The Body in the Vestibule

“Please, finish your story. I find it very interesting.'

“After I checked for the pulse, I closed the lid and returned to my apartment to call the police. Then, as you must have heard, by the time they arrived, he was gone.”

Inspector Ravier ran his finger over his chin. He did not need a shave.

“It is strange. Very strange. If, as you say, he was dead. How did someone get him out and dispose of him so quickly?'

“Exactly. And who is that out in Place St. Nizier?' 'Pardon?'

“The clochard was back at his place this morning. You haven't heard yet?”

The brown eyes changed expression ever so slightly. But Faith knew what it meant.

“No, he replied cautiously, 'I have not heard that part of the story.'

“That's what makes it so strange.' Faith knew she had lost an ally, and what splendid comrades in arms they would have made. She sighed.

He responded immediately, 'But, madame—Faith, if you will permit—do not be dispirited. I am sure there is an explanation and you must not allow this unpleasantness to spoil your stay in Lyon.'

“It won't. That would be impossible,' she answered, and was aware it was true.

“Now, here is my card. You see, 'Michel Ravier,' c'est moi, and you must call whenever you like.' He took out a small silver pen; not for the inspector the Bic-type stylos of Sergeants Pollet and Martin. 'On the back, I give you my home telephone.”

He handed her the card and she thanked him. They moved out of their corner and stood in front of a small charcoal sketch, also by Truphemus, of the Place Bellecour. Faith made an appreciative murmur.

“So you like Jacques's work. We will go have lunch at the restaurant Henry, which is decorated with murals by Truphemus. And the food is not at all bad, a very nice homard breton—they do a salade with the meat from the lobster's tails and claws, since you seem to favor it.' His smile almost made up for the implication. 'Of course, Monsieur can come, too, if he likes.”

Monsieur was walking toward them and introduced himself. When he heard Michel's profession, an anxious look crossed his face. Faith hastened to direct the conversation. She'd had enough for one night.

“Are you a native Lyonnais, Inspector Ravier?' she asked. It was her stock-in-trade, guaranteed to evoke from the individual paeans of praise if he was from Lyon or a passionate defense of his own region if he wasn't. Inspector Ravier wasn't.

“I am not Lyonnais, no,' he said with pride, 'and you must call me Michel. Although I was here in my school years living with my grandparents, we are from the Gas-cogne. Tell me, do you like foie gras?' He obviously considered the question answered. 'You must take some time to go. I can tell you where to find the best you have ever tasted and the countryside is also magnifique.”

All this talk was making Faith hungry. She wondered where they were going for dinner. It was almost nine o'clock, but that was still early for Saturday-night supper.

Paul and Ghislaine swooped down upon them. 'There you are. We have been looking for you everywhere. You will excuse us, Michel?' This was all accomplished with such ease and much kissing of cheeks that one would have assumed it an honor to be so interrupted.

“Please remember,' Inspector Ravier said in a low voice as he followed suit and kissed Faith carefully first on one side of her face, then the other, 'call me if you are troubled.”

As she left and made her adieus to the Joliets and others, the idiotic adage 'Don't trouble trouble till trouble troubles you' repeated itself over and over in her head, like Ben's current maddening practice with certain words and phrases, until she wasn't sure what she wanted.

Whether it was because of her fatigue, the baby, or their dinner at Leon de Lyon, Faith fell asleep shortly after crawling into bed. First, she took a moment to savor the meal over again in her mind. It had progressed from one mouth-watering course to another—terrine de foie gras layered on top of an artichoke heart with a light hazelnut oil dressing and followed by rouget, filets of red mullet hi a buttery cream sauce that enhanced their rich, fresh flavor, so fresh they seemed to have been scooped from the nets in the bay off the rocky shores of Cassis minutes before cooking; then cheeses from Richard; and a plate of desserts of the season—not a biteful of which she skipped.

She slept soundly, dreamlessly, awakening to the peal of church bells. Mass. Her annoyance at falling asleep the day before vanished. Of course, she would see the clochard at mass!

The Fairchilds had adopted St. Nizier as their neighborhood church, despite their own religious affiliation. Or, as Faith said, 'God is God.' They'd taken Ben last Sunday and he had been so intrigued by the service movingly led by the brothers in their dramatic white robes and deep purple stoles and the interior of the church that he had sat still as a church mouse throughout the mass. Faith had not had to take out any of the books or small toys she'd brought for his distraction. The only rough moment had come early when he'd tried to blow out some votive candles on his way in.

The boulangeries were all closed on Sunday, so there was no fresh bread. They really were getting spoiled, Faith told Tom. She'd bought a large brioche the day before and it had kept nicely. All three of them dipped wedges of it in their bowls of coffee and hot chocolate for Ben, then hastened to wash their drippy chins for church.

The clochard was there, receiving alms and doing quite nicely. Madame Boiron had told Faith that he often came to the pharmacy to exchange his coins for bills and she was too frightened of him to refuse. On a good day, she said, he could make three hundred francs or more, around sixty dollars—not bad for nontaxable nonwork.

As they approached the door of the church, there were several people in front of them and Faith had a good chance to look at the clochard as they waited. There was no question. Same clothes, same filthy casquette, pulled over his eyes. Same matted beard on his red, somewhat bloated face.

She reached into her purse for some change and leaned closer to him, placing a five-franc piece in the bowl he was pushing toward her. She looked at his hand, then quickly at the other one resting on his knee. Filthy hands, the dirt ground into the folds of the skin. She stood up and walked into the church behind Tom and Benjamin.

Filthy hands—but unscathed. There wasn't even the suggestion of a scratch on the back of either one. No one healed that miraculously, even when sitting all day hi the shadow of the Lord's temple.

She wasn't crazy.

It wasn't the same clochard.

Four

At the end of the mass, Faith guided Tom and Ben rapidly down the aisle and out into Place St. Nizier.

“What's your hurry?' Tom asked. 'We're not due at Paul's mother's for an hour.'

“I know, but we're certain to get lost and I want to get some flowers in the market to give her, and they'll be closing soon. Why don't you take Ben upstairs and get him ready while I cherchez les fleurs, and we'll meet here in twenty minutes?'

“I want to go with Mommy,' Ben complained.

“Not now, sweetie, go with Daddy and faire pi pi, then pick out a toy to show Stephanie and Pierre.”

Ben's face brightened at the prospect of seeing the Leblanc children, but Faith could still hear him patiently pointing out to Tom, 'But Daddy, I don't need to faire pee pee,' all the way across the square.

She raced to the market and had a bouquet of blue delphinium, white roses, and pale pink ranunculus arranged. She liked this system: You pointed to the flowers you wanted, then greens were added and the final product wrapped in stiff, clear plastic trimmed with cascading curls of ribbon swiftly achieved with the flick of a scissor blade. The treatment made even the humblest daisy look like a treasure.

When she returned, Tom and Ben were not down from the apartment yet, as she had planned, and she started across to the church, where the clochard was still sitting in hopes of a franc or two from worshippers lingering inside after the mass. Madame Vincent was one of these and had apparently softened her attitude of the other evening. She dropped a coin in the clochard s bowl, then leaned over to exchange a few words with him before straightening up and crossing the square. She waved to