The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  She looked over her shoulder at the housewives with their baskets, some pushing strollers, occasionally with a toddler in tow. One of the chefs was selecting pineapples at the next stall. It was all so normal—and all so menacing. She was alone and she was frightened.

  After that, she swiftly put her meal together, feeling a sudden compulsion to get out of the market—almost as if all the friendly faces of the vendors she'd come to know might instantly turn to those of hostile strangers. Scenes of sudden violence like the clochard fight pushed into her mind—the tables overturned, fruit rolling down the walk, someone chasing her. She blinked and found herself standing at the lettuce seller. He smiled and winked at her. What did ma-dame want today? Madame wished she knew. She did know one thing, though. She'd make a salade Lyonnaise—several kinds of lettuce, including plenty of curly endive and dandelion greens, dressed with a strong vinaigrette, small crisp pieces of bacon, croutons, and crowned with an egg somewhere between soft- and hard-boiled that broke deliciously over the mixture when you ate it. The traditional Lyonnais recipe called for herring, as well, but she thought the flavor would be too strong for the caille, the quail, that she was going to roast to follow.

  Faith tucked a bouquet of anemones into her loaded panier as she left the market, even though the apartment was filled with Tom's flowers. They'd add some color and it seemed important to seize some brightness.

  Marie, Monique, and Marilyn were nowhere to be seen and she decided to call Michel Ravier. As she walked, she wondered if all the indecision she'd been experiencing over the last few days was due to her unfamiliarity with the country or her relative unfamiliarity with pregnancy. She had a nagging feeling that if she'd been home and /or not with child, she would have been more resolute by now— probing around more herself or prodding police chief Maclsaac to get on the stick.

  She headed for the boucherie to get the caille. The sun had broken through the clouds and the rain had stopped. Good signs.

  As soon as she walked through the shop door, she knew something was wrong. All the chairs were occupied and everyone was speaking in hushed tones. Alarmed, she looked around quickly for Clement and Delphine. She was relieved to see them at their usual posts—he behind the counter, she in front at the cash register.

  She asked for the caille and walked over to Delphine. "Has something happened? Everyone seems very quiet."

  “It's that poor girl, you know the one. They are always standing there." Delphine gestured toward the corner. "The one with the red hair. She's dead; she has suicided. They found her in the river near the confluence."

  “But that's impossible!" Faith exclaimed.

  One of the regulars, an elderly man, said, "No, ma-dame, unfortunately not. Many of these women are very depressed. They drink too much or use drugs and life can sometimes be too much for them. It is sad but not unheard of.”

  Faith felt ill. The shop began to swim before her eyes and she was aware that someone had given her a seat.

  “It's all right," she said, "I'm fine now." The Veaux wanted to call Tom or at least get her a restorative coffee, but she finally convinced them it had been a momentary giddiness due to her interesting condition. She took her package and walked back toward the apartment. Marilyn and Monique were not at the corner.

  She mounted the stairs, dropped the basket by the door as soon as she was inside the apartment, and went straight to the phone. She took Michel Ravier's card from her purse and dialed the number.

  She was not fine at all. She was sick. Sick with overwhelming guilt. If Marie had stayed away from her, Marie might still be alive.

  Ravier was out and they would not tell her when the Chief Inspector was expected back. She tried his home number. A woman answered after several rings. The voice did not sound like that of a young woman. His mother? The cleaning woman? Michel was not home. After Faith identified herself, it appeared the woman was his mother and she began to chat volubly. She related that Michel, such a wonderful son, was in Marseille working. Who was this calling again? Faith left her name and hung up, sorry that the appendage of Madame when she repeated her name seemed to dash the good lady's hopes. Faith's own hopes were dashed, as well. She didn't know what to do now.

  Marie had not committed suicide. She had been murdered, and apart from Marilyn, Monique, and the killers, Faith was the only one who knew it. She couldn't imagine the other two prostitutes going to the police after what had happened to Marie. It was up to her and she did not hesitate. She dialed again, 17—the police emergency number— and told the individual who answered that she had some information regarding the suicide of the young woman, Marie, found in the river that morning. She was swiftly transferred to another individual who switched to English as soon as he heard her speak. More proof that her accent had not achieved the level she was aiming for, Faith reflected dismally. He told her he would be there as soon as possible.

  She put the food away, although the idea of cooking the meal, not to mention eating it, made her feel ill. The doorbell rang and she ran to answer it.

  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 assum
ed 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.

  Now standing outside the window dressed in black, complete to his gloves, he admitted he was afraid and the fear was part of the thrill.

  He raised the window without any trouble and stepped over the sill. The room was completely dark, but he could see perfectly well from the light outside. Switching on a flashlight, he walked softly down the hallway, opening doors randomly. It was true. No one was home.

  He went into the master bedroom and looked through several drawers before he found what he was looking for. Madame had not taken all her jewelry to the Cote d'Azur. He put a diamond-studded watch and several brooches in the bottom of the shopping bag he carried, first removing several layers of old clothes. There were some nice rings and he added them to the collection, hesitating over her engagement ring, her bague de fiancailles, the traditional sapphire surrounded by diamonds. No doubt it had a great deal of sentimental value. Though, reflecting on his own parents' marriage, perhaps it was in the drawer because the owner no longer valued it much. And, he reminded himself, others had a greater need.

  He wandered about the bedroom, found a nice Rolex and some old coins in a small leather box on monsieur's commode. On impulse, he threw the box in, as well.

  In the salon, there were some ornate snuffboxes in a glass case. The key was in the lock. Too simple. They deserved to be taken. He wrapped them in an old shirt and added them to the bag. He tested the weight. It wasn't too heavy. They had been warned to stick to light things. In one of the other bedrooms, he found some more jewelry—a gold necklace and bracelets. Totally at ease, he lay down on the bed. It was a girl's room, an older girl who 'dplastered the walls with posters of Serge Gainsbourg, R.E.M., and In Excess. Gains-bourg's picture had a black ribbon pinned to it. Not bad taste, except for the one of Madonna. Perhaps it was a joke.

  The bed linens smetted faintly of her perfume. He closed his eyes and undid the buttons on his fly. He slipped his hand into his pants. Soon pulsating rhythms beat steadily across his consciousness and silent lyrics came to his lips. He exploded and sank back. Maybe he did think too much about sex, but in any case, this was the best sex he'd ever had. He bid his phantom lover goodnight and crept back down the fire escape with her jewels.

  Benjamin had wandered into the closet after Faith, and his "What are you doing, Mommy?" startled her into action. If she left the strands of hair, they might be removed. If she took them all, the flics, as she was now calling those known to her on the force, would no doubt imagine she had dyed some of her own locks or plucked them from a hairpiece on display at the wig shop around the corner from the apartment. She had to assume that she could get back here with Chief Inspector Ravier before anyone else tampered with them, but she carefully placed two of them in the envelope from her mother's recent letter, which she had been carrying around, trying to find a moment to answer. The door to the tunnel was still locked, but it looked to be one of those antique safeguards similar to the one on the door to her hallway that could be opened with any number o
f keys.

  “Come on, let's go get our cakes," she told Ben, who had been watching the whole operation in utter fascination. She hustled him down the stairs and into the information bureau, where she displayed her dark glasses triumphantly and thanked the exceptionally nice fonctionnaire for his help. Then it was out the door before he could wonder why madame would have been wearing dark lunettes on such a rainy, gray day as yesterday and before Ben could start to tell him about the hide-and-seek game Mommy had been playing in the closet upstairs, both risks being about equal: Exhausted, she sank into a delicate chair at La Minau-diere and ordered cakes, coffee, and milk. They arrived and the sight of the assortment of bite-sized cakes—miniature eclairs, cream puffs, fruit tarts, and dark chocolate truffles—momentarily distracted her from the envelope burning a hole in her purse. Ben was reciting "eeny, meeny, mini, mo" over the cake plate, getting mixed up and starting from the beginning again—and again.

  “Just take one," Faith snapped, quickly adding an apologetic "sweetheart." She decided they'd better eat their cakes and go back to the apartment for some quality time before the recent events in her life turned her into the mother from hell.

  On the way up the stairs—was this only the third etage—they met Madame Vincent tripping effortlessly down the flights in her Chanel pumps, with Pippo eagerly following along. Faith suddenly remembered the invitation to tea and started to try to make some sort of excuse for not calling.

  “Don't worry, cherie, you have much on your mind these days. I think I will have a little party on Friday instead with Mesdames d'Ambert and Joliet. Would you care to meet them again, say at four o'clock, and we can have tea or whatever the ladies prefer?"