The Body in the Vestibule

“Even though we are both at the university, I seldom see Georges, and Valentina never, unless she has an opening. Georges and I were at school together in the dark ages. With the Marists on the Fourviere Colline. Before they were admitting girls and getting soft. Believe me, we were taught.'

“How did Georges like that? He doesn't strike me as someone who would take to strict discipline easily.'

“Oh, he hated it, of course. We all hated and loved it, but perhaps he did not love it so much. He was already quite political and thought the whole business very facho, you know, fascistic. It was the sixties, remember, and he went on to play a big role in Paris as a student in the events of May in '68. Used to live in those blue cotton overalls workmen and farmers wear. Sometimes I think his life since then has been a bit disappointing to him. All the real excitement of youth is over, even though he still gets out there whenever there's a need—SOS Racism, the group fighting discrimination, the Barbie trial demonstrations. I admire him for sticking to his guns.'

“And Valentina? Is she also political?'

“Oh no, Valentina only wants to make money. She has been amazingly successful—partly because of her connections in Italy. She has become known as a source for contemporary French art and much of her business is selling to Italian customers. Her brothers handle things in Rome. She has also discovered some Italian artists and represents them in France. It's a bit of a dilemma for poor Georges. She gave him a fancy new car last year, a BMW, and the way he sneaks into the parking lot with it, you'd have thought it was stolen. However, I notice he keeps it immaculate. I've even seen him flick dust off it with his handkerchief—and he has an alarm system. Ah, how easily we are seduced.”

It was but the leap of an instant to Inspector Ravier.

“You seemed to know their friend Inspector Ravier. Was he also at the Marists?'

“But of course, we all were. A very serious, dark little boy, Michel. Perhaps it was living with his grandparents. Still, the hot-blooded Gascogne is there, too. Never had trouble attracting women.'

“Is he married, then?'

“No. We tease him and you can be sure my wife has married him off innumerable times, yet nothing ever happened. He has girlfriends, bien sur, but Michel is too set in his profession for a wife and family. I can't imagine him in this way.'

“Inspector Maigret has a wife.'

“Ah yes, Madame Maigret, a rare woman. Perhaps that is what Michel seeks. But in any case, Michel is not Maigret. And he is a reader of history and politics, not the roman policier.”

New plates appeared for the cheese, brought to the long table on round, flat baskets. Tom had tried to get up to help clear but had been pulled back to his place. None of the other men offered.

Faith eyed the chevres—blues, St. Marcellins, morbi-ers, all sorts of triple cremes, temptingly set upon fans of deep green grape leaves—and realized it was true, you could always eat cheese. Madame Leblanc placed a large earthenware bowl before her. 'This is a Lyonnais specialty, cervelle de canut—we take a fresh fromage blanc and add salt, pepper, a little white wine, a soupcon of oil and vinegar, some chives, and, of course, garlic. Please try some.”

Faith knew what fromage blanc was—a superior cottage cheese that was served with heavy cream and sugar. She was doing a quick translation. Cervelle de canut. Could she be right? She looked over to Tom, who was watching her with evident enjoyment. 'The brain of a silk worker?' she said aloud. The table burst into laughter.

Paul said, 'Again, it doesn't work to translate these things; just enjoy it.'

“I intend to,' she answered, and did. It was delicious.

Dessert was fruit, two enormous cherry tartes someone had brought and a plate piled high with those delicate beig-nets called pets-de-nonne, nun's farts, provided by Paul and Ghislaine for the fun of the name as much as the enjoyment of the pastry. Then they all took their coffee out into the garden and collapsed into the lawn chairs. It had been a ban repas. Monsieur Leblanc was soon asleep, with a large handkerchief knotted at each corner covering his balding head. Faith felt her own eyelids drooping. The sun was warm and the buzz of conversation soporific. She made no attempt to try to understand what they were saying and let the words simply drift around her.

But despite the calm of the afternoon, her mind was filled with all those questions that would not go away. She'd been focused on the food and ambience, yet it was impossible to block out the events of the morning any longer.

She had to tell Tom it was not the same clochard and what that implied, but she knew it would upset him—to put it mildly. She didn't doubt he would believe her this time when she told him about the scratch, but where did they go from there? He was accomplishing so much at the university and was sure he would be able to finish his thesis with the notes he was taking. As she glanced over at nun good-humoredly arguing with Paul's relations about the merits of the French political system versus that of the United States, she hated to be the one to rain on his parade. But they never kept things from each other—well, he didn't and she hardly ever did. Was this one of those times?

If so, then what should she do? The obvious answer was to call Michel Ravier and tell him, but would he believe her? After all, he wasn't married to her. Of course, it would be nice to see him again. . ..

Then there was another choice.

Forget the whole thing and enjoy herself. It was no doubt something involving the clochard community, a kind of underclass, and as such had little effect on other people. This certainly seemed the path of least resistance. But she knew her feet weren't going to be following it. Murder was murder, no matter whether you had a home address or not.

Monsieur Leblanc was snoring gently. Others were strolling about the garden and she could hear the children's shouts from the tennis court. She got up and went into the house in search of Ghislaine. Faith suddenly felt the need of conversation.

Inside the house, she followed the direction of the laughter she heard and emerged from the long hall to step down into the large sunny kitchen, where it appeared most of the women had gathered. Some were still cleaning up; others sat with coffee and cigarettes around the table. The kitchen was what some Aleford ladies of her acquaintance were striving desperately to replicate hi Pierre Deux, Ethan Allen, or whatever they could afford— Country French. Here pewter chargers, pitchers, and faience plates from Gien were displayed on the shelves of antique cupboards. Carved mahogany chests for linens and cutlery, a towering armoire for staple goods, and mismatched chairs with rush seats lined the walls. There were worn rust-colored tiles on the floor and more decorative ones on the wall behind the stove. This cuisine was the real thing.

“Faith!' Ghislaine called from a small pantry where the sink was located. 'We thought you were taking a petite sieste with my father-in-law. No, that doesn't sound right, although I'm sure Henri would not mind.' Everyone laughed. 'We should have come to get you. Come sit with us,' she finished. 'I'll join you in a moment.”

Faith went into the pantry and picked up a dish towel, over Ghislaine's protestations, and started to dry the silverware.

“I did think I might nod off,' Faith said, 'all the lovely food and the sunshine, but somehow sleep evaded me.”

Ghislaine paused in her work and looked at Faith searchingly.

“You do not seem to be the same cheerful fille we knew when you first came. Is it still this business with the cloch-ard? It's not the baby, is it?”

Tom and Faith had told them at dinner Saturday night about the whole strange experience. The Leblancs had expressed concern for the unpleasantness and hoped it would not spoil the visit. Faith was so busy reassuring them it wouldn't that she had almost convinced herself. But this was Sunday now and there was no reassurance anymore.

“Oh, the baby is a dream so far. Much easier than the first time. It's not that,' Faith hastened to say. 'But you're right, I am upset about the clochard. It doesn't seem so simple as it did at first and I am wondering what to do.”

Ghislaine looked puzzled. 'You mean something else has happened?'

“Yes, in a way,' Faith replied. She wasn't sure she ought to involve Ghislaine when she hadn't even told Tom