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Authors: Robin Jones Gunn
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off into the traffic. We dashed for the sidewalk before the oncoming cars rolled over us.
“Ooh, the French,” Amy said, as the hotel doors automatically opened. “That was memorable. Wasn’t he charming?”
“Charming.” I made sure the word came out as flat as I felt. It was pointless now to comment on the excessive tip. We were here. That was all that mattered.
Stepping into the unexpectedly compact hotel lobby, I felt another dip. I hoped our rooms weren’t as small and as economically decorated.
A young man in a red vest and white shirt with a bow tie welcomed us in French to the Hotel Isabella. He seemed to be the only one working the night shift.
“Merci.” Amy pulled out her reservations paper. With a few clumsy French sentences, she asked if our room faced the Jardin des Tuileries. It didn’t, but the clerk switched to speaking English and graciously made the room change for us. Amy kept grinning, whispering to me that, thanks to our terrific cab driver’s advice, we would now see the Eiffel Tower from our room.
All I wanted to see was the front end of a steak sandwichas it entered my mouth and then a nice bed to flop in.
“Would you like assistance with your luggage?” the desk clerk asked.
Our luggage?
Amy and I froze.
O ur luggage!
“Our suitcases are still in the cab!” Amy squeaked.
“We have to call the taxi company immediately,” I demanded. “And the police. That driver took off with our luggage!”
The desk clerk made a quick phone call and turned to us for more information. “Did your driver give you a receipt?”
“No.”
“No receipt? No business card?”
We shook our heads.
He gave us a wary look, spoke a few more words to the person on the other end of the phone, and hung up. With his palms turned toward us he said, “Without identification, it is not possible to know which taxi or car service brought you to the hotel. Sorry.”
Amy and I looked at each other desperately.
“There has to be some way …” I began.
“Wait!” Amy clapped her hands and spurted out, “050FLX50! That was his license plate. I remember it; I thought it was an ad for flax seed oil.”
The hotel clerk looked amused at Amy’s clever little talent.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Oui!
Positif!
” Amy picked up a pen and wrote the number on a brochure about Versailles.
He picked up the phone again and made several more calls for us, this time speaking in crisp authoritative French. I stood unmoving, clenching my jaw. Amy pressed her lips together and fidgeted.
It took far too long before the clerk hung up the phone. “The information I have for you is not so good. The police would like for you to go to the
commissariat
to file a report.”
“The police station?” Amy said. “Why? Can’t the taxi company call the driver and ask him to come back?”
“In a normal problem, yes, it is possible. However, this is not a normal problem.” His expression turned curiously sympathetic. “You are certain of this license number?”
“Positive,” Amy said. “Positif.”
“Then you have a problem. The taxi company says the car you were in was stolen two weeks ago. The police concur. They have not been able to find the taxi.”
“Are you saying a crazy guy is driving around Paris picking up people in a stolen taxi?” Amy asked.
“Oui.”
“I don’t believe this.” I felt a sudden need to sit down. Instead, I grasped the corner of the front desk. “That man is driving around, charging people way too much money for cab fare and stealing their luggage. And you’re saying that in the past two weeks no one has been able to stop him?”
“Exactement.”
“I can’t believe this!”
“I can make for you a map to the commissariat,” the hotel clerk said.
“Is it far to walk?” Amy asked. “Because we’re not taking a taxi.”
“No, not far.”
As much as I didn’t want to walk anywhere, I knew neither of us would be able to sleep until we had done all we could
“Ooh, the French,” Amy said, as the hotel doors automatically opened. “That was memorable. Wasn’t he charming?”
“Charming.” I made sure the word came out as flat as I felt. It was pointless now to comment on the excessive tip. We were here. That was all that mattered.
Stepping into the unexpectedly compact hotel lobby, I felt another dip. I hoped our rooms weren’t as small and as economically decorated.
A young man in a red vest and white shirt with a bow tie welcomed us in French to the Hotel Isabella. He seemed to be the only one working the night shift.
“Merci.” Amy pulled out her reservations paper. With a few clumsy French sentences, she asked if our room faced the Jardin des Tuileries. It didn’t, but the clerk switched to speaking English and graciously made the room change for us. Amy kept grinning, whispering to me that, thanks to our terrific cab driver’s advice, we would now see the Eiffel Tower from our room.
All I wanted to see was the front end of a steak sandwichas it entered my mouth and then a nice bed to flop in.
“Would you like assistance with your luggage?” the desk clerk asked.
Our luggage?
Amy and I froze.
O ur luggage!
“Our suitcases are still in the cab!” Amy squeaked.
“We have to call the taxi company immediately,” I demanded. “And the police. That driver took off with our luggage!”
The desk clerk made a quick phone call and turned to us for more information. “Did your driver give you a receipt?”
“No.”
“No receipt? No business card?”
We shook our heads.
He gave us a wary look, spoke a few more words to the person on the other end of the phone, and hung up. With his palms turned toward us he said, “Without identification, it is not possible to know which taxi or car service brought you to the hotel. Sorry.”
Amy and I looked at each other desperately.
“There has to be some way …” I began.
“Wait!” Amy clapped her hands and spurted out, “050FLX50! That was his license plate. I remember it; I thought it was an ad for flax seed oil.”
The hotel clerk looked amused at Amy’s clever little talent.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Oui!
Positif!
” Amy picked up a pen and wrote the number on a brochure about Versailles.
He picked up the phone again and made several more calls for us, this time speaking in crisp authoritative French. I stood unmoving, clenching my jaw. Amy pressed her lips together and fidgeted.
It took far too long before the clerk hung up the phone. “The information I have for you is not so good. The police would like for you to go to the
commissariat
to file a report.”
“The police station?” Amy said. “Why? Can’t the taxi company call the driver and ask him to come back?”
“In a normal problem, yes, it is possible. However, this is not a normal problem.” His expression turned curiously sympathetic. “You are certain of this license number?”
“Positive,” Amy said. “Positif.”
“Then you have a problem. The taxi company says the car you were in was stolen two weeks ago. The police concur. They have not been able to find the taxi.”
“Are you saying a crazy guy is driving around Paris picking up people in a stolen taxi?” Amy asked.
“Oui.”
“I don’t believe this.” I felt a sudden need to sit down. Instead, I grasped the corner of the front desk. “That man is driving around, charging people way too much money for cab fare and stealing their luggage. And you’re saying that in the past two weeks no one has been able to stop him?”
“Exactement.”
“I can’t believe this!”
“I can make for you a map to the commissariat,” the hotel clerk said.
“Is it far to walk?” Amy asked. “Because we’re not taking a taxi.”
“No, not far.”
As much as I didn’t want to walk anywhere, I knew neither of us would be able to sleep until we had done all we could
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