The Body in the Vestibule

she had thought to wrap the blanket around her shoulders. She was wearing a thin T-shirt and short skirt, donned in the expectation of southern sunshine.

Across the yard, she could make out a small stone house surrounded by trees. The night air was still and it was quiet except for some faint stirrings—the flight of birds, a nocturnal creature, a slight breeze, soft sounds accompanied by two others—the rapid breathing and insistent footsteps a few inches behind her. The idea of escape was impossible without some knowledge of the terrain. Besides, there was a gun to her back.

After the door was unlocked, they entered the house. A gloved hand closed hard upon her wrist and he pushed her into a chair while he quickly lit an oil lamp on the mantel, producing a dim light. It was very cold inside and the room had a musty smell, as if it had been closed up for a long tune. The shutters of the windows had not been opened and a thick layer of dust covered a long table in front of the fireplace.

If he was going to kill her, why was he waiting? Was she being held for ransom? She doubted it. If she'd been kidnapped because of what she knew about Marie and the clochard, it was her silence, not money, they wanted. These thoughts were rapidly supplanted by one other and she turned and spoke. 'Please. I must go to the bathroom.' She tried to convey her urgency, aware from her slightly damp pants that in her previous state she'd already had one accident. It was horrible enough to be in the position she was without adding total loss of dignity.

He motioned her out the door again to an outhouse at the edge of the yard, beyond some large evergreens. The moon had risen and she could see mountains not too far away. The house seemed to be at the bottom of a gorge.

When she got closer to the trees, she could hear a stream. The privy was very clean and there were cartoons by Sempe clipped from magazines taped to the walls. Hard to imagine gangsters with such a well-developed sense of humor and housekeeping. What they didn't have was toilet paper, and as Faith searched through her pocketbook for tissues, she found the letter she'd written to Michel Ravier. She could use it now, for all the good it would do her, she thought, before finding a packet of paper mouchoirs at the bottom. Holding the letter in her hand, she finally broke down and began to cry. She was all alone in a French outhouse, about to die.

Chief Inspector Michel Ravier had returned from Marseille at nine o'clock on Saturday night, looking forward to nothing more—or less—than a very good meal and a good night's sleep. But he'd dutifully called headquarters to report his return and that was why he was in his office drinking abominable coffee from a paper cup, reading with mounting exasperation the brief reports Louis Martin and Didier Pollet had filed on Faith, instead of consuming warm saucisson with plenty of mustard at La Mere Vittet. He grabbed the phone and demanded the two men's presence immediately. He also told the sergeant on duty to get him some food, preferably edible, but even a burger from FreeTime—though it pained him to think of comforting his hunger pangs so inadequately.

Michel had spoken to Paul, and he and Tom were on their way in. Ravier closed his eyes and thought back to the week before when he'd met Faith at Valentina Joliet's gallery. Madame Fairsheeld had seemed delightfully unseri-ous, bright, and very pretty—all the things he liked in a woman. There had been no suggestion of instability, apart from the clochard story, which was a bit odd but could no doubt have been explained if they'd questioned the man the next day. Or it may have been true. In any case, Martin and Pollet's conclusions that her pregnant state was causing her to fantasize were absurd. Although this represented sophisticated thinking for the team. He would have thought the two, with a combined chronological age near Michel's own and combined mental age near Stephanie Leblanc's, still believed in the 'bebe under the chou leaf theory.

There was a knock on the door and it opened almost simultaneously. Tom Fairchild walked over to the desk, grabbed a chair, sat down, and started talking. Paul was not far behind.

“You've heard, of course, the whole story from Paul. What can possibly be going on, damn it! Where can she be!”

Tom was angry and frightened. He'd driven to Avignon and gone straight to police headquarters. There they'd told him that they'd met the train from Lyon and Faith hadn't been on it. They'd questioned the servers at the buffet and the conductor and shown them Faith's picture, which had been faxed from Lyon. The Leblancs had given it to the police. It had been taken the Sunday before—a laughing, smiling Faith sitting in a lawn chair next to Paul's father. No one remembered seeing anyone resembling her. Avignon was the first stop after Lyon, so there was no way she could have gotten off the train. They were continuing to meet the trains coming from Lyon, but Tom had left quickly after reporting back to Paul.

When he'd arrived at the Leblanc's house, Ben had greeted him tearfully. Tom had told him Mommy was visiting some friends and would be back soon, yet Ben knew something was wrong. Soon after, Pierre had tucked him into his own bed and stayed with him until he fell asleep. The call from the police telling them Inspector Ravier had returned came soon after.

Ravier was as puzzled as Tom. He'd gotten the name of the owner of the hair salon where Faith had been seen last, but it was Saturday night and Giovanni Cavelli was out on the town. Michel had sent a team to search the various bars and bistros in Giovanni's neighborhood. Until they found him, they couldn't get in touch with the receptionist, who might be able to add something. Tom had called Solange d'Ambert; however, she did not recall the young woman. 'Of course I might know her. They change their hair so often, but the last time I was there, the girl helping was short and a bit heavy.' She had not heard Faith say anything about going to Avignon at tea on Friday and could add nothing to what they already knew.

“First,' Michel said, 'let me reassure you that a description and picture of your wife have been circulated all over the country and the newspapers will also carry the information tomorrow morning. Now, let's go back to the beginning, Reverend Fairsheeld.'

“Tom, please call me Tom.'

“Thank you. Well, Tom, what has happened obviously must have an explanation in something that has occurred since your arrival. I am assuming she has never done anything like this before?'

“Never,' Tom answered.

“Then try, if you can, to relax a moment and tell me everything your wife has been doing and how she has been feeling since coming to Lyon. Has she made any friends? Become involved in any activities? Paul, perhaps you can help.”

Tom was suddenly so tired, it seemed almost impossible to talk. Friends, involvements? This was what Faith lived for. Slowly, he began to list what he knew. When he got to Faith's experiences the night of the dinner party, Michel interrupted him. 'She told me about this the following evening and we have the report of the two men responding to your call. What has been plaguing me all night is that she may, in fact, have found a corpse. But then how did he come to be outside the church the next morning? I am waiting for the men who responded to her calls. According to their report, she seemed to think it might not be the same clochard.'

“Faith definitely thought he was a fake. Sunday night, she told me she thought the body of the clochard she found on Saturday had a scratch on the back of the hand. The man outside St. Nizier the next day didn't.' Tom stood up and walked up and down the room. When he next spoke, his voice was thick. 'I suggested it might have been a piece of string or something from the trash. I didn't want to believe it. Everything has been so wonderful. He looked the same to me. And she accepted that, but I know Faith. She must have kept poking around and now ...' He couldn't finish.

“Vite!' and a loud banging on the outhouse door startled Faith from her misery and she quickly finished. Descending outside, she took a good look at her captor before the figure, all in black, still masked and gloved, moved behind her and jammed the barrel of his gun into the small of her back. He was certainly dressed for the weather, she thought enviously as she began to shiver again. Her spirits had lifted slightly and she took it as a good sign that he retained the mask. If she was to be killed soon, it wouldn't matter if she saw him. And the wool, though warm, must feel scratchy on his face. He was taller than Faith but slight and moved with agility. They walked back to the house and once they were inside, he motioned her back to the chair, locked the door, and started to build a fire. After he got it going, he opened the shutters covering the windows. Was he watching for someone?

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