The Body in the Vestibule

She opened the door and her heart sank. It was Didier Pollet and Louis Martin—or Dum and Dee, as she thought of them. Come to placate the crazy Yank again.

“Madame Fairsheeld, a pleasure to see you. Inspector Moreau asked us to speak with you, as he is occupied.”

Sure, sure, thought Faith, occupied with urgent police business like hoisting a pastis or two at one of the cafes near the commissariat. She was seriously annoyed.

They went into the dining room and sat around the table. Didier had his notebook out, at least that was something.

Sergeant Martin smiled at her. 'You have of course seen the clochard, quite well, or as well as he ever was.' It wasn't a question.

“Yes,' answered Faith slowly. The mood was set, but they were her only hope at the moment. She told them the whole story—the scratch that disappeared, Marie's warning, and the missed meeting. They were incredulous.

“But this is an amazing!' said Sergeant Martin, if true, his voice clearly indicated.

Faith was feeling desperate. She had heard it said in jest that the French police tended to view those reporting a crime with as much suspicion as those committing one, and if her experience was anything to go by, it wasn't such a joke. They proceeded to quiz her about the shape and depth of the scratch and whether there were any other differences. Then they asked what time had Marie come to the car, where had Faith parked, what kind of car was it, which alleyway, and so on. Grandmother's maiden name was coming next. She became angry.

“I'm sure Marie has been murdered. She was on her way to meet me at noon and somehow she was abducted, killed, and thrown into the river.'

“A bit hard to do hi the middle of a busy city, wouldn't you agree, madame? Besides, her death was by drowning, according to the autopsy. Very triste, but no question of anything else.”

Faith sighed. There was nothing to be gained by all of this and she thanked them for coming. At the door, they assured her they would make a full report, again hoped she would put these unpleasantnesses out of her head and enjoy la belle France. She managed to dredge up a smile, then went off to collect Ben. She'd have to wait until Michel returned from Marseille. She hoped it wouldn't be long.

All through lunch, she listened to Ben prattle on about the super velo his friend Leonard had and could he come to play and ride Ben's bike? Ben's bike was not a big boy's bike, except it was a good one too and so on and so on. Faith agreed absentmindedly, as she would have to anything, then put Ben firmly down for a nap. He thought he was too old for naps now, but Faith had told him he would be taking them until further notice—much further notice— say, college.

She could hear him talking to the Paddington Bear they had brought with them, and after a while that stopped, replaced by Ben's steady breathing. She took her shoes off and stretched out on her bed. When he woke up, she had plans.

Maybe Marie had decided to meet her after all. It had been a rainy, miserable day and she might have assumed she wouldn't be noticed slipping off to the hotel de ville. The woman certainly had had guts. She'd taken an enormous risk in warning Faith in the first place. Maybe she'd had enough and wanted to get at the people controlling her life.

The people who caused all the filles de joie to walk the streets in fear. But they got to her first. She never made it to the rendezvous. Which meant she was stopped before she got there or after she arrived. The entire building had been emptying out for lunch. Not too difficult to find a secluded spot, even when the building was occupied. Faith's eyes drifted shut. She had to find out. She had to do this for Marie.

In what seemed like a few minutes later, Ben and Pad-dington bounced onto her bed, announcing, 'I'm awake!', Faith sat up and gave him a big hug.

“Let's go get some nice cakes for supper.'

“And Ben wants one now,' he insisted.

“And so does Mommy,' Faith agreed. She might be involved in an investigation, but one thing was clear—the French know how to make cake.

Marilyn and Monique were at the corner. Both women's eyes were red and their attire somewhat subdued. The two women were grieving. They were also clearly afraid.

Faith went past them hurriedly, resolved not to speak to them lest it imperil them, too. She was plagued by the awareness that it may have been by warning her that Marie had gone to her death.

She stopped at the Veaux's and bought a package of juicy Agen prunes—sold at the boucheries for some reason, along with other items to go in or outside the meat, such as jars of olives and pickles. The prunes were for Ben's snacks, since to Ben's dismay, his parents hadn't adopted the French gouter custom for children of a slab of chocolate between two pieces of buttered bread. As she paid Del-phine, she asked casually, 'When did you see Marie last? Did she seem depressed?'

“She said hello yesterday morning as usual when she passed and I saw her again on the corner when I went for a coffee later in the morning, but she didn't come back after lunch. Pauvre petite. She seemed the same as usual. We never know how another feels.”

So Marie had not been seen after noon, at least not in the neighborhood. And where else would she be? Faith thought she knew and walked up rue Chenavard to the Place des Terreaux and back into the hotel de ville. She went to the information office and told them she had left her glasses on the windowsill in one of the rooms during the tour yesterday. Had they been found? No, perhaps she herself could take a quick look. She smiled winningly. She knew exactly where they were, she added. The man behind the desk did not resist. He took them into the courtyard and indicated the door from which Faith had emerged the day before.

“My pleasure, madame, but please do not take much time and let me know when you leave. We do not usually permit this.'

“I understand and I appreciate it very much.”

Faith went up the stairs as rapidly as she could with Ben in tow. She was very aware that either the baby was intent on making his or her presence known or else all the monarch butterflies west of the Rockies had decided to winter in her stomach instead of Pacific Grove, California. She turned and went straight into the room of the tribunals. Yesterday, it had been empty when the tour entered and it was empty now. She closed the door and went to the rear of the room where the windows overlooked the Rhone. She sat Ben on the floor and gave him her purse to explore. 'There could be a sweetie in there for my sweetie,' she told him shamelessly. Then she pulled on the gloves she had shoved into her pocket and opened the door that concealed the entrance to the tunnel into the river.

She'd brought along a pocket flashlight and she shone it on the other opening. It was a long shot, but not impossible. She steadied the beam of light. Not impossible at all.

Caught in the smaller door, down near the floor where the head of a body might have rested briefly before being carried down the stairs and into the tunnel to the river, were several long bright red hairs.

Six

Benoit stood tentatively on the fire escape outside the kitchen window of an apartment on rue Sully. Dominique had assured him she had unlocked it when she went to say good-bye to her friend who was leaving with her parents for a week at their house in Ramatuelle.

It was very dark and although he was not cold, he shivered. Why did it seem that he was the one to draw the short straw so often? The scene in the children's playground near school where they held their meeting yesterday was as clear in his mind as if it had just occurred. It was a repetition of all the previous ones. They had joked about some fellow classmates and decided to go to a concert at La Cigale. Le Voyage de Noz was the group playing and Berthille knew one of the band members. He remembered asking how well and was surprised at the intensity of her denial. 'You boys are all alike. You think everything is sex. Your minds are never anywhere else!' He apologized and they got down to business and when the straws were presented, one by one they drew long ones. He was last and it was inevitable—la courte paille again. He'd made a vague protest and they'd immediately asked him if he was afraid. He'd denied it.