The Body in the Vestibule

“But Sundays are your busy day.'

“Well, a Saturday then. Big families are nice,' he added, looking pointedly at Faith's abdomen. He had obviously been struck by the togetherness of the Leblanc clan, as she had, too; but manufacturing their own seemed a bit drastic.

She shot him a look. 'We'll go down to Norwell as soon as we get back. I'll talk to your mother. This isn't touch-football season, is it?”

The Fairchilds, scattered among various towns south of Boston, were a game-playing family—outdoors if the weather was good, and sometimes if it wasn't—and indoor board games for torrential downpours or blizzards. They had tried in vain to enlist Faith on whatever the team of the moment was. She was glad of her condition for an excuse this time. She liked his family—in small doses. Maybe if they spoke French . . .

By the time they reached the apartment, it was dark and Ben had fallen asleep in his car seat.

“Why don't you carry him up and I'll park the car.' Faith offered.

“Good idea. With luck, he won't wake up until morning.”

They pulled in front of the building. Tom got out and Faith moved into the driver's seat. She drove slowly down the block, looking for a space, and was lucky enough to grab one not too far away. As she was about to get out, she was startled by someone opening the passenger-side door. It was Marie, the fille de joie, and she swiftly got in.

“Drive to Perrache, the train station, you know it?' she ordered Faith.

“I'm happy to take you if you need a ride,' Faith started to say, slightly piqued at the abruptness of the request.

“I don't need a ride. Just drive in that direction—vite!”

Faith started to pull out onto rue du Brest when, as quickly as she had jumped in, Marie cried, 'Stop!' and got out of the car. Thoroughly confused, Faith backed into the space again and tried to see where Marie had gone. There were several people passing on the sidewalk, but the girl had vanished.

She walked slowly back to the apartment and up the stairs. Obviously, Marie had wanted to tell her something. And obviously, something, or more likely someone, had frightened her away. Faith would have to try to speak with her alone tomorrow, which wouldn't be easy. The three graces seemed to be on the same timers. They were either all on the corner or all otherwise occupied.

She opened the apartment door, determined to tell Tom during the course of the evening some of what had been happening. False clochards, prostitutes jumping in and out of her car like 'Pop Goes the Weasel'—it was getting too strange.

Ben was indeed asleep and even though they had insisted they wouldn't want another thing to eat that day, nine o'clock found the Fairchilds sitting at the table with some tomatoes, radishes and butter, cheese, and yesterday's very crusty bread between them.

“Tom,' Faith started hesitantly, 'you know I can't get the business with the clochard out of my head and there is one explanation we haven't explored.'

“What's that?' he asked through a mouthful of Camembert. He'd heard the European Community was proposing to limit the bacteria levels in cheese and had told Faith it was their sworn duty to eat as much real Camembert as possible before it was a distant memory.

“What if the man outside the church is in disguise— impersonating the dead clochard?'

“You've been reading too many mysteries, honey. We went to church this morning. It was definitely the same guy as far as I could tell. Didn't you think so?'

“The clochard I found had a scratch on the back of his hand. This one doesn't.”

Tom looked surprised. 'Are you positive? Was it a deep scratch?'

“Of course, the light was poor, but it did look pretty deep.'

“It couldn't have been a thread of some sort from the trash, red string from a sausage casing?”

She looked at her husband. He believed her, yet his desperate search for possible alternatives showed he really didn't want to. For if he did, it would mean the end of their idyllic sojourn.

She couldn't do it to him.

Faith gave Tom what she hoped was a reassuring smile, passed him some more Camembert, and said, 'There could have been a thread or something like that in there.”

Not yet. Not until she was absolutely positive.

Five

They were greeted by the sound of a steady rain when they awoke on Monday morning.

Tom looked out the window gloomily. 'You know it can rain for weeks like this in Lyon.”

Faith had noted the abundance of umbrella shops and figured there had to be a reason.

“Solange d'Ambert told me it rains more in the winter and early spring. They call it suicide weather— le temps de suicide. So I'm sure this will pass. It's the wrong time of year.'

“I prefer the other expression Paul taught me years ago. Rain like une vache qui pisse.”

Faith had never taken the opportunity to observe a cow engaged in this particular activity, and in any case, it was overly suggestive of her own frequent journeys to the w.c. these days.

She felt depressed. The inclemency made it that much harder to get in touch with Marie. She didn't imagine the girls got enough business during weather like this to make it worth while to stand in the freezing rain.

She stared out the window at the passersby huddled under umbrellas and hurrying down the street. The faux clochard, as she had come to call him, was not braving the downpour.

As she was helping Ben get dressed, the plans, which had been floating about her head since the night before, crystalized. First, she'd look for Marie at the corner on the way back from taking Ben to school. If the girl was by some chance alone, they could arrange a time and place to meet. If the others were there, she could ask Marie to help her find a particular address, necessitating stepping inside someplace for shelter while they looked at the street map of Lyon. It was all she had been able to come up with, apart from simply hiring her for an hour hi order to find out why she'd made her hasty entry and exit the night before. But Lyon was not unlike Aleford, she suspected, and Faith had no doubt she'd see headlines involving minister's wife and solicitation before the day was out. Probably 'hallucinatory minister's wife,' if anyone consulted Sergeants Martin and Pollet.

Once outside, she discovered the rain was indeed as cold and drenching as it had looked from inside. She had her sturdy Burberry and an umbrella big enough for several Mary Poppinses, but Faith still felt wet to the bone. The whole city looked gray and the water in the gutters swirled about, churning up a mixture of filthy refuse. No one was at the corner. In fact, there was almost no one anywhere.

Faith hurriedly deposited Ben at the garderie, where he quickly joined an eager group at the window who were watching an enormous garbage truck empty the bins with appropriate gear-stripping sounds. Heartrending, Faith thought, as she passed the truck out in the rain once more, her course set for hot tea and crawling back into bed. She got as far as the vestibule when she made the fatal mistake of turning around to gaze at the leaden Eglise St. Nizier opposite her. Clochards, like others, would be seeking warm food and shelter on a day like today. It was the perfect time to check out the kitchen de soupe, or whatever it was called, on rue Millet. She braced herself and walked back out into the storm.

Rue Millet turned out to be a short street between the pedestrian street rue de la Republique and the Rhone. It wasn't hard to find the shelter. Most of the buildings were old warehouses. The shelter was the only noncommercial building in evidence. There was also a sign. She opened the door and found herself in an open courtyard that would be a pleasant place to linger on a sunny day. It had benches and several large containers filled with pansies, their bright blooms beaten flat by the rainfall today. Crossing swiftly, she entered a passageway on the other side and followed the sounds and appetizing smells to a large reception area. She could see a low- ceilinged refectory beyond it. A young man, tall and thin, with a long ponytail turned from a bulletin board where he had been stapling a notice and asked if he could help.

Although Faith was in desperate need of something hot to drink, this was not her top priority, even with soup close at hand. On the way, she'd decided the best thing to do was tell a relatively straightforward and honest story.