. Finally, he said, “There is a problem, Monsieur. A problem for you, unfortunately.”
    I waited; this did not sound good.
    “The neighbors only report seeing you that afternoon. No one else went in or out of the Villa Mimosa that day.”
    I shrugged. “Perhaps they stopped peeking out their windows. Perhaps they are lying.”
    “Or perhaps you are, Monsieur.”
    “I have no reason to lie, and I had every reason to wish for Madame Renard’s good health so that she could notify Joubert and erase my gambling debts.”
    “All this will have to be verified with our London colleagues.”
    I could see delays coming.
    “It would be convenient if you could return with me to France. It is possible you can identify the men you claim to have seen. That would be a very strong point in your favor.”
    Though I pointed out that this plan would hardly be convenient for me, I was unable to convince them that I should remain in the principality. I tapped on the adjoining door, confident that Nan would have been listening, and told her that I had to return to France. She stuck her head out, glared at the two policemen, and said, “Give me your cases, dear boy. I will keep them for you.”
    The inspector shook his head. “It may be a few days,” he said and motioned for me to collect my things and leave. Downstairs, a black car waited with a uniformed officer in the driver’s seat. Inspector Chardin shook hands with his Monégasque counterpart, and I managed to wave to Arnold before I was hustled into the back of the car, the driver complaining about the weight of my cases.
    “Painting supplies,” I explained.
    This interested the inspector. “You will help us with the picture file,” he said, and after a long session with him and one of his note-taking juniors, I was seated at a big table with piles of folders and books of photographs. A resource indeed, and in a happier time, I would have enjoyed pouring over the mug shots of various French, Italian, and Corsican lowlifes. Yes, really some remarkable features but too impassive for my brush. I like extreme emotions, rage, lust, ecstasy, and I like them pictorially, too.
    In any case I didn’t make much progress. Only one balding man struck me as being the right type for my faux workmen. “Not him, but he was like this.”
    “Keep at it,” Inspector Chardin ordered, and he had another book of photos brought in.
    Two hours later, when I had still found nothing, he produced a couple of sheets of paper and a pencil. “You say you’re a painter. Give us a sketch, then.”
    This certainly was my lucky day: free art work on top of hours spent in the interview room instead of lolling under the palm trees. But needs must, as the saying goes, and since I often start with a printed image, I asked for the photo that bore the closest resemblance. Normally, I paint and draw simultaneously and always with the brush. I’m not really too friendly with the pencil, and, even with the help of the photo, it took me several minutes to rough in the head. “I saw him from above, you understand.”
    Chardin shrugged. He breathed a melancholy resignation that I thought would have been more suited to a priest than a copper. He stood at my shoulder