The Body in the Vestibule

There was no reply. She knew her French wasn't that bad. He'd understood her other question. She wondered what would happen if she stood up and calmly walked out the door. Whoever it was seemed passive enough. Still, she didn't want to chance a sudden spurt of energy that might lodge a bullet somewhere about her person. Looking around the room, she'd noted there was another door and, to the right of it, a stone stairway. The stairs probably led to bedrooms or a loft of some sort and the other door no doubt to the kitchen. Kitchen! She was starving. She hadn't had anything since her hasty breakfast. She thought longingly of the picnic she'd packed for the trip to Carcassonne. A huge marguerite—crusty rolls joined together in the shape of the flower. Instead of 'he loves me, he loves me not,' you pulled a hunk of bread off and, in today's case, slathered it with Normandy butter, pate, or cheese. She'd also packed some salads—tiny vegetables in vinaigrette and hearts of palm with endive. Faith firmly ordered her mind to turn off before she got to dessert, but the chocolate cake with a hint of orange from Tourtillier pushed through insistently.

“This is ridiculous. I am hungry and cold. I am going to have a baby and I must have some food.' The sentences were non sequiturs, but she didn't care.

She accomplished one thing. The immobile figure leapt out of the chair, causing her to draw her breath in sharply in fear. Was it the end?

But he simply proceeded to pace up and down the small room, pausing only to throw some more logs on the fire. He appeared to be muttering under his breath. After what seemed like ages, he stopped abruptly in front of her and pulled off the mask.

“What can I do? Merde! This is a hopeless situation!”

Faith gasped—not at his words. At his face.

It was Christophe d'Ambert.

Eight

“Christophe! Is this some kind of joke?'

“No, I assure you it is not a joke at all.' Faith had felt a wave of relief sweep over her when she realized who was behind the mask. It was absurd to think that the teenager—the boy next door— would harm her in any way. But the relief was short-lived, and the possibility of her own reduced life span more distinct, when she heard the tone in his voice. This was not the nonchalant, slightly teasing adolescent of their encounters on the apartment staircase. This was a deadly serious, possibly crazy man.

Keep them talking. Wasn't that what all the books, not to mention Geraldo and Oprah, advised?

“Can you tell me where we are?' A neutral topic, a logical question for a tourist to ask.

He seemed surprised. 'We are in the Cevennes. This is the country house of some friends of mine. They are in Canada for the year and asked me to check on it occasionally. They worry since it is so far away from any other houses or a village,' he added pointedly.

“Oh, I thought perhaps it might be your family's house.' She'd had a thought that if Christophe was gone, the d'Amberts might think to look for him at the maison secon-daire. Jean-Francois had said it was closed up, as this place had obviously been. Christophe could be lying about whose house it was. He'd never struck her as Eagle Scout material and now she was beginning to think he could walk into a role in Bad Boys without any rehearsal at all.

Her comment had produced a smile—not a nice one. 'I'm afraid my mother would find the Cevennes a bit boring.' He ran his knuckles across his cheek in a shaving gesture, rasant, which Faith had observed was the way to express ultimate ennui. 'Our house is closer to St. Trop.”

Unfortunately, it made too much sense. But if Christophe was taking care of the house, the d'Amberts would know.

“So, this belongs to friends of your family. It looks very old.' Act casual. Try to get more information. Stall.

“Friends of mine, Madame Fairsheeld, and yes, a very old house, but I do not think this is the time to tell you the history of the region, interesting as it is,' he said sarcastically.

What a prick, Faith thought, a few tears starting to burn. She wasn't sure whether they were due to fury or fear. The whole thing had been a stupid idea to start with. It was obvious Christophe kept his own hours and own company. The fact that he was away when she was missing would mean nothing. She imagined the search that must have begun. Everyone would be so busy trying to find her, they'd forget Christophe even existed.

Christophe was talking to himself out loud. 'It's all tonton's fault.'

“Tonton?' Faith asked. It sounded like a pet: Ron Ton Ton, the wonder dog.

“It means 'uncle,' ' he explained impatiently, 'in this case, my father's youngest brother. The one most d'Am-berts don't like to talk about.'

“You mean the clochard?'

“I mean he chooses to live his life as he pleases without being weighed down by bourgeois ideas and possessions.' He'd raised his voice and each word was dripping with scorn.

Faith gave a passing thought to Christophe's wardrobe—the Tissot watch she could see between the end of his sleeve and the band of his glove, the Girbaud jeans he wore.

“I am not criticizing him,' she placated.

“Well, I am.' Christophe suddenly became a teenager again. 'The dumb fuck. He was supposed to finish the job, then what does he do but get cold feet and jump out of the car. Next time I see him, he's going to hear about this. I took care of Bernard and he was going to take care of you. That was the deal.' He was almost whining.

Nausea and what was certainly now fear threatened to overwhelm Faith. I mustn't start screaming. I mustn't throw up. I mustn't upset him. She repeated the sentences over and over like a mantra.

Bernard. Bernard was the clochard's name, Lucien at the shelter had told her.

Which meant Christophe was the murderer.

It was too much to suppose otherwise. Christophe lived in the building and was rapidly displaying the tendencies necessary for the crime—means, personality—but what could the motive possibly have been?

Faith was reeling. He'd 'taken care of' the clochard. His uncle was supposed to do the same for her, but had fled, leaving... Christophe. A funny thing about murder: Everything was out of focus until the end.

He was pacing again. Faith watched him cautiously, waiting for him to spring. His eyes were directed away from her for the moment, considering some inner view. She could make a move, but the front door was locked and if the kitchen had a door to the outside, that would be locked, too—if she even made it that far. There was no way out.

Keep him talking.

“Christophe, I'm sure there is a logical explanation for all this and if you will just take me back to Lyon, we can straighten everything out. I'll say I bumped into you after I got my hair cut and decided on a whim to come with you while you checked on your friends' house. Women in my condition are supposed to be a little erratic.' That sounded good.

He laughed disagreeably. 'You think we can go back and I will get a little slap on the hand. No, cherie, I think not. And as for being thought 'erratic,' we have counted on this. It's possible the hunt for you has started already, but I doubt it. You took the train for Avignon, and remember, the police think you are crazy to begin with.”

Faith was truly startled. What was he talking about? Avignon? And his use of cherie had more in common with Cagney's sweetheart than Solange's and Madame Vincent's use of the endearment.

“Why would I go to Avignon? Everyone knew we were going to Carcassonne.'

“But you left a message for your husband at the salon that you preferred to shorten the long car trip by taking the train as far as Avignon. I believe you were to meet in front of the Palais des Papes for drinks. Malheureusement, you do not show up, but then les femmes, especially attractive ones such as yourself, often disappear. There are a lot of nasty people around.' He was obviously enjoying this, definitely a nasty piece of goods himself.

His words made it sickeningly clear. He and his uncle; had worked it all out. Tom would go to Avignon, and