The Body in the Vestibule

fire some more, he collapsed in a chair opposite her, with the gun trained somewhere on the vicinity of her womb. She didn't open her mouth. Neither did he.

Ravier sent Tom home with Paul. There was nothing more he could do and so Michel urged Tom to try to get some sleep. It had been a long drive to Avignon and back. 'Sleep?' Tom had repeated, and Michel realized what a ridiculous suggestion it had been. 'Then pray, mon brave. I know le bon Dieu will not let anything happen to Faith.”

A trace of a smile had crossed Tom's weary face. 'I have been doing nothing else since this morning.”

After they left, Michel sat with the files in front of him. It wasn't simply the business with the clochard. There was Faith's second call reporting that she had information regarding the suicide of the prostitute, Marie. Michel had been on vice not too many years ago and he remembered Marie well. An intelligent girl from the Midi. She would be away from the city on occasion and told him once she used to go to visit her family. He wondered what she told them— that she worked in a boutique, perhaps. Her carte d'identite listed her full name as Marie-Claude Laval, and he sensed she came from a decent family. Like her two friends, she was addicted to various things, but in the last year, she had told him she was straight and hoping to get off the streets. He had wished her well, yet knew it would not be so easy to accomplish. She probably owed her pimp money and he would see she continued to work off her debt until she no longer served his purpose. Then she'd be left with nothing. He felt the angry frustration that had never left him since his first days in the district, talking to the girls. The pimps, working from Italy, Switzerland—and now South America—grew rich. Parasites. The only consolation was that when they did get caught on French soil, they faced long sentences and stiff fines.

So Faith had come to know Marie, too. But how? What would they have in common? The French women he knew did not chat with thefilles dejoie on the corner but walked quickly past, perhaps a nod of the head to indicate they were sympa.

Faith had told Martin and Pollet that Marie was supposed to meet her at the hotel de ville, and earlier Marie had given her some sort of warning. Faith was convinced Marie had been murdered before they could meet. The notes were disgracefully vague and his conversation with the two officers, while making him feel better for letting off steam, didn't garner much more information. They thought her scatty and hadn't paid much attention to what they clearly thought was an overactive imagination, the product of too much American television. The inspector from the police judiciaire, Ravier's own division, had not thought it worth his time to go up the stairs to speak with Faith when they found the trash bin empty, but had sent the two gardiens de la paix as a formality. Probably also wanted to stick them with the paperwork. Michel had let off some steam on him, too.

Marie's body had already been released to her parents. There had been what Michel suspected was a perfunctory autopsy, as was usual in this type of case. He looked at the few lines in front of him. She did have water in her lungs, indicating drowning. Still, there were ways to do this—if she had been alive but drugged when she entered the water, for example. Even if the autopsy indicated the presence of drugs, it would be assumed she had gone back to her old ways—or never left.

Michel didn't think Faith was scatty. If she thought Marie had been murdered, there must have been a reason— even if Madame Fairsheeld had cried murder once before. But how would Marie have tied in with the clochard? In the morning, he'd go to the Place St. Nizier and talk with Marie's friends. It would be pointless to try to find them tonight. Clochards and whores, both on the street and both knowing what went on in those streets better than anyone.

It was possible this knowledge had gotten the two of them killed, which left Faith trying to tie the threads together.

His phone rang. Giovanni Cavelli had been located. Faith had not said anything to him about Avignon—or anywhere else, for that matter. He didn't like to talk with his clients, he told the officers. It distracted him from his work. The receptionist was new. She'd only been there a month and was Italian also. He'd liked having someone around who spoke his language. Her name was Gina Mar-tignetti. She was from Rome and he had an address in Lyon for her on the Croix Rousse. She'd left about eleven that morning and never come back. He was prepared to take her back, but not until he'd said a thing or two, and judging from the rehearsal the police were forced to listen to, it would be a wonder if the woman would continue to work for him. After they finished talking to Cavelli, they'd gone to the address he'd supplied for Gina. It was a rooming house. They proceeded to rouse the owner, who was displeased at being awakened and obviously cherished little affection for theses. She told them Mademoiselle Marti-gnetti had stopped by her apartment at noon, given her what she owed, said good-bye, and left. She didn't know where Gina was going. That was the girl's business, not hers. She'd been a good tenant, paid on tune, wasn't around much.

Ravier ordered them to circulate a description of Gina Martignetti, particularly at the Italian border, and he had had a call put through to the police in Rome. Her disappearance at the same time as Faith's and after having delivered what was obviously a phony message to Tom, was no coincidence. He also had Giovanni put under surveillance. He'd already been told not to leave Lyon.

The inspector's phone rang again. It was his mother. Did he want to speak with her? He glanced at his watch. She was up late, but then she slept very little. Of course he would take the call. Since his father's death, she had moved into the city and she missed her old friends and neighbors.

“You had a good trip, monfils?'

“Oui, Maman, and you? Keeping busy?'

“But of course. All the things an old lady does. A little walk. Mass in the morning. And I cleaned your apartment. It was disgusting, Michel. That woman is not worth what you pay her.”

His mother had a running battle with the woman who cleaned and, when told, left dinner for him. Neither thought the other adequate for his needs. 'Oh, Maman, really you mustn't do this.'

“It's no trouble. Oh, and while I was there, a very nice foreign lady called. Her name was Madame Fairsheeld. I told her you were away and she said you must call her as soon as you get back, so please do. I promised you would.'

“Madame Fairsheeld! When was this?'

“It must have been Wednesday. I remember I went to your apartment after confession.'

“You are sure?'

“About my confession, bien stir!'

“No, cherie, about what day Madame Fairsheeld called,' he said patiently, wondering not for the first time what his mother could possibly have to confess. Impure thoughts? He hoped so.

“Yes, yes, I am sure. Is it important?'

“Perhaps. Now, I must say good night. Go to sleep. I will call you tomorrow.'

“A demain,' she agreed in her soft, slightly chirping voice.

He picked up the file on Marie. Her body had been discovered on Wednesday. It had been on Wednesday that Martin and Pollet had responded to Faith's call. Obviously, she'd called him first. But she hadn't disappeared until two days later. What had happened in between? He looked at the notes he had taken while Tom talked. The lavomatique, the marche, a tea party, dinner at a bouchon.

It would not be light for some hours and he was eager to start questioning everyone Faith had come in contact with during those days—and the days preceding. She'd visited one of the shelters for the clochards on Monday, Tom had said. To learn what the French were doing about the problem, she'd told her husband. Yet, Faith had not struck Michel as a woman who told her husband everything as it happened. Not that she lied, but perhaps there was more than one reason for her visit.

He stretched out on his couch to get some sleep. Soup kitchens, the hotel de ville, the prostitutes on the corner, and at the beginning—the clochard of St. Nizier in the poubelle. The answer had to be somewhere among them.

Faith Fairchild had gotten to know Lyon very well indeed.

Faith was getting restless. She wasn't tired. She'd slept enough for a month and the silence was beginning to drive her crazy. Maybe that was the idea. She wasn't going to be killed outright, merely driven insane.

“Do you speak English?' she asked.