The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  Things had gone far enough.

  “I am an American citizen and I demand to know what is happening. I think you have mistaken me for someone—" she said, cut off abruptly by his "Ferme-la!" She did, and after he poked at the fire some more, he collapsed in a chair opposite her, with the gun trained somewhere on the vicinity of her womb. She didn't open her mouth. Neither did he.

  Ravier sent Tom home with Paul. There was nothing more he could do and so Michel urged Tom to try to get some sleep. It had been a long drive to Avignon and back. "Sleep?" Tom had repeated, and Michel realized what a ridiculous suggestion it had been. "Then pray, mon brave. I know le bon Dieu will not let anything happen to Faith.”

  A trace of a smile had crossed Tom's weary face. "I have been doing nothing else since this morning.”

  After they left, Michel sat with the files in front of him. It wasn't simply the business with the clochard. There was Faith's second call reporting that she had information regarding the suicide of the prostitute, Marie. Michel had been on vice not too many years ago and he remembered Marie well. An intelligent girl from the Midi. She would be away from the city on occasion and told him once she used to go to visit her family. He wondered what she told them— that she worked in a boutique, perhaps. Her carte d'identite listed her full name as Marie-Claude Laval, and he sensed she came from a decent family. Like her two friends, she was addicted to various things, but in the last year, she had told him she was straight and hoping to get off the streets. He had wished her well, yet knew it would not be so easy to accomplish. She probably owed her pimp money and he would see she continued to work off her debt until she no longer served his purpose. Then she'd be left with nothing. He felt the angry frustration that had never left him since his first days in the district, talking to the girls. The pimps, working from Italy, Switzerland—and now South America—grew rich. Parasites. The only consolation was that when they did get caught on French soil, they faced long sentences and stiff fines.

  So Faith had come to know Marie, too. But how? What would they have in common? The French women he knew did not chat with thefilles dejoie on the corner but walked quickly past, perhaps a nod of the head to indicate they were sympa.

  Faith had told Martin and Pollet that Marie was supposed to meet her at the hotel de ville, and earlier Marie had given her some sort of warning. Faith was convinced Marie had been murdered before they could meet. The notes were disgracefully vague and his conversation with the two officers, while making him feel better for letting off steam, didn't garner much more information. They thought her scatty and hadn't paid much attention to what they clearly thought was an overactive imagination, the product of too much American television. The inspector from the police judiciaire, Ravier's own division, had not thought it worth his time to go up the stairs to speak with Faith when they found the trash bin empty, but had sent the two gardiens de la paix as a formality. Probably also wanted to stick them with the paperwork. Michel had let off some steam on him, too.

  Marie's body had already been released to her parents. There had been what Michel suspected was a perfunctory autopsy, as was usual in this type of case. He looked at the few lines in front of him. She did have water in her lungs, indicating drowning. Still, there were ways to do this—if she had been alive but drugged when she entered the water, for example. Even if the autopsy indicated the presence of drugs, it would be assumed she had gone back to her old ways—or never left.

  Michel didn't think Faith was scatty. If she thought Marie had been murdered, there must have been a reason— even if Madame Fairsheeld had cried murder once before. But how would Marie have tied in with the clochard? In the morning, he'd go to the Place St. Nizier and talk with Marie's friends. It would be pointless to try to find them tonight. Clochards and whores, both on the street and both knowing what went on in those streets better than anyone.

  It was possible this knowledge had gotten the two of them killed, which left Faith trying to tie the threads together.

  His phone rang. Giovanni Cavelli had been located. Faith had not said anything to him about Avignon—or anywhere else, for that matter. He didn't like to talk with his clients, he told the officers. It distracted him from his work. The receptionist was new. She'd only been there a month and was Italian also. He'd liked having someone around who spoke his language. Her name was Gina Mar-tignetti. She was from Rome and he had an address in Lyon for her on the Croix Rousse. She'd left about eleven that morning and never come back. He was prepared to take her back, but not until he'd said a thing or two, and judging from the rehearsal the police were forced to listen to, it would be a wonder if the woman would continue to work for him. After they finished talking to Cavelli, they'd gone to the address he'd supplied for Gina. It was a rooming house. They proceeded to rouse the owner, who was displeased at being awakened and obviously cherished little affection for theses. She told them Mademoiselle Marti-gnetti had stopped by her apartment at noon, given her what she owed, said good-bye, and left. She didn't know where Gina was going. That was the girl's business, not hers. She'd been a good tenant, paid on tune, wasn't around much.

  Ravier ordered them to circulate a description of Gina Martignetti, particularly at the Italian border, and he had had a call put through to the police in Rome. Her disappearance at the same time as Faith's and after having delivered what was obviously a phony message to Tom, was no coincidence. He also had Giovanni put under surveillance. He'd already been told not to leave Lyon.

  The inspector's phone rang again. It was his mother. Did he want to speak with her? He glanced at his watch. She was up late, but then she slept very little. Of course he would take the call. Since his father's death, she had moved into the city and she missed her old friends and neighbors.

  “You had a good trip, monfils?"

  “Oui, Maman, and you? Keeping busy?"

  “But of course. All the things an old lady does. A little walk. Mass in the morning. And I cleaned your apartment. It was disgusting, Michel. That woman is not worth what you pay her.”

  His mother had a running battle with the woman who cleaned and, when told, left dinner for him. Neither thought the other adequate for his needs. "Oh, Maman, really you mustn't do this."

  “It's no trouble. Oh, and while I was there, a very nice foreign lady called. Her name was Madame Fairsheeld. I told her you were away and she said you must call her as soon as you get back, so please do. I promised you would."

  “Madame Fairsheeld! When was this?"

  “It must have been Wednesday. I remember I went to your apartment after confession."

  “You are sure?"

  “About my confession, bien stir!"

  “No, cherie, about what day Madame Fairsheeld called," he said patiently, wondering not for the first time what his mother could possibly have to confess. Impure thoughts? He hoped so.

  “Yes, yes, I am sure. Is it important?"

  “Perhaps. Now, I must say good night. Go to sleep. I will call you tomorrow."

  “A demain," she agreed in her soft, slightly chirping voice.

  He picked up the file on Marie. Her body had been discovered on Wednesday. It had been on Wednesday that Martin and Pollet had responded to Faith's call. Obviously, she'd called him first. But she hadn't disappeared until two days later. What had happened in between? He looked at the notes he had taken while Tom talked. The lavomatique, the marche, a tea party, dinner at a bouchon.

  It would not be light for some hours and he was eager to start questioning everyone Faith had come in contact with during those days—and the days preceding. She'd visited one of the shelters for the clochards on Monday, Tom had said. To learn what the French were doing about the problem, she'd told her husband. Yet, Faith had not struck Michel as a woman who told her husband everything as it happened. Not that she lied, but perhaps there was more than one reason for her visit.

  He stretched out on his couch to get some sleep. Soup kitchens, the hotel de ville, the prostitutes on the corner, and at
the beginning—the clochard of St. Nizier in the poubelle. The answer had to be somewhere among them.

  Faith Fairchild had gotten to know Lyon very well indeed.

  Faith was getting restless. She wasn't tired. She'd slept enough for a month and the silence was beginning to drive her crazy. Maybe that was the idea. She wasn't going to be killed outright, merely driven insane.

  “Do you speak English?" she asked.

  There was no reply. She knew her French wasn't that bad. He'd understood her other question. She wondered what would happen if she stood up and calmly walked out the door. Whoever it was seemed passive enough. Still, she didn't want to chance a sudden spurt of energy that might lodge a bullet somewhere about her person. Looking around the room, she'd noted there was another door and, to the right of it, a stone stairway. The stairs probably led to bedrooms or a loft of some sort and the other door no doubt to the kitchen. Kitchen! She was starving. She hadn't had anything since her hasty breakfast. She thought longingly of the picnic she'd packed for the trip to Carcassonne. A huge marguerite—crusty rolls joined together in the shape of the flower. Instead of "he loves me, he loves me not," you pulled a hunk of bread off and, in today's case, slathered it with Normandy butter, pate, or cheese. She'd also packed some salads—tiny vegetables in vinaigrette and hearts of palm with endive. Faith firmly ordered her mind to turn off before she got to dessert, but the chocolate cake with a hint of orange from Tourtillier pushed through insistently.

  “This is ridiculous. I am hungry and cold. I am going to have a baby and I must have some food." The sentences were non sequiturs, but she didn't care.

  She accomplished one thing. The immobile figure leapt out of the chair, causing her to draw her breath in sharply in fear. Was it the end?

  But he simply proceeded to pace up and down the small room, pausing only to throw some more logs on the fire. He appeared to be muttering under his breath. After what seemed like ages, he stopped abruptly in front of her and pulled off the mask.

  “What can I do? Merde! This is a hopeless situation!”

  Faith gasped—not at his words. At his face.

  It was Christophe d'Ambert.

  Eight

  “Christophe! Is this some kind of joke?"

  “No, I assure you it is not a joke at all." Faith had felt a wave of relief sweep over her when she realized who was behind the mask. It was absurd to think that the teenager—the boy next door—would harm her in any way. But the relief was short-lived, and the possibility of her own reduced life span more distinct, when she heard the tone in his voice. This was not the nonchalant, slightly teasing adolescent of their encounters on the apartment staircase. This was a deadly serious, possibly crazy man.

  Keep them talking. Wasn't that what all the books, not to mention Geraldo and Oprah, advised?

  “Can you tell me where we are?" A neutral topic, a logical question for a tourist to ask.

  He seemed surprised. "We are in the Cevennes. This is the country house of some friends of mine. They are in Canada for the year and asked me to check on it occasionally. They worry since it is so far away from any other houses or a village," he added pointedly.

  “Oh, I thought perhaps it might be your family's house." She'd had a thought that if Christophe was gone, the d'Amberts might think to look for him at the maison secon-daire. Jean-Francois had said it was closed up, as this place had obviously been. Christophe could be lying about whose house it was. He'd never struck her as Eagle Scout material and now she was beginning to think he could walk into a role in Bad Boys without any rehearsal at all.

  Her comment had produced a smile—not a nice one. "I'm afraid my mother would find the Cevennes a bit boring." He ran his knuckles across his cheek in a shaving gesture, rasant, which Faith had observed was the way to express ultimate ennui. "Our house is closer to St. Trop.”

  Unfortunately, it made too much sense. But if Christophe was taking care of the house, the d'Amberts would know.

  “So, this belongs to friends of your family. It looks very old." Act casual. Try to get more information. Stall.

  “Friends of mine, Madame Fairsheeld, and yes, a very old house, but I do not think this is the time to tell you the history of the region, interesting as it is," he said sarcastically.

  What a prick, Faith thought, a few tears starting to burn. She wasn't sure whether they were due to fury or fear. The whole thing had been a stupid idea to start with. It was obvious Christophe kept his own hours and own company. The fact that he was away when she was missing would mean nothing. She imagined the search that must have begun. Everyone would be so busy trying to find her, they'd forget Christophe even existed.

  Christophe was talking to himself out loud. "It's all tonton's fault."

  “Tonton?" Faith asked. It sounded like a pet: Ron Ton Ton, the wonder dog.

  “It means 'uncle,' " he explained impatiently, "in this case, my father's youngest brother. The one most d'Am-berts don't like to talk about."

  “You mean the clochard?"

  “I mean he chooses to live his life as he pleases without being weighed down by bourgeois ideas and possessions." He'd raised his voice and each word was dripping with scorn.

  Faith gave a passing thought to Christophe's wardrobe—the Tissot watch she could see between the end of his sleeve and the band of his glove, the Girbaud jeans he wore.

  “I am not criticizing him," she placated.

  “Well, I am." Christophe suddenly became a teenager again. "The dumb fuck. He was supposed to finish the job, then what does he do but get cold feet and jump out of the car. Next time I see him, he's going to hear about this. I took care of Bernard and he was going to take care of you. That was the deal." He was almost whining.

  Nausea and what was certainly now fear threatened to overwhelm Faith. I mustn't start screaming. I mustn't throw up. I mustn't upset him. She repeated the sentences over and over like a mantra.

  Bernard. Bernard was the clochard's name, Lucien at the shelter had told her.

  Which meant Christophe was the murderer.

  It was too much to suppose otherwise. Christophe lived in the building and was rapidly displaying the tendencies necessary for the crime—means, personality—but what could the motive possibly have been?

  Faith was reeling. He'd "taken care of" the clochard. His uncle was supposed to do the same for her, but had fled, leaving... Christophe. A funny thing about murder: Everything was out of focus until the end.

  He was pacing again. Faith watched him cautiously, waiting for him to spring. His eyes were directed away from her for the moment, considering some inner view. She could make a move, but the front door was locked and if the kitchen had a door to the outside, that would be locked, too—if she even made it that far. There was no way out.

  Keep him talking.

  “Christophe, I'm sure there is a logical explanation for all this and if you will just take me back to Lyon, we can straighten everything out. I'll say I bumped into you after I got my hair cut and decided on a whim to come with you while you checked on your friends' house. Women in my condition are supposed to be a little erratic." That sounded good.

  He laughed disagreeably. "You think we can go back and I will get a little slap on the hand. No, cherie, I think not. And as for being thought 'erratic,' we have counted on this. It's possible the hunt for you has started already, but I doubt it. You took the train for Avignon, and remember, the police think you are crazy to begin with.”

  Faith was truly startled. What was he talking about? Avignon? And his use of cherie had more in common with Cagney's sweetheart than Solange's and Madame Vincent's use of the endearment.

  “Why would I go to Avignon? Everyone knew we were going to Carcassonne."

  “But you left a message for your husband at the salon that you preferred to shorten the long car trip by taking the train as far as Avignon. I believe you were to meet in front of the Palais des Papes for drinks. Malheureusement, you do not show up, but then les femmes, especial
ly attractive ones such as yourself, often disappear. There are a lot of nasty people around." He was obviously enjoying this, definitely a nasty piece of goods himself.

  His words made it sickeningly clear. He and his uncle; had worked it all out. Tom would go to Avignon, and even if he did get in touch with the police, they'd assume it was another one of her "fancies." By now, Tom knew she wasn't in Avignon, but would the incredible idea that she had been kidnapped occur to him? Yet what else? That she had simply run away? Women did it all the time, and sure, she'd had her moments when driving alone in the car. How easy it would be to just keep on going to, say, sunny California instead of Shop and Save.

  Still, Tom would know she hadn't run away. And Tom would start moving heaven and earth to find her.

  Now what next? Christophe's uncle had botched it, so here they were, Plan B, in a cold, drafty farmhouse somewhere hi the Cevennes, which she knew was considerably southwest of Lyon and very sparsely inhabited. She didn't need a lecture from d'Ambert the younger. The Leblancs had already related the rise and fall of the area. It had been a prosperous center of the silk industry in the eighteenth century, then in the nineteenth and twentieth had become an empty landscape. First the silkworm disease attacked, and when that crisis had passed, competition from foreign silk and artificial textiles finished the job. Phylloxera destroyed the grapevines and a fungus killed the chestnut trees. Not exactly the luckiest place to live in France. People left in droves. Christophe couldn't have picked a better place to take her. Now the question was, what did he intend to do with her?

  It was as if she had spoken aloud.

  “You present a curious problem," he said, pulling a chair uncomfortably close to hers and lovingly stroking the gun with his left hand. "I do not mind to eliminate an adult. You have had a taste of life, although madame is not such an old lady, bien sur." So polite, these French teenagers, even when engaged hi major crime.