Read The Body In the Vestibule Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
The Body In the Vestibule (17 page)
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!”
Merde!
This is a hopeless situation!”
Faith gaspedânot at his words. At his face.
It was Christophe d'Ambert.
“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 teenagerâthe boy next doorâwould 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 Cévennes. 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 secondaire
. Jean-François 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.
maison secondaire
. Jean-François 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 smileânot a nice one. “I'm afraid my mother would find the Cévennes 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.”
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.
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's
fault.”
“Tonton?”
Faith asked. It sounded like a pet: Ron Ton Ton, the wonder dog.
Faith asked. It sounded like a pet: Ron Ton Ton, the wonder dog.
“It means âuncle,'” he explained impatiently, “in this case, my father's youngest brother. The one most d'Amberts don't like to talk about.”
“You mean the
clochard
?”
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 wardrobeâthe 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.
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.
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 crimeâmeans, personalityâbut 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.
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, tooâif 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,
chérie,
I think not. And as for being thought âerratic,' 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.”
chérie,
I think not. And as for being thought âerratic,' 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
chérie
had more in common with Cagney's
sweetheart
than Solange's and Madame Vincent's use of the endearment.
chérie
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.
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 even if he did get in touch with the police, they'd assume it was another one of her “fancies.” By now, Tom knew she wasn't in Avignon, but would the incredible idea that she had been kidnapped occur to him? Yet what else? That she had simply run away? Women did it all the time, and sure, she'd had her moments when driving alone in the car. How easy it would be to just keep on going to, say, sunny California instead of Shop and Save.
Still, Tom would know she hadn't run away. And Tom would start moving heaven and earth to find her.
Now what next? Christophe's uncle had botched it, so here they were, Plan B, in a cold, drafty farmhouse somewhere in the Cévennes, which she knew was considerably southwest of Lyon and very sparsely inhabited. She didn't need a lecture from d'Ambert the younger. The Leblancs had already related the rise and fall of the area. It had been a prosperous center of the silk industry in the eighteenth century, then in the nineteenth and twentieth had become an empty landscape. First the silkworm disease attacked, and when that crisis had passed, competition from foreign silk and artificial textiles finished the job. Phylloxera destroyed the grapevines and a fungus killed the chestnut trees. Not exactly the luckiest place to live in France. People left in droves. Christophe couldn't have picked a better place to take her. Now the question was, what did he intend to do with her?
It was as if she had spoken aloud.
“You present a curious problem,” he said, pulling a chair uncomfortably close to hers and lovingly stroking the gun with his left hand. “I do not mind to eliminate an adult. You have had a taste of life, although madame is not such an old lady,
bien sûr.
” So polite, these French teenagers, even when engaged in major crime.
bien sûr.
” So polite, these French teenagers, even when engaged in major crime.
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 Christophe's level of moral development, they vanished as quickly as socks in the wash.
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 Christophe'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.
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 Cévennes mountaintop with the maniacal Christophe waiting to cut the cord and her throat. She placed her hand on her abdomen to reassure the babyâand 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.”
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 stirrings
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.
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 plaît
, the kitchen.”
s'il vous plaît
, the kitchen.”
Bearing the lamp aloft in 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,
maïs.
My friend Benoît was sent last summer to practice his English with a family in Iowa, do you know it? All he ate was
maïs
. It was some kind of farm and he did not go well there. His parents are
cochons
.”
maïs.
My friend Benoît was sent last summer to practice his English with a family in Iowa, do you know it? All he ate was
maïs
. It was some kind of farm and he did not go well there. His parents are
cochons
.”
Faith doubted that Benoît 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.
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.
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