A newspaper headline based on what nearly happened to us would read something like this:  Two Americans found dead in locked, isolated house in the French countryside. No signs of violence, but police suspect foul play. 

Here is the full story.

Coming down the stairs one cold night this winter, we smelled carbon monoxide. The odor seemed to have disappeared the following day and we decided it was nothing more than fumes from our car parked right outside or perhaps from the neighbor’s tractor.

The smell, however, came back even more pronounced and we started to worry about our furnace, located under the stairs.  We called the plumber who had installed the system.  “Carbon monoxide?” he said.  “You’re sure?”  When we said we were, he responded with “I’ll be right over.”

It was late afternoon when he arrived, and already much of the pale winter daylight had gone.  He came in carrying a large tool kit and an aerosol can.  He sprayed white foam over the gas pipes to look for leaks.  Nothing, he told us.

Then he began taking our furnaces apart.  There are two of them working in alternance, plus there is the water heater–all of this is in a cramped space with room for only one person.  Doors came off, pieces piled up on the floor and we looked on worriedly.  In spite of our questions, our plumber worked on hunting for the right wrench or removing another screw.

Once again the aerosol can came out and he sprayed tubes and joints.  “Honestly, we would know if there is a gas leak here with this stuff,” he replied to one of our questions.  It had now been nearly an hour and naturally there was no smell of carbon monoxide.  He laughed when we told him we really had been smelling it.  “Sometimes it’s enough if I just pull into the driveway.  Everything starts working again.”

But he was not giving up; those fumes were too dangerous to ignore, he said.  Gradually he put the furnaces back together and restarted them; then he checked the gas line out of the house to the fuel tank buried behind.  By now it was dark, the totally black sky of winter in a spot far from the lights of town.  We got out our big flashlight, but the plumber had a light much stronger.  It was like a movie set outdoors.  “I’m used to these night-time forays in the countryside,” he said.

He had barely turned on his light when he exclaimed, “I’ve got it; I’ve found your problem.  Hold out your hand.”

Into it dropped something slimy and squirmy–a snail.  “Look here,” said the plumber as he pointed to the ventilation holes carved into the house.

Inside were a family of the critters, all tucked into the warmth for a long winter’s nap.  “Clean them out and you’ll live to see spring,” he said.

 And we have.  Now all we need is an Agatha Christie to write the murder mystery.  We would call it ”Death at a Snail’s Pace.”