A Murder Misstery Finis

The exertion of racing up the stairs had a calming effect, and by the time I got to the apartment, I had almost composed myself. Think, Maddy! When was the last time I used my cell phone? Wasn't it the night I left Marseilles, when I'd made my abbreviated call to Jacques from the train? Madison Monroe had disappeared from the face of the earth that night...now all I had to do was make sure her disappearance was permanent.

Once again, I sat down at the computer and watched my manicured fingers flit over the keyboard, searching the Internet for another escape route. Only this time, I was determined to travel in the style to which I'd become accustomed: no more couchettes for this girl! Soon I had come up with the outlines of a plan, and the details fell into place with surprising ease. Once I was sure where I was going, I packed my trusty Vuitton suitcase like a seasoned female traveler, put my new passport as well as my old one and a few other items in my purse, and called down to the doorman for a taxi to the Gare d'Austerlitz.

Just before I went out the door, the doorman called to inform me that a messenger had arrived with a package for me. I asked him to hold it for me downstairs. When I went to the lobby, he handed me a brown paper envelope about the size of a teacup. I tucked it into an outside pocket of my suitcase and got into my waiting taxi.

I asked the driver to stop and wait for me at a large electronics store a few blocks away from the station. There I purchased another throwaway cell phone, with a Paris prefix this time. I'd already crushed my old cell phone under a stiletto heel before I left the apartment. I also splurged on the latest, thinnest notebook computer with wireless Internet access.

When I got back into my taxi, I called Jacques' mobile number to try out my new phone. I got his voice mail and left this message: "Bonjour Jacques, je vous manque! Appelez-vous quand vous pouvez. Je t'aime, Madeline." Despite six months of self-instruction in Provence, my Berlitz French was still pitiful, but hopefully any prying ears would mistake Madeline for just the latest of Jacques' many mistresses.