Valentina lowered her voice as they passed behind Christophe and the others. "I was like that at their age, too. Adults were so shallow and only my friends and I could understand the meaning of life and art.”
As they passed though the door, they almost collided with someone. Madame Joliet gave a small cry of delight or surprise.
“Mon ami, I am so happy you could come. This is my wonderful new neighbor from America who is here for a month, is it not? Madame Fairsheeld, Michel Ravier. He is the one I mentioned last night, the inspecteur divisionnaire of our police judiciaire—I think in English you say chief inspector of crimes.”
Inspector Ravier was of medium height for a Frenchman but would have been termed somewhat short in the States. He had dark, slightly thinning hair, the rather distinctive nose of many of his forefathers, and a dazzling smile. Oddly enough, everything combined to produce one of the sexiest-looking men Faith had seen in a long time. Sadly, he did not kiss her hand, this custom being apparently passe, and she had to be content with a decorous handshake.
“Your name is familiar to me, Madame Fairsheeld." He seemed amused.
Faith blushed. The room was terribly warm. She tried to think of a witty reply, or any reply at all. Valentina beat her to it and her laugh was loud enough to arrest the con- versations of those closest to them. "Bien sur! You must have heard about the corpse she found in our poubelle—a corpse that walks!”
Faith's fondness for Valentina began to ebb slightly.
“Oh, cherie, it is wrong to tease you. We have all had the unpleasant experience of coming upon the clochards engaged in all manner of dirty activities in our hall." Faith was a bit mollified.
Georges Joliet interrupted them. "Valentina," he said excitedly, "someone wants to buy the Fusaro. You are needed."
“Excuse me," Valentina said, and followed her husband into the other room, her bright yellow silk dress cutting a swath through the gallery.
“Georges is like a child about all this. When his wife sells a painting, it is like found money to him, and there is no question he is living in a way he never dreamed because of it. Valentina is a very good businesswoman. Now"— Inspector Ravier cupped Faith's elbow in the palm of his hand and gently moved her away from the others to a secluded corner by the door to Valentina's storeroom— "tell me about this body in the vestibule.”
Faith was tingling. There was the possibility that someone—and someone official—would actually give some credence to her story. Then there was that delicious closeness. The French, the French.
“I know it sounds as if I imagined the whole thing—”
He cut her off. "Please, no apologies. I would like to hear what happened last night just as you experienced it.”
Faith obeyed. "I was having trouble sleeping and the trash smeJJed bad. We had had a dinner party where I served bouillabaisse. I realized it was this smell that was keeping me awake, so I decided to take it down to the dustbins, which, you understand, I would never ordinarily do at such an hour." She hoped he would relay this tidbit back to the guys at the station, or whatever it was called in France, and dispel the notion of a nation of anal retentives. Lunacy was bad enough.
“But of course, la bouillabaisse. The remains are plus fort," he murmured close to her ear.
“When I opened the top, there he was—the clochard." Faith instinctively made a face of disgust and unconsciously took a step closer to the inspector.
“He appeared dead, but I felt I had to check in case the poor man could possibly be resuscitated." She made the face again, moved closer, then stepped back as she realized what she was doing. At this rate, by the tune her grisly tale was over, she'd be in his lap. She knew she was blushing again. It had to be her condition, she reflected. Ordinarily, Faith's blush came in a compact.
“I went around to the side of the container and found his hand. There was definitely no pulse. He was absolutely still. You can tell when someone is dead."
“Yes, this is a good way to describe it—the stillness of death. You have seen many corpses then?" He looked into her eyes. His were very brown, with little flecks of gold. She took a deep breath.
“Not so very many." She didn't think it was the moment to reveal her previous involvements with several mortal remains.
“Please, finish your story. I find it very interesting."
“After I checked for the pulse, I closed the lid and returned to my apartment to call the police. Then, as you must have heard, by the time they arrived, he was gone.”
Inspector Ravier ran his finger over his chin. He did not need a shave.
“It is strange. Very strange. If, as you say, he was dead. How did someone get him out and dispose of him so quickly?"
“Exactly. And who is that out in Place St. Nizier?" "Pardon?"
“The clochard was back at his place this morning. You haven't heard yet?”
The brown eyes changed expression ever so slightly. But Faith knew what it meant.
“No, he replied cautiously, "I have not heard that part of the story."
“That's what makes it so strange." Faith knew she had lost an ally, and what splendid comrades in arms they would have made. She sighed.
He responded immediately, "But, madame—Faith, if you will permit—do not be dispirited. I am sure there is an explanation and you must not allow this unpleasantness to spoil your stay in Lyon."
“It won't. That would be impossible," she answered, and was aware it was true.
“Now, here is my card. You see, 'Michel Ravier,' c'est moi, and you must call whenever you like." He took out a small silver pen; not for the inspector the Bic-type stylos of Sergeants Pollet and Martin. "On the back, I give you my home telephone.”
He handed her the card and she thanked him. They moved out of their corner and stood in front of a small charcoal sketch, also by Truphemus, of the Place Bellecour. Faith made an appreciative murmur.
“So you like Jacques's work. We will go have lunch at the restaurant Henry, which is decorated with murals by Truphemus. And the food is not at all bad, a very nice homard breton—they do a salade with the meat from the lobster's tails and claws, since you seem to favor it." His smile almost made up for the implication. "Of course, Monsieur can come, too, if he likes.”
Monsieur was walking toward them and introduced himself. When he heard Michel's profession, an anxious look crossed his face. Faith hastened to direct the conversation. She'd had enough for one night.