Murder Misstery

"Madame Bochy is in Monte Carlo, you are welcome to use her Mercedes."

"Great! Can I pick it up tomorrow morning?"

"Of course. I'll bring it by your apartment, just ask the doorman for the keys. I must go, au revoir." He hung up before I could say goodbye.

I brooded over his abrupt signoff as the train pulled out of the station. How like a woman I'd become! I tried to put him out of my mind, working through the details of my plan once again. Now that I had a car to cross the border, everything had fallen into place perfectly. My passport would be worthless to me now, flagged as a forgery at airports and border crossings, but it was perfectly safe for me to travel within France, and a woman in a Mercedes with Paris plates was unlikely to have to produce her passport while driving between countries in the EU.

The train was packed with vacationers returning home to Paris from the south of France. Fortunately, I'd been able to reserve a couchette, which meant that I'd be sharing a cramped compartment with five other passengers, both male and female, each of us spending the night on a foam slab with a blanket and pillow and zero privacy.

Needless to say, I was somewhat self-conscious when I came face-to-face with my fellow travelers. They were obviously more accustomed to life in second class than I was: to my dismay, I noticed that my bunk was on top, which meant I'd have to climb over two of them to turn in. The lower bunk on my side of the compartment was occupied by a young man who was already asleep, but the middle bunk was taken by an elderly Frenchman who couldn't keep his eyes off me. I tried as best I could to be ladylike as I put my foot on his bed and climbed up to the top bunk in my skirt. What a hassle!

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to get some sleep, but it was impossible. Tossing and turning, I went over my escape plan once again. By now, the authorities would have identified Madison Monroe as the woman who spent thousands of pounds at Burberry's, and a routine check with her credit card company would send them chasing after her in North Africa. However, it was her past movements that most concerned me: once again, I painstakingly went over the trail I'd left since I arrived in Europe. Madison Monroe had surfaced in Amsterdam in February, coinciding with the date and place where Ashley's trail went cold. From there she traveled to Paris, and after a brief stay she flew on to Nice, where she rented a villa in Provence and rented a car for six months before flying to London. Then back to Paris again, on her way to Tangier….there was nothing to connect me with the apartment in Paris, and I blessed Jacques for convincing me to stay there. Yes, I'd thought of everything, and by this time tomorrow I would be in the clear. There was one little detail that I was unaware of, but it would become apparent soon enough…

Eventually I must have fallen asleep, because I was awakened by the sounds of my coachmates getting up and dressed. I'd taken off my skirt and top and folded them carefully under my pillow. There was nothing for it but to climb back down in my bra and panties to get myself dressed. The lecherous old man on the bunk below me enjoyed the spectacle of my jiggling breasts as I hopped down, pulled on my top and hurriedly stepped into my skirt. At least I didn't have to worry about a bulge in my panties giving me away – the hormones had taken care of that. I found my shoes somehow and got into the long line for a lavatory. Being a woman was an incredible hassle, but not being a rich woman was a total bitch!

Eventually I pulled myself together and staggered into the crowded dining car, where I waited in another line for a table to share. There was no romantic rendezvous with a distinguished doctor this time, only two elderly women who glowered at me as I nibbled on my croissant and sipped my coffee. I sullenly ignored them as we rolled through the suburbs of Paris, only returning to my compartment to collect my suitcase when it was time to get off the train.

Fighting my way through the crowded station with my suitcase in tow, I'd never felt so grungy in my life. To add to my misery, it was raining in Paris, and it took me forever to hail a cab to my apartment. How I missed my Burberry's trench coat! I took the precaution of having the taxi drop me off a few blocks away, so I was soaked to the skin by the time I dragged myself to my door. The doorman greeted me with pity. "Mademoiselle, I have some keys for you," he said.

My heart soared at the news. He was kind enough to bring the car around for me, and soon I was crawling through the rush hour traffic in the warmth and luxury of a Mercedes. Things were looking up! Eventually I was able to cut against the traffic and start making good time on the motorway north, towards the Low Countries.

It was late morning when I pulled off the expressway and motored into Lille. I had two objectives: a beauty salon, and a passport photo shop. It took me a while to find a salon where someone spoke English – any mistake in translation could be a calamity. Finally a girl understood when I told her the look I wanted, and I surrendered myself to her care. After my sleepless night, I dozed off in her chair as she expertly shampooed, cut, died and dried my hair into a perky blonde wedge that made me look like Ashley once again. I was very relieved when I woke up – it made me look so cute! I tipped her generously, and she pointed me towards a photo shop on the way out.

After a quick bite to eat at a local café, I was back on the motorway, heading north once again. The Belgian border presented no obstacle, and I was able to make it over the border into The Netherlands before dark. I pulled off the expressway in Utrecht, where I settled on an obscure hotel – all I requested was a room with a bath! I soaked forever, washing away my memories of the dismal night on the train, then put on a dress, heels and stockings to dine alone in the stuffy restaurant. I didn't mind getting dressed up: it felt wonderful to be a wealthy woman again, and I couldn't help but notice how much more attention I got as a blonde.

I was up early the next morning, feeling thoroughly refreshed. My new hairdo was a breeze to style, and I thoroughly loved my new look. I wore the same dress to the breakfast room, turning the heads of the same men who had ogled me the night before, but none of them were as brash as Jacques. Soon I was back in his wife's Mercedes for the short drive to Amsterdam. It was just after nine o'clock when I knocked on the door of my forger friend.

He greeted me with the same suspicion, and he didn't know who I was until I asked him if he remembered Madison Monroe. He recognized me at once, and soon we were negotiating the terms of our next transaction. "I need a French passport this time." I gave him my new photos, and a sheet of paper with a new name and address. Once again, I offered to pay a premium for same day service, and once again he didn't disappoint me. I killed a few hours at the Van Gogh museum, treated myself to another Indonesian lunch, and collected my new passport in time to beat the traffic out of Amsterdam.

My spirits were soaring during the drive back to Paris. It was very late when I finally pulled up to my apartment building. I left the keys with the doorman, rode the lift up to my floor, and collapsed into bed as soon as I took off my dress and put on my nightgown.

I slept until almost noon. It was a crisp sunny day, and I felt safe laying out a Burberry's skirt and cashmere sweater to wear for the day. I tossed a bra, panties, and tights on the bed and returned the remaining contents of my suitcase to my dresser drawers and closet,

After a long, luxurious bubble bath, I put a robe over my bra and panties and went to the kitchen to fix myself breakfast. I was just ladling some scrambled eggs onto my plate when the telephone rang. It was Jacques.

"Maddy, I'm so glad you are back. Madame Bochy is returning this evening, and I would have had to invent a clever excuse about her Mercedes."

"Well, you're in the clear. I guess this means you won't be coming over for dinner tonight," I said peevishly.

"I'm afraid not." He seemed preoccupied, and I sensed that something was seriously wrong. "Maddy, I have a waiting room full of patients. I'll call you tonight."

Maybe he was pulling back because of my reluctance to take the next step? "Before you go, can you give me Dr. Villier's number?" I asked impulsively. I jotted it down in my now girlish handwriting, and after a moment's hesitation, I called the number. The surgeon would know me as Maddy Monroe, so I used that name when I called his office. I was in luck: he'd just had a cancellation, if I could come to his office immediately, he could squeeze me in.

There wasn't time to think about the enormity of what I was doing. Still dressed in my Burberry's ensemble, I went downstairs and the doorman hailed me a taxi to Dr. Villier's office. When I presented myself to the receptionist, I was asked for my French national insurance card. I explained in broken French that I would be paying in cash and that I'd been referred by Dr. Bochy, which did the trick.

After I was ushered into an examination room, a nurse instructed me to strip down to my bra and panties, and she returned a few minutes later to take a blood and urine sample. After she left, I sat awkwardly on an examination table for a long time until a kindly looking man with gray hair and stooped shoulders entered the room. He introduced himself as Dr. Villiers, and his physical examination was quite complete. He lingered over my breasts before he poked and prodded my pitiful privates. He read my chart carefully before clearing his voice. "Your health is excellent," he began, "although your hormone levels show an elevated level of testosterone in your blood, which is perfectly normal at this stage. Even though your testicles have atrophied considerably, they are still impeding your development into a woman."

"Could I ever go back to being a man?"

"Highly doubtful," he said dismissively. "Chemically speaking, your body is much like that of my female patients who wish to change their sex. If Dr. Bochy were to put you an aggressive program of testosterone therapy, you might regain some of the secondary sex characteristics of a man, and of course we could always remove your breasts." I suppose I wasn't surprised, but each word was like a nail in the coffin of Matt McCoy. "Is that what you want?" Dr. Villiers asked impatiently.

"No," I heard myself say.

"It's too soon for us to perform sexual reassignment surgery. As Dr. Bcchy has doubtless explained, there is a mandatory waiting period. However, if you wish, I can make sure that your testicles stop interfering with your continued development into a woman."

"How would you do that?"

"By removing them. There is a routine out-patient procedure called a bilateral orchidectomy, which I can perform here in my office."

My head was spinning. Once my balls were gone, there would be no turning back…but according to the doctor, I was too far gone already. Maybe if I took the plunge, I could hold onto Jacques. "How soon can you do it?"

"We can do it today," Dr. Villiers said.

The rest of that day is a blur. I remember a nurse prepping me, and the doctor administering a local anesthesia. After I was numb, he made a single incision in my scrotum and pushed my shrunken balls through the opening. When I heard two distinct snips, Matt McCoy's manhood was medical waste. Tears were running down my cheeks as Dr. Villiers stitched me up. When it was over, I looked down with dread, but all I remember seeing was my empty sac with a bandage on it. Other than a dull ache from where my balls used to be, there was no pain, only a profound sense of loss and despair. Somehow I managed to dress myself, and climb into a waiting taxi. I went to bed as soon as I got back to the apartment, and cried myself to sleep.

I was feeling almost normal the next morning, a little stiff and sore but there was no pain to speak of. I was famished after skipping dinner, my emotions were a mess, and I didn't seem to have any energy. It was an effort just to sit down at the computer and boot it up. I was about to get on the Internet to do some research on the after-effects of castration when the telephone rang. It was Jacques.

"Maddy, how are you? I spoke to Dr. Villiers this morning, and he told me what he'd done. How are you feeling?"

"Okay, I guess." Maybe it was my highly emotional state, but I could tell that there was still something wrong. What had I done?

"Maddy, I need to see you, today. It's rather important." My heart sank – how could he dump me after what I'd just been through? Reluctantly, I agreed to meet him at Le Relais at noon, and spent the rest of the morning moping around the apartment. When I finally got myself dressed, my panties fit a little better, although I was still stiff and sore, and it was an effort to bend over to ease up my stockings. What had I done?

After I was finished dressing, I took a long look at myself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. From my blonde head to my silky toes, I was a beautiful woman. All for nothing! With a sigh, I stepped into my heels, wrapped a gold chain around my waspish waist, and went off to face my fate.

As always, Jacques was waiting for me in the same romantic booth. He did a double take when he saw my hair. "Stunning!" he exclaimed. "It reminds me of the magical night when we met."

That didn't sound like someone who was about to dump me. Still, my heart was beating hard beneath my breasts, and I waited cautiously for him to open up to me.

"You should have called me before you went into surgery," he said. "I would have been there for you."

"You sounded very busy."

He sensed my discomfort, and went straight to the point. "Last night when you called, I was in the middle of a very awkward conversation. Two gentlemen whom I believe you Americans refer to as ‘the feds' came to my home, asking some very direct questions. About you."

I felt sick to my stomach. God, please don't let me throw up in front of Jacques again! He motioned to the waiter for a glass of water, and waited until I gulped it down before continuing. "First, let me ask you a direct question: that second prescription that I gave you in Monte Carlo last week…did you ever fill it?"

"No. After our night together in the Plaza Athenee, I flushed it down the toilet."

"Thank God!" he sighed with relief.

"Why is that so important?"

"Because of what I told the agents last night. They'd come to ask me about a prescription I wrote for a…person using the name Madison Monroe back in February."

"What did you tell them?"

"That I write hundreds of prescriptions every month, and I have no recollection of anyone using that name. They showed me a crude sketch, obviously drawn by a police artist, that was actually quite a charming likeness of you, although as a brunette with long hair. Still, I was of no help to them, and of course there are no records of a patient by that name in my files."

"Why did you ask me about the new prescription?"

"Isn't it obvious? They were able to trace you back to me from the prescription I wrote for you in February. By lying to them, I set myself up for perjury if they could show that I wrote another prescription to the same person a few days ago."

"Jacques, I owe you an explanation…." He tried to cut me off, but I wouldn't let him. My words tumbling together, I told him everything about myself. He seemed intrigued by my account of my unwanted transformation, and if my halting description of Norman Wolf's murder bothered him, he didn't show it. When I told him about my escape to Amsterdam, and my subsequent efforts to cover my tracks, he was genuinely impressed.

"You fascinate me," he said when I was finished. "What is your new name?"

"Madeline Moreau," I said shyly.

"Enchanteurs! It all reminds me of the story of the Chevalier D'Eon, a French nobleman who disguised himself as a woman to spy for the king. Eventually, his treachery was unmasked, and he was compelled to spend the rest of his life as a woman."

"I didn't do this for king and country, Jacques. I did it for you." After the emotional roller coaster I'd just been on, it wasn't surprising when I totally lost it, bawling like a baby while he held me in his arms.

"Really, Madeline," Jacques said as he dabbed my tears once again, "I'm going to have to stop taking you to Le Relais before the staff has me arrested for abusing a woman."

"Nothing doing, Monsieur," I said through my tears. "What can I do to save your reputation? How about a blow job under the table?" At that moment I might have done it, I was so in love with this wonderful man who had risked everything to save me.

"I'm afraid that would be a blow to both of our reputations," he laughed. We bantered back and forth like two lovesick teenagers, sharing a bottle of wine and each others' entrees, both of us wanting the moment to last forever. Finally, with a glance at his watch, he told me it was past time for him to return to his office.

"Madeline," he said seriously while we waited for the check, "it would probably be wise for us to lie low for the next few weeks. I'm not sure those fellows from the FBI bought my story, and I could never live with myself if I helped them find you."

I knew he was right, but my heart ached at the prospect. Now that my manhood was gone forever, I was ready to embrace my life as a woman, as his woman. "I understand, Jacques. Do you think I should leave Paris?"

"That would probably be a good idea. Depending on how thorough these people are, if they trace my calls it could lead them to the apartment." I nodded in agreement, already thinking ahead to my next moves.

"Jacques, when I saw Dr. Villiers, the name I gave him was Madison Monroe. Do you think we can trust him not to talk to the police?"

"How did you pay him?"

"Cash, under the table."

"Then you can trust him to keep quiet. He'd have problems of his own if the National Health System knew he was working off the books. Nevertheless, I'll have a word with him to make sure."

"While you're at it, could you ask him something else?" He blinked when I told him what I wanted. "I have my reasons," I assured him.

"It's somewhat bizarre, but I'll see what I can do."

Jacques hailed a taxi, and he insisted on dropping me off at the apartment before returning to his office. We rode in silence, each of us preoccupied with our separate thoughts. Jacques may have been brooding over my macabre request, or the possible implications of our relationship on his medical license. I was primarily concerned with where I would be spending the night! When the taxi pulled over in front of the apartment, I put on a brave front. "Thanks for lunch! Don't call me on my cell phone again, okay? If the police are onto you, they'll have the record of all my calls. I'm going to have to get a new phone, when I do I'll let you know my new number."

"Where are you going to go?"

"I can't live like this, Jacques. I need to put my old life behind me, once and for all."

"I'm worried about you."

"I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl." I kissed him hard on the lips and slipped away before I lost it. As soon as his taxi was out of sight, I brushed past the doorman and raced for the stairs. I took them two at a time, not an easy thing in a skirt and heels, determined to make it back to the apartment before I broke down.

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.