How To Hide A Body

Does This Smell Like Chloroform?

"His name was Jean," Bart said from the lounge area.

"Hmm?" I asked from my bedroom.

I walked over to him; he was sitting in front of the television watching the news. A picture of Steve McQueen's associate flashed onto the screen with the subtitle: "Trouvé Mort Dans Sa Chambre" - found dead in his room.

"Jean Stuart was found in dead in his room this morning by the bellboy who received an anonymous tip that he should check room 433, Jean's room because he had not been present at breakfast that morning. He was poisoned, and the police have no leads. The murderer seems to have vanished without a trace," the reporter stated.

The scene transitioned to outside the hotel, where a police officer was being interviewed, "It is possible that it was suicide. We have discovered traces of cyanide inside his body, but we are still unclear of how these substances were put there. We have found no evidence of a second party in room 433. Therefore, the culprit could have been Jean himself."

"Haha! Still triumphant!" I shrieked.

"Well done, well done-" Bart started to say when the tv screen went black and changed to a peaceful image of the English countryside.

"Wha-?" I mumbled.

It didn't take me long to realise what was going on. It was Steve McQueen. A wave of homesickness surpassed me; I knew what he was doing. He was trying to get me to move quicker.

"Solange, Solange, Solange," the broken voiceover said as a picture of stone henge faded onto the screen, "I knew you were not to be trusted, but killing one of my men, tsk tsk tsk. Unexpected, I'll give that to you. I thought he would have swooned you, but turns out I was wrong. He obviously wasn't your type. But, still, I should give you a punishment. Your time has been reduced to 30 hours, starting now. Hurry! Or else..." That was the end, and the TV screen resumed to the news program, which was now giving me weather updates. It was going to rain.

***

I had a rough draft of the plan drawn on a hotel notebook laid out in front me, a half-eaten croissant and an empty champagne glass in front of me, Bart watching that French soap behind me, becoming very involved. The carpet was starting to become part of me; I had been sitting there for, five hours maybe? Couldn't tell. This plan was incredibly elaborate; I needed outside help (e-mails were already drafted; the recipients weren't that difficult to track down) other than Bart. Everything was planned out, even my outfit and the brand of the get-away car. I decided it was time for me to send the e-mails.

 You may call me old-fashioned; why don't I just contact those needed through Whatsapp? It's easier to make up a fake e-mail address than a phoney phone number. Also numbers could be traced and Burners were so much work; and it was only 4:00 in the morning, I needed sleep, so e-mail it was. I also have countless e-mail addresses to fall back on if it happens that I don't like my Patronus on Pottermore (I'm not a black mamba!). I clicked send three times, then fell back onto the Persian carpet with a sigh of relief. Bart wasn't paying any attention to me; he was way to enveloped in the soap opera (whose name I discovered was L'amour De La Cœr -love of the heart), the images reflecting off his contact lenses.

"Dude! I have the plan sorted! Everything is done!" I said, gleefully.

"What's my part?" He mumbled.

"A clumsy electrician," I said

"I'm not getting electrocuted again."

"If you're careful this time-"

"I was careful! If I recall, correctly it was one of your other henchmen that pushed me into that capacitor!"

"I already said: he didn't live much longer after that."