Jon Reskind - The abducted bride

"It was nothing, Monsieur," Shalla smiled as he watched him disappearing down toward the street. "I am glad to be of help to you."

He fingered the crisp ten dollar bills happily in his pocket. He could hardly wait to place it with the amount he had collected yesterday from pimping for the American's wife. It would make a handsome amount in itself and he would be a rich man when the French lady came with the rest. He was not worried that she would not come. She needed this hotel to do her business in and even if later she decided to try another he would still find her. Besides, she knew he knew all about the operation and he could always threaten to go to the police with what he knew. No, she would come back this afternoon and he might even drag her back into the room and try a little more of his new partner. He whistled happily to himself as he tidied up behind the counter preparing for the days rush of prostitutes and customers that would want to rent the rooms by the hour.

Kevin waved to the taxi from the sidewalk and entered it quickly when it stopped at the curb. Small streams of tears had begun to run from the corners of his eyes and he wanted to get off the street as quickly as possible so that no one would see him. It was ridiculous for a grown man to be crying on the streets like this. As the cab drew away from the curb, he noticed two dark looking men entering the hotel. They looked vaguely familiar from somewhere but it wasn't important. In his grief everyone looked alike.

Shalla heard the noise on the stairs and for the second time that morning his pulse quickened. It must be her this time, the walk was soft like a woman tiptoeing. It drew closer up the stairs and sounded strangely like two women. He lifted up on his tiptoes so that he could see farther over the counter and down the stairs. Strange, he thought, two more men. Algerians this time. What could they want at this hour unless it were women. Perhaps this was his lucky week.

"Your name Shalla?" one of them asked casually as they advanced to the desk.

"Why, yes, it is Monsieurs," he answered slowly. "May-may I help you?"

The last thing Shalla saw on this earth was the silencer end of a snub-nosed automatic that appeared suddenly in the hand of the man who had asked the question. It puffed softly three times straight at his belly bringing a surprised gush of air from his open mouth before he pitched forward stone-dead across the counter. The man who had pulled the trigger walked behind the sprawled body and reaching under the robe withdrew his hand filled with crisp French francs and American ten dollar bills. He smiled toothily at his companion, quickly dividing it in half and handing one pile to him before they disappeared silently back down the stairs from which they had entered.

As Kevin finished packing his bags he picked up the suit he had worn last night from the floor where he had left it and started to fold it into the case. As he shook the jacket to straighten the wrinkles a packet fell from the inside pocket to the floor. It was the manila envelope he had been given by one of the men who had brought him back to the hotel last night. He had forgotten about it in his anxiety today to get to the hotel where Jean had stayed.

In feet, he thought dryly, I've forgotten almost everything about last night. Almost.

He opened it carefully not wanting to tear the thin onion skin sheets of paper inside. He unfolded the thin sheets and began reading a typewritten note on the first sheet. It said simply:

Kevin,

I am sorry about everything and the mistake we have made in our marriage. The last several days without you have shown me that there are better things in life than the simple mundane existence we accept at home. I have fallen in love with the life here and intend to stay forever. You will have to explain to my family why I have not returned with you. Please use the enclosed documents for that purpose and do not attempt to find me. I do not wish to be bothered by anyone from my old life again.

Jean. It was her note alright. He would recognize the signature anywhere. She must have written it last night after he had caught her with that Arab in the room. Well, she couldn't have put it more bluntly and she certainly had fallen in love with the life if her little exhibition last night with that dwarf was any indication. The Arab desk clerk's little disclosures of her side activities more than substantiated it. Well, if she wanted it that way, there was nothing he could do about it.

He flipped the page to the first attachment. It was obviously a death certificate from the Prefecture of Marseille made out in Jean's name. It also had all the pertinent data about her. The information could have only come from her. With it was attached a Certificate of Burial again certified by the Prefecture of Marseille. Cause of death was listed as accidental drowning at the local beach. Both were complete with official registration numbers.

Well, she certainly has thought of everything. He knew her old man would raise a stink when he got back and have half the private detectives in France here in a matter of hours if he just said she stayed here because she wanted to be left alone. He knew he could never tell the real story.

He reached for the phone and instructed the operator to get the local Prefecture Office in charge of issuing death certificates. He also instructed her to get an English speaking clerk on the line. After several minutes of gibberish in French a thick accented voice boomed into the line.

"Can I be of service, Monsieur?"

"Yes, you can," Kevin answered quickly. "I want to verify the correctness of a death certificate filed the last several days with your department. Can you do it for me without much trouble."

"Why of course, Monsieur, we have the files right here. If you will kindly give me the number of the filing or the name of the deceased I will fetch it immediately."

"The number is M64589. Dated yesterday. Do you need more?"

"No, that is fine, Monsieur. Just one moment." There was a muffled noise at the other end of the line as the clerk laid the phone on the desk and moved away from it. Kevin reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, taking out and lighting it while he was waiting. He would see how efficient Jean had had her friends be. This would be the first thing her father would have checked. If it was verified then he would do nothing else. What could he do? One had to believe official documents. He tensed for a moment as he heard the phone being lifted back from the desk again.

"Monsieur?" the accented voice came back.

"Yes, I am here," Kevin replied.

"We have the number. It is for a Mrs. Kevin Taylor of the United States. No?"

"Yes, it is," Kevin answered surprised. "What is listed as the cause of death?"

"It is accidental drowning, Monsieur. A sad case. We do not like to lose tourists. It is bad publicity for our city and France is suffering enough from Monsieur DeGaulle's anti-American policy. Do you know Monsieur we have lost over twenty-five percent of our tourists because they refuse to come to a country that turns its back on its savior in two wars. It is a shame Monsieur. It is a shame."

"Yes, yes of course," Kevin replied, cutting him off. He was in no mood for a political discussion now. "Thank you for your help in this matter."

"Not at all, Monsieur, we are glad to be of service."

Kevin hung up the phone and walked to the window. He looked out over the blue of the Mediterranean for a long moment, thinking back to his arrival here yesterday and the optimism he had had about a reconciliation with Jean. It all seemed an eternity ago and yet only a few short hours had passed.

He folded the certificates and placed them carefully back in the envelope. Yes, he would use them as an explanation when he arrived home tomorrow. He had no other excuse. No one would believe him if he told the true story and besides it wouldn't be fair to Jean. She had a right to privacy if she wanted it and he would help her get it. It was the least he could do after letting her dowel in Paris at night when it all began so long ago.