Forty-eightAristide went in search of Duchamp immediately after leaving the Meadows’ house, intent on setting him straight on any lies Candy might have fed him, but the man proved impossible to track down. Aristide returned to his Cosmopolitan Hotel room, nursing his sore feet from pounding the pavement, still worrying about Ramsden’s comments in the Meadows drawing room.
He was like a dog with a bone, deciding on his best course of action.
Perhaps Candy was making false threats, in a desperate need to set him off-balance. He’d never thought her capable of murder either, but her reckless actions had disproven his belief, and Ramsden had confirmed it, though he’d made it clear he would deny all knowledge if challenged on it.
No doubt, either, that Ramsden would do everything he could to
