The Body in the Vestibule ff-4

by Katherine Hall Page

  He looked straight into her eyes. His own were puddles of amoral sincerity. "The problem is the baby. I cannot in good conscience kill him. Who knows what he may accomplish? A cure for SIDA? Overthrow the Republic?" If Faith had had any doubts about the basic immaturity of Chris-tophe's level of moral development, they vanished as quickly as socks in the wash.

  He stood up. "Yet it is difficult to imagine how I can keep you here for, how long? Five, six months?" He directed a studied and impersonal look at her body. She could just have easily been a car he was considering buying, a piece of saucisse, or a painting in Valentina Joliet's gallery. She was amazed at the accuracy of his appraisal, then remembered all the little d'Amberts and accouchements he would have observed. She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

  “It just needs some thought. I will keep you alive until your time comes, then kill you and take the baby to a priest. These details can be worked out." He sounded very definite. Still, he wasn't going to do anything immediately and the relief she felt was genuine at last. Four and a half months was a long time. She ought to be able to get away by then. She had a sudden vision of her delivery on some lonely Cevennes mountaintop with the maniacal Christophe waiting to cut the cord and her throat. She placed her hand on her abdomen to reassure the baby—and herself. It wasn't going to happen. The boy had to go to school, for goodness sake. He couldn't disappear to play midwife for the next few months.

  “Fortunately, I will be taking the bac soon and then school will be over. Until then, I'll think of something." Faith was horribly afraid he would. "And, of course, if you try to escape or do anything else so very foolish, I will have to forget about the child and you both will die.”

  He seemed genuinely sorry. It was chilling. All this concern for the unborn. His early years with the Marist fathers, an unconscious desire for his own rebirth, the stir- rings of paternity? She'd hate to be the one to spoil the two or three good apples left in the barrel, but there were limits.

  He seemed almost cheerful, having gotten the unpleasantness out of the way, and turned in a typically French manner to the demands of the flesh. "I am very hungry, and tired, as you must be also. First, I think food. Then sleep. Tomorrow, we will take a trip to get provisions and I must find a phone. I am afraid you will not be in a position to see the beauty of the countryside, however. Now, s'il vous plait, the kitchen.”

  Bearing the lamp aloft hi one hand, he nudged her toward the door with the gun firmly clenched in the other. The kitchen was large and when they entered, the light was reflected in the soft copper burnishings of the pots hanging on one wall. Like the other room, it had a stone floor, and without the fire, it was very cold. There was a gas stove next to the sink, stone also. It appeared that the early inhabitants of the region had simply walked into their backyards and constructed whatever they needed from the mountains of rock there. She dismally noted the tap over the sink. There was running water. So she could rule out giving Christophe a quick shove at a well.

  “Open the closet over there. I think it is where Danielle keeps supplies.”

  The closet was full of baskets and boxes that once contained potatoes, onions, and other vegetables, judging from the shriveled evidence. The shelves were stacked with brightly colored pottery and, in one corner, they found a few dusty cans of what turned out to be corn kernels.

  “Ah, metis. My friend Benoit was sent last summer to practice his English with a family in Iowa, do you know it? All he ate was mais. It was some kind of farm and he did not go well there. His parents are cochons.”

  Faith doubted that Benoit was descended from porkers, but she got the message. All this farm talk was increasing her hunger and the corn in the can was calling to her as succulently as a fresh cob plucked from the stalk, raced to a pot of rapidly boiling water, cooked for four minutes, and consumed immediately, dripping with butter, salt, and, in Faith's case, pepper. She was salivating.

  “They must have a can opener. I'm sure it's safe to eat if they were here last summer." She tried to steer him away from a potential diatribe on the inevitable shortcomings of the older generation and back to the matter at hand.

  “Bien sur, and here is a packet of pates. I understand you are a good cook. See what you can do with this.”

  She couldn't do much, but shortly after, when she dug into the macaroni and corn, she decided it was one of the best meals she'd ever tasted.

  Christophe had lighted some more lamps and a pair of candles that were on the kitchen table. He'd found a bottle of wine and sat holding a full glass up to the flame, regarding it intently. The light cast ruby flickers on the gun by his plate. Maybe he'd get drunk. Faith took a sip of the water. The situation was very intimate—and unreal.

  It didn't seem the moment to ask why he had killed the clochard in the first place—the question that was at the front of her mind. Was it for kicks? If so, then what was Marie talking about and how did his uncle figure in all this? Obviously tonton had been the person impersonating poor Bernard. Did Marie know? She wasn't going to mention Marie, though. Faith didn't want to let Christophe know how much she knew, which, after she'd learned he'd murdered the clochard, was not much.

  She ate some more pates a la Fairsheeld. Even after assuaging the initial sharp pangs of starvation, the mixture tasted surprisingly good. All she had to do was add some pieces of slightly charred red peppers, a hint of garlic, some summer savory, and maybe a round of warm fresh chevre on top. . . .

  She opened her mouth to speak. After all, what could it hurt?

  “Christophe, I don't understand. I know the clochard was a violent man." She recalled the scene she'd seen only a week or so ago from the apartment window. "Had he been threatening you in some way?"

  “Bernard? No. Do you think an old drunk like that could frighten me? Cretin! He was stupid and nosy.”

  Not what she would categorize as the best possible defense for justifiable homicide. She decided to ferme-la. Her colloquial French was increasing by leaps and bounds and she desperately hoped she'd be able to display it for Tom.

  Time went by. Christophe poured himself another glass of wine. It was producing no discernable effect. He lit a cigarette and Faith noticed the pack was almost empty. She hoped he had more. She didn't want him to be forced to quit now, however beneficial that might be to his health and hers. Irritability from nicotine withdrawal might just send him over the edge. But at the moment, lazily blowing smoke toward the ceiling and sipping his wine, he seemed at peace with the world—the world that appeared to owe him a living. She regarded him for some time in silence.

  But there were simply too many questions.

  “So, where were you when I came downstairs and how did you get him away so quickly?”

  He laughed reminiscently. "You can imagine that I was surprised to see my neighbor come to dispose of her garbage at such an hour. But my father's office is just there, you know, and I have a key. It was very fortunate. Then when you left, I returned and put old Bernard in that small closet by the stairs. We got rid of him later.”

  The placard, of course. That extremely convenient place for Ben's stroller—or a dead body.

  “It was no easy job getting him in the poubelle," Christophe bragged. "They were late and I could not take the chance to leave him in the vestibule. Then, because of you, I had to lift him out again and up the stairs by myself. Ouf!"

  “Eh bien." He wolfed the rest of his food down. "Now, bed.”

  Bed. And all that suggested. Maybe there was a way out of this.

  Back in the main room, he bent down to pick up something at the door, then said, "Upstairs. Allezl I'm tres fatigue. “

  Thoughts of seducing her way out of the situation were quickly dispelled in the bedroom when he tied her wrists and ankles together again in the same way as before with the ropes he'd brought in from the car. As a final touch, he looped another length around her, securing her to the bed. Unless he was into bondage, her vague plan to charm him into submission would have to be
scrapped.

  “Bonne nuit, Madame Fairsheeld. Sleep well.”

  Faith did not wish him the same. She was thinking of Sartre's famous remark: "Hell is other people.”

  A bird cried sharply in the night and Faith opened her eyes in sudden panic. Where was she? She remembered and the panic did not subside. Christophe had spoken of the cloch-ard as a mere encumbrance, something to get out of the way, a fly buzzing on the wall. Yet it had to be more than that for him to take such a risk, and she still didn't know why he had killed the tramp. It was a point she hadn't wanted to press. It was dangerous to know too much. Although how she could be in more peril than she already was with what she'd learned was a moot point.

  Christophe, acting with his uncle and some others— those references to "we" and "they"—had murdered the clochard in the vestibule. Something put in the tramp's beloved bottle, since there were no marks or blood on the man, apart from the scratch on his hand. Then, when she arrived on the scene, Christophe had repaired to his father's office, more than likely made a call or two about what had happened, then reappeared to spirit away the evidence as soon as she went back upstairs.

  In the old Cevennes farmhouse, it had become very quiet. The door was open, but she could not hear anything from the room across the hall where her captor lay soundlessly in a deep and dreamless sleep. Soon she did the same.

  The early morning sun streamed in the chambre's one small window. Faith opened her eyes. The room was charming. There was a large rustic armoire against one of the whitewashed walls and next to the bed, a round table covered with bright Provencal fabric was stacked with books. Across the room, a comfortable-looking chair draped in the same fabric sat next to an old marble-topped nightstand holding an arrangement of dried flowers in a turquoise vase. The door in the nightstand gave an urgency to her needs. Damn these ropes. She needed to get over there and see if there was a chamber pot behind the marquetry.

  “Christophe! Christophe!" she called, waited, then tried again. He came stumbling into the room after her fourth attempt. His hair was rumpled and he was rubbing his eyes. The gun was shoved in the waistband of his jeans.

  “What do you want?" he asked angrily. Christophe was obviously not a morning person. Neither was Faith under ordinary circumstances, whatever those had been in the past—& past that had receded so swiftly in the last twenty-four hours, it was beginning to take on a medieval character. Her immediate present contained but two thoughts: I am tired and I have to get out of bed.

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  He grunted and untied the knots. She stood up stiffly. The baby gave a little flutter. The sensation did not bring the joy of previous days. She took the blanket and wrapped it around herself. She had no intention of answering nature's call under the scrutiny of this eighteen-year-old. Let him take her to the outhouse.

  To his credit, Christophe had piled blankets and a down comforter on Faith's immobilized body the previous night—out of concern for the future luminary she was carrying, no doubt. Without that drift of warmth, she was shivering. Her two thoughts were joined by a third, which she said out loud. "It's so cold. Do you think there are any jackets or sweaters in the house?"

  “Perhaps in the armoire. It is always cold in the country in the mornings. You had better become used to it.”

  So whatever plan he had hit upon involved keeping her here. She didn't know whether to be glad or sorry.

  She opened the doors to the armoire and was rewarded by the sight of what was obviously the country wardrobe. She took a heavy Irish fisherman's sweater and some corduroy pants. Christophe grabbed a well-worn shearling jacket. Faith was annoyed she hadn't spotted it first. She put the sweater on and immediately felt more optimistic than she had since arriving. It was lovely to be warm again.

  They did the Siamese-twin walk across the yard to the trees. It was beginning to become a familiar routine, but Faith would rather not have been joined by a gun. She slipped on the pants before leaving the privy. They were too long, so she turned up the cuffs, but otherwise they fit fairly well. She couldn't do up the button on the waistband, but the sweater hid the fact, and besides, she wasn't exactly worried about making a fashion statement at the moment. Now only her feet, clad in a thin pair of Bennis/Edwards flats, needed attention. Socks and boots of some sort were what she had in mind. Also a toothbrush.

  As they walked back across the yard, she looked around her. It was beautiful. The house had been built on one of a number of deep terraces she could see covering the mountain. The others were marked by low, crumbling stone walls. Once they had been filled with rows of carefully tended green vines. Now they were yellow and purple with spring wildflowers. Below the house, the land continued to slope sharply, ending hi the stream she had heard the night before. Evergreens and deciduous trees stretched out on either side of the small area marked by civilization.

  “It's beautiful here," she said to the air.

  Behind her, Christophe agreed. "I like the Cevennes very much. It has not been spoiled like the rest of France.”

  A nature lover. Go figure.

  “It's Sunday, so we must wait for the old woman who keeps the shop to say her mass and come home. Say ten o'clock.”

  Christophe did not appear to be hi the mood for conversation and sat stolidly in the chair across from her. He'd tied her wrists together behind her back again in preparation for the car trip. The fact that he wasn't in a chatty mood didn't bother Faith. She was preoccupied with trying to decide whether it made sense for her to kick the gun out of his hand as he bound her ankles together, but the odds did not seem good. Given that she aimed accurately and accomplished the first part, she still might not be able to grab the gun with her hands tied. Could she hold it in her mouth? It wasn't a large gun. But how would she fire it? It was more likely that he would get to it before she did and shoot her. Such an attempt would certainly fall under the rubric of one of the "so very foolish" things he'd mentioned. Yet there had to be some way out of this and the trip to the store offered the first real opportunity. She continued to devise alternatives.

  The tune dragged like school in June and she tried not to think how hungry she was. She thought instead of Tom and what he might be doing. He'd enlist the help of the Leblancs immediately and they might think to call Ravier— if he was back. She sighed. Christophe stood up.

  “It's time. We can go now. If we wait too long, all the bread will be gone.”

  This was serious.

  As they were about to open the door, they heard a car coming up the drive.

  “Merde! Who can be coming! Into the kitchen. Vite!" He grabbed the ropes. Faith was desperately praying he might forget, but he was very efficient. He'd trussed her up, pulled a bandanna from his pocket to gag her, and pushed her into the kitchen closet just as a car door slammed. Then another. So it was more than one arrival. The closet door opened again and he threw her pocketbook in after her. "Your sac!" Dreadfully efficient.

  But not infallible. He'd neglected to close the closet door completely the second time. Faith was able to wiggle closer and, by wedging her foot in the crack, succeeded in opening it. The door to the other room was firmly shut. She lay still, listening.

  It wasn't hard to hear what was going on, even through the closed door. Two people in addition to Christophe, and all three were shouting at the tops of their lungs.

  “You salaudl You are not fit to wipe my ass! And you thought we would never find out! Imbecile!" It was a female voice, an extremely enraged female.

  “How could you possibly think Dominique wouldn't tell me! Or didn't you care!”

  Christophe was just as furious. "How did you know I was here and what business is it of yours what I do! We live our own lives and I can fuck anyone I want!"

  “Yes—and tell her she's the only one!" The girl started to cry.

  “Come on. Let's go get something to eat. There's nothing left in the house. You both need to calm down.”

  Faith could have told him thes
e were the words most known to have the opposite effect on women in any language, and the explosion almost shook the beams of the kitchen ceiling. They would not calm down. They were not hungry and they were not leaving.

  “And why are you so eager to get rid of us? You know, Berthille, I think the little shit is waiting for someone. Zut! He certainly brought me here enough times last fall."

  “And moi. I am sure you are right. Look at how scared he looks.”

  Berthille and Dominique—Ghislaine's niece. The one whose mother was so worried about her, and now, it appeared, with good cause. The two girls Faith had seen at the gallery. And Christophe had been sleeping with them both. Another thing women tend to frown upon—one's boyfriend cheating with one's best friend. Christophe had a lot to learn.

  But, Faith told herself, this was no time to get caught up in the adolescent intrigues going on in the next room, however interesting they might be. She had to decide whether to make her way across the floor and bang on the door or try to get the ropes untied, escaping out the back door. That was the best plan. She didn't think Christophe would do away with her while the others watched—or kill all three of them—but she didn't want to find out.

  And maybe the girls, in their rage, had left the keys in the car's ignition.

  The closet was narrow and she was finding it hard to get to her feet. Finally, she succeeded in rolling to her knees and stood up, bent over because of the rope that was strung from her ankles to her wrists. She looked at her purse on the floor. There was nothing much inside to help her. It was a small summer shoulder bag, not the capacious Coach saddlebag she carried at other times, which contained everything from toys for Ben to sustenance for them both—and a handy Swiss army knife. The only thing remotely resembling a tool in this one was an emery board. But, she thought, as she hopped awkwardly out of the closet and, having kicked off her shoes, silently into the room, she was in a kitchen! And kitchens, especially French ones, had sharp knives.