When Hell Freezes Over. Rick Blechta

      Dialing the operator, I asked for directory assistance for Paris. Several minutes later, my disquiet had ramped up alarmingly. The place Regina had told me she worked, Galerie Longchamps, had never heard of her and had never in their history had an American working for them.

      I called back the hotel in Toronto. “Could you tell me what name the woman in 517 used?”

      The desk clerk sounded more friendly this time. “This is about more than her hotel bill, isn’t it?” he asked candidly.

      “You could say that.”

      “Sorry to hear that, sir. I don’t think it would be too far beyond hotel policy to tell you that she registered under the name of Genevieve Fleury. Had all the papers, too, and a very charming French accent. She certainly fooled me.”

      I was stunned. “Where did she say she was from?”

      “Boy, you sound as if you’re in the same boat I was! Sure hope you weren’t taken for much. Her driver’s license said Montreal.”

      After hanging up, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Something was very wrong, and it was obvious that, even after coming clean with Campbell, my situation had now become considerably worse.

      What did I really know about the girl? Only that two groups of men had chased her and been quite ready to use force (or worse) to get her. Past that, I could be sure of nothing—except that she was a damned good liar.