Chief Inspector Michel Ravier had returned from Marseille at nine o'clock on Saturday night, looking forward to nothing more—or less—than a very good meal and a good night's sleep. But he'd dutifully called headquarters to report his return and that was why he was in his office drinking abominable coffee from a paper cup, reading with mounting exasperation the brief reports Louis Martin and Didier Pollet had filed on Faith, instead of consuming warm saucisson with plenty of mustard at La Mere Vittet. He grabbed the phone and demanded the two men's presence immediately. He also told the sergeant on duty to get him some food, preferably edible, but even a burger from FreeTime—though it pained him to think of comforting his hunger pangs so inadequately.
Michel had spoken to Paul, and he and Tom were on their way in. Ravier closed his eyes and thought back to the week before when he'd met Faith at Valentina Joliet's gallery. Madame Fairsheeld had seemed delightfully unseri-ous, bright, and very pretty—all the things he liked in a woman. There had been no suggestion of instability, apart from the clochard story, which was a bit odd but could no doubt have been explained if they'd questioned the man the next day. Or it may have been true. In any case, Martin and Pollet's conclusions that her pregnant state was causing her to fantasize were absurd. Although this represented sophisticated thinking for the team. He would have thought the two, with a combined chronological age near Michel's own and combined mental age near Stephanie Leblanc's, still believed in the "bebe under the chou leaf theory.
There was a knock on the door and it opened almost simultaneously. Tom Fairchild walked over to the desk, grabbed a chair, sat down, and started talking. Paul was not far behind.
“You've heard, of course, the whole story from Paul. What can possibly be going on, damn it! Where can she be!”
Tom was angry and frightened. He'd driven to Avignon and gone straight to police headquarters. There they'd told him that they'd met the train from Lyon and Faith hadn't been on it. They'd questioned the servers at the buffet and the conductor and shown them Faith's picture, which had been faxed from Lyon. The Leblancs had given it to the police. It had been taken the Sunday before—a laughing, smiling Faith sitting in a lawn chair next to Paul's father. No one remembered seeing anyone resembling her. Avignon was the first stop after Lyon, so there was no way she could have gotten off the train. They were continuing to meet the trains coming from Lyon, but Tom had left quickly after reporting back to Paul.
When he'd arrived at the Leblanc's house, Ben had greeted him tearfully. Tom had told him Mommy was visiting some friends and would be back soon, yet Ben knew something was wrong. Soon after, Pierre had tucked him into his own bed and stayed with him until he fell asleep. The call from the police telling them Inspector Ravier had returned came soon after.
Ravier was as puzzled as Tom. He'd gotten the name of the owner of the hair salon where Faith had been seen last, but it was Saturday night and Giovanni Cavelli was out on the town. Michel had sent a team to search the various bars and bistros in Giovanni's neighborhood. Until they found him, they couldn't get in touch with the receptionist, who might be able to add something. Tom had called Solange d'Ambert; however, she did not recall the young woman. "Of course I might know her. They change their hair so often, but the last time I was there, the girl helping was short and a bit heavy." She had not heard Faith say anything about going to Avignon at tea on Friday and could add nothing to what they already knew.
“First," Michel said, "let me reassure you that a description and picture of your wife have been circulated all over the country and the newspapers will also carry the information tomorrow morning. Now, let's go back to the beginning, Reverend Fairsheeld."
“Tom, please call me Tom."
“Thank you. Well, Tom, what has happened obviously must have an explanation in something that has occurred since your arrival. I am assuming she has never done anything like this before?"
“Never," Tom answered.
“Then try, if you can, to relax a moment and tell me everything your wife has been doing and how she has been feeling since coming to Lyon. Has she made any friends? Become involved in any activities? Paul, perhaps you can help.”
Tom was suddenly so tired, it seemed almost impossible to talk. Friends, involvements? This was what Faith lived for. Slowly, he began to list what he knew. When he got to Faith's experiences the night of the dinner party, Michel interrupted him. "She told me about this the following evening and we have the report of the two men responding to your call. What has been plaguing me all night is that she may, in fact, have found a corpse. But then how did he come to be outside the church the next morning? I am waiting for the men who responded to her calls. According to their report, she seemed to think it might not be the same clochard."
“Faith definitely thought he was a fake. Sunday night, she told me she thought the body of the clochard she found on Saturday had a scratch on the back of the hand. The man outside St. Nizier the next day didn't." Tom stood up and walked up and down the room. When he next spoke, his voice was thick. "I suggested it might have been a piece of string or something from the trash. I didn't want to believe it. Everything has been so wonderful. He looked the same to me. And she accepted that, but I know Faith. She must have kept poking around and now ..." He couldn't finish.
“Vite!" and a loud banging on the outhouse door startled Faith from her misery and she quickly finished. Descending outside, she took a good look at her captor before the figure, all in black, still masked and gloved, moved behind her and jammed the barrel of his gun into the small of her back. He was certainly dressed for the weather, she thought enviously as she began to shiver again. Her spirits had lifted slightly and she took it as a good sign that he retained the mask. If she was to be killed soon, it wouldn't matter if she saw him. And the wool, though warm, must feel scratchy on his face. He was taller than Faith but slight and moved with agility. They walked back to the house and once they were inside, he motioned her back to the chair, locked the door, and started to build a fire. After he got it going, he opened the shutters covering the windows. Was he watching for someone?
Things had gone far enough.
“I am an American citizen and I demand to know what is happening. I think you have mistaken me for someone—" she said, cut off abruptly by his "Ferme-la!" She did, and after he poked at the fire some more, he collapsed in a chair opposite her, with the gun trained somewhere on the vicinity of her womb. She didn't open her mouth. Neither did he.
Ravier sent Tom home with Paul. There was nothing more he could do and so Michel urged Tom to try to get some sleep. It had been a long drive to Avignon and back. "Sleep?" Tom had repeated, and Michel realized what a ridiculous suggestion it had been. "Then pray, mon brave. I know le bon Dieu will not let anything happen to Faith.”
A trace of a smile had crossed Tom's weary face. "I have been doing nothing else since this morning.”
After they left, Michel sat with the files in front of him. It wasn't simply the business with the clochard. There was Faith's second call reporting that she had information regarding the suicide of the prostitute, Marie. Michel had been on vice not too many years ago and he remembered Marie well. An intelligent girl from the Midi. She would be away from the city on occasion and told him once she used to go to visit her family. He wondered what she told them— that she worked in a boutique, perhaps. Her carte d'identite listed her full name as Marie-Claude Laval, and he sensed she came from a decent family. Like her two friends, she was addicted to various things, but in the last year, she had told him she was straight and hoping to get off the streets. He had wished her well, yet knew it would not be so easy to accomplish. She probably owed her pimp money and he would see she continued to work off her debt until she no longer served his purpose. Then she'd be left with nothing. He felt the angry frustration that had never left him since his first days in the district, talking to the girls. The pimps, working from Italy, Switzerland—and now South America—grew rich. Parasites. The only consolation was that when they did get caught on French soil, they faced long sentences and stiff fines.