The Body In the Vestibule by Katherine Hall Page Page B

nuit insufficiently covered by a robe of the same material, her blond hair was delightfully disarranged, and her blue eyes, perhaps even larger than usual at the odd events of the evening, were striking. Madame Fairsheeld had been in bed no doubt and would soon return—it was a prospect with much appeal.
    He pulled his chair a bit closer. “First permit me to introduce myself. I am Sergeant Louis Martin and this is Sergeant Didier Pollet.” He paused for emphasis. “Madame, what we believe has occurred is of course deeply upsetting. Occasionally, one of these men of the street—we call them clochards —will wander into a building and sleep there. Yes, even in the dustbins,” he added as she seemed to protest. “Your presence most certainly awakened him, but he was afraid you would berate him, or worse, so he pretended to be asleep and as soon as you left, phhtt” —he made one of those French noises impossible to reproduce, accompanied by appropriate gestures with his hands—“out the door. So when we arrive, we find nothing.”

    â€œBut I felt his pulse! He didn’t have one! And his face! I know he was dead!”
    Both police looked troubled. This Américaine —so lovely, so young, and perhaps so crazy.
    â€œBesides, how could he have gotten into or out of the hallway without a key?” Faith’s voice was triumphant.
    â€œAh.” Louis Martin looked slightly chagrined. “To be perfectly honest, you can get into most of these old Lyonnais apartment buildings with the same kind of key. Some, especially, have the knack—you give a little turn and press hard, then voilà .”
    Faith reached for the keys on the table. “You mean I could get into any of the apartments around here with this key?” She held up the largest one, an ornate, ancient key four to five inches long that looked like the one the man in the iron mask would have greeted with whoops of joy.
    â€œBut yes. However, only the front doors, madame. Not the apartments themselves.”
    â€œWhat a relief,” Faith replied, fully aware that her sarcasm was being totally wasted.
    â€œSo you see, he came here to sleep. We did, in fact, find some empty bottles, so he was perhaps not even aware where he was. They also explain his very slow pulse. Then, like Princesse Charmante , you awaken him and he leaves.” Sergeant Martin stood up, shared a congratulatory look with Didier at his petite blague , and prepared to leave.
    â€œTom, what do you think?” Faith was not going down without a fight—even if that fight was going to be with her husband.
    In the vain hope of avoiding further discussion and possibly getting some more sleep, Tom chose to be circumspect. “I don’t really know what happened. All I know is that there was no one in either one of the poubelles. We searched through the garbage and the only carcasses were the lobsters we consumed this evening—or I should say, last.” He was very, very tired.

    It was hopeless. Faith knew what she had seen and no one, not even her own husband, believed her. She would have cried in frustration, except it would simply have added to the already-damning picture of instability that had been created—the word for crazy in French is fou , and she felt like an utter one. She hoped Tom hadn’t told them she was pregnant. There were enough stereotypes floating around.
    But, of course, he had.
    They stood by the door, an uneasy parting. What does one say, particularly after the inevitable little black notebooks had come out and information back to childhood solemnly recorded? Tom thanked them for coming. Not at all, not at all. Anytime, and enjoy your stay in France. Didier was from Burgundy, he revealed in a rush of sudden intimacy. He hoped they would visit the vineyards, although perhaps madame was not drinking wine. He directed his eyes significantly below, but not too far below, her waist