With the thousand dollars that Conrad Morgan advanced her, Tracy purchased two wigs — one blond and one black, with a multitude of tiny braids. She bought a dark-blue pants suit, black coveralls, and an imitation Gucci valise from a street vendor on Lexington Avenue. So far everything was going smoothly. As Morgan had promised, Tracy received an envelope containing a driver's license in the name of Ellen Branch, a diagram of the security system in the Bellamy house, the combination to the bedroom safe, and an Amtrak ticket to St. Louis, in a private compartment. Tracy packed her few belongings and left. I'll never live in a place like this again, Tracy promised herself. She rented a car and headed for Long Island. She was on her way to commit a burglary.
What she was doing had the unreality of a dream, and she was terrified. What if she were caught? Was the risk worth what she was about to do?
It's ridiculously simple, Conrad Morgan had said.
He wouldn't be involved in anything like this if he weren't sure about it. He has his reputation to protect. I have a reputation, too, Tracy thought bitterly, and it's all bad. Any time a piece of jewelry is missing, I'll be guilty until proven innocent.
Tracy knew what she was doing: She was trying to work herself up into a rage, trying to psych herself up to commit a crime. It did not work. By the time she reached Sea Cliff, she was a nervous wreck. Twice, she almost ran the car off the road. Maybe the police will pick me up for reckless driving, she thought hopefully, and I can tell Mr. Morgan that things went wrong.
But there was not a police car in sight. Sure, Tracy thought, in disgust. They're never around when you need them.
She headed toward Long Island Sound, following Conrad Morgan's directions. The house is right on the water. It's called the Embers. It's an old Victorian mansion. You can't miss it.
Please let me miss it, Tracy prayed.
But there it was, looming up out of the dark like some ogre's castle in a nightmare. It looked deserted. How dare the servants take the weekend off, Tracy thought indignantly. They should all be discharged.
She drove the car behind a stand of giant willow trees, where it was hidden from view, and turned off the engine, listening to the nocturnal sounds of insects. Nothing else disturbed the silence. The house was off the main road, and there was no traffic at that time of night.
The property is screened by trees, my dear, and the nearest neighbor is acres away, so you don't have to be concerned about being seen. The security patrol makes its check at ten P.M. and again at two A.M. You'll be long gone by the two A.M. check.
Tracy looked at her watch. It was 11:00. The first patrol had gone. She had three hours before the patrol was due to arrive for its second check. Or three seconds to turn the car around and head back to New York and forget about this insanity. But head back to what? The images flashed unbidden into her mind. The assistant manager at Saks: “I'm terribly sorry, Miss Whitney, but our customers must be humored….”
“You can forget about running a computer. They're not going to hire anybody with a record….”
“Twenty-five thousand tax-free dollars for an hour or two.. If you have scruples, she's really a horrible woman.”
What am I doing? Tracy thought. I'm not a burglar. Not a real one. I'm a dumb amateur who's about to have a nervous breakdown.
If I had half a brain, I'd get away from here while there's still time. Before the SWAT team catches me and there's a shoot-out and they carry my riddled body to the morgue. l can see the headline: DANGEROUS CRIMINAL KILLED DURING BUNGLED BURGLARY ATTEMPT.
Who would be there to cry at her funeral? Ernestine and Amy. Tracy looked at her watch. “Oh, my God.” She had been sitting there, daydreaming, for twenty minutes. If I'm going to do it, I'd better move.
She could not move. She was frozen with fear. I can't sit here forever, she told herself. Why don't I just go take a look at the house? A quick look.
Tracy took a deep breath and got out of the car. She was wearing black coveralls; her knees were shaking. She approached the house slowly, and she could see that it was completely dark.
Be sure to wear gloves.
Tracy reached in her pocket, took out a pair of gloves, and put them on. Oh, God, I'm doing it, she thought. I'm really going ahead with it. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could no longer hear any other sounds.
The alarm is to the left of the front door. There are five buttons. The red light will be on, which means the alarm is activated. The code to turn it off is three-two-four-one-one. When the red light goes off, you'll know the alarm is deactivated. Here's the key to the front door. When you enter, be sure to close the door after you. Use this flashlight. Don't turn on any of the lights in the house in case someone happens to drive past. The master bedroom is upstairs, to your left, overlooking the bay. You'll find the safe behind a portrait of Lois Bellamy. It's a very simple safe. All you have to do is follow this combination.
Tracy stood stock-still, trembling, ready to flee at the slightest sound. Silence. Slowly, she reached out and pressed the sequence of alarm buttons, praying that it would not work. The red light went out. The next step would commit her. She remembered that airplane pilots had a phrase for it: the point of no return.
Tracy put the key in the lock, and the door swung open. She waited a full minute before she stepped inside. Every nerve in her body throbbed to a savage beat as she stood in the hallway, listening, afraid to move. The house was filled with a deserted silence. She took out a flashlight, turned it on, and saw the staircase. She moved forward and started up. All she wanted to do now was get it over with as quickly as possible and run.
The upstairs hallway looked eerie in the glow of her flashlight, and the wavering beam made the walls seem to pulse back and forth. Tracy peered into each room she passed. They were all empty.
The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway, looking out over the bay, just as Morgan had described it. The bedroom was beautiful, done in dusky pink, with a canopied bed and a commode decorated with pink roses. There were two love seats, a fireplace, and a table in front of it for dining. I almost lived in a house like this with Charles and our baby, Tracy thought.
She walked over to the picture window and looked out at the distant boats anchored in the bay. Tell me, God, what made you decide that Lois Bellamy should live in this beautiful house and that I should be here robbing it? Come on, girl, she told herself, don't get philosophical. This is a one-time thing. It will be over in a few minutes, but not if you stand here doing nothing.
She turned from the window and walked over to the portrait Morgan had described. Lois Bellamy had a hard, arrogant took. It's true. She does look like a horrible woman. The painting swung outward, away from the wall, and behind it was a small safe. Tracy had memorized the combination. Three turns to the right, stop at forty-two. Two turns to the left, stop at ten. One turn to the right, stop at thirty. Her hands were trembling so much that she had to start over twice. She heard a click. The door was open.
The safe was filled with thick envelopes and papers, but Tracy ignored them. At the back, resting on a small shelf, was a chamois jewelry bag. Tracy reached for it and lifted it from the shelf. At that instant the burglar alarm went off, and it was the loudest sound Tracy had ever heard. It seemed to reverberate from every corner of the house, screaming out its warning. She stood there, paralyzed, in shock.
What had gone wrong? Had Conrad Morgan not known about the alarm inside the safe that was activated when the jewels were removed?
She had to get out quickly. She scooped the chamois bag into her pocket and started running toward the stairs. And then, over the sound of the alarm, she heard another sound, the sound of an approaching siren. Tracy stood at the top of the staircase, terrified, her heart racing, her mouth dry. She hurried to a window, raised the curtain, and peered out. A black-and-white patrol car was pulling up in front of the house. As Tracy watched, a uniformed policeman ran toward the back of the house, while a second one moved toward the front door. There was no escape. The alarm bells were still clanging, and suddenly they sounded like the terrible bells in the corridors of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women.
No! thought Tracy. I won't let them send me back there.
The front doorbell shrilled.
Lieutenant Melvin Durkin had been on the Sea Cliff police force for ten years. Sea Cliff was a quiet town, and the main activity of the police was handling vandalism, a few car thefts, and occasional Saturday-night drunken brawls. The setting-off of the Bellamy alarm was in a different category. It was the type of criminal activity for which Lieutenant Durkin had joined the force. He knew Lois Bellamy and was aware of what a valuable collection of paintings and jewelry she owned. With her away, he had made it a point to check the house from time to time, for it was a tempting target for a cat burglar. And now, Lieutenant Durkin thought, it looks like I've caught one. He had been only two blocks away when the radio call had come in from the security company. This is going to look good on my record. Damned good.
Lieutenant Durkin pressed the front doorbell again. He wanted to be able to state in his report that he had rung it three times before making a forcible entry. His partner was covering the back, so there was no chance of the burglar's escaping. He would probably try to conceal himself on the premises, but he was in for a surprise. No one could hide from Melvin Durkin.
As the lieutenant reached for the bell for the third time, the front door suddenly opened. The policeman stood there staring. In the doorway was a woman dressed in a filmy nightgown that left little to the imagination. Her face was covered with a mudpack, and her hair was tucked into a curler cap.
She demanded, “What on earth is going on?”
Lieutenant Durkin swallowed. “I… who are you?”
“I'm Ellen Branch. I'm a houseguest of Lois Bellamy's. She's away in Europe.”
“I know that.” The lieutenant was confused. “She didn't tell us she was having a houseguest.”
The woman in the doorway nodded knowingly. “Isn't that just like Lois? Excuse me, I can't stand that noise.”
As Lieutenant Durkin watched, Lois Bellamy's houseguest reached over to the alarm buttons, pressed a sequence of numbers, and the sound stopped.
“That's better,” she sighed. “I can't tell you how glad I am to see you.” She laughed shakily. “I was just getting ready for bed when the alarm went off. I was sure there were burglars in the house, and I'm all alone here. The servants left at noon.”
“Do you mind if we look around?”
“Please, I insist!”
It took the lieutenant and his partner only a few minutes to make sure there was no one lurking on the premises.
“All clear,” Lieutenant Durkin said. “False alarm. Something must have set it off. Can't always depend on these electronic things. I'd call the security company and have them check out the system.”
“I most certainly will.”
“Well, guess we'd better be running along,” the lieutenant said.
“Thank you so much for coming by. I feel much safer now.”
She sure has a great body, Lieutenant Durkin thought. He wondered what she looked like under that mudpack and without the curler cap. “Will you be staying here long, Miss Branch?”
“Another week or two, until Lois returns.”
“If there's anything I can do for you, just let me know.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Tracy watched as the police car drove away into the night. She felt faint with relief. When the car was out of sight, she hurried upstairs, washed off the mudpack she had found in the bathroom, stripped off Lois Bellamy's curler cap and nightgown, changed into her own black coveralls, and left by the front door, carefully resetting the alarm.
It was not until Tracy was halfway back to Manhattan that the audacity of what she had done struck her. She giggled, and the giggle turned into a shaking, uncontrollable laughter, until she finally had to pull the car off onto the side of the road. She laughed until the tears streamed down her face. It was the first time she had laughed in a year. It felt wonderful.
It was not until the Amtrak train pulled out of Pennsylvania Station that Tracy began to relax. At every second she had expected a heavy hand to grip her shoulder, a voice to say, “You're under arrest.”
She had carefully watched the other passengers as they boarded the train, and there was nothing alarming about them. Still, Tracy's shoulders were knots of tension. She kept assuring herself that it was unlikely anyone would have discovered the burglary this soon, and even if they had, there was nothing to connect her with it. Conrad Morgan would be waiting in St. Louis with $25,000. Twenty-five thousand dollars to do with as she pleased! She would have had to work at the bank for a year to earn that much money. I'll travel to Europe, Tracy thought. Paris. No. Not Paris. Charles and I were going to honeymoon there. I'll go to London. There, I won't be a jailbird. In a curious way, the experience she had just gone through had made Tracy feel like a different person. It was as though she had been reborn.
She locked the door to the compartment and took out the chamois bag and opened it. A cascade of glittering colors spilled into her hands. There were three large diamond rings, an emerald pin, a sapphire bracelet, three pairs of earrings, and two necklaces, one of rubies, one of pearls.
There must be more than a million dollars' worth of jewelry here, Tracy marveled. As the train rolled through the countryside, she leaded back in her seat and replayed the evening in her mind. Renting the car… the drive to Sea Cliff… the stillness of the night… turning off the alarm and entering the house… opening the safe… the shock of the alarm going off, and the police appearing. It had never occurred to them that the woman in the nightgown with a mudpack on her face and a curler cap on her head was the burglar they were looking for.
Now, seated in her compartment on the train to St. Louis, Tracy allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She had enjoyed outwitting the police. There was something wonderfully exhilarating about being on the edge of danger. She felt daring and clever and invincible. She felt absolutely great.
There was a knock at the door of her compartment. Tracy hastily put the jewels back into the chamois bag and placed the bag in her suitcase. She took out her train ticket and unlocked the compartment door for the conductor.
Two men in gray suits stood in the corridor. One appeared to be in his early thirties, the other one about ten years older. The younger man was attractive, with the build of an athlete. He had a strong chin, a small, neat mustache, and wore horn-rimmed glasses behind which were intelligent blue eyes. The older man had a thick head of black hair and was heavy-set. His eyes were a cold brown.
“Can I help you?” Tracy asked.
“Yes, ma'am,” the older man replied. He pulled out a wallet and held up an identification card:
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
“I'm Special Agent Dennis Trevor. This is Special Agent Thomas Bowers.”
Tracy's mouth was suddenly dry. She forced a smile. “I — I'm afraid I don't understand. Is something wrong?”
“I'm afraid there is, ma'am,” the younger agent said. He had a soft, southern accent. “A few minutes ago this train crossed into New Jersey. Transporting stolen merchandise across a state line is a federal offense.”
Tracy felt suddenly faint. A red film appeared in front of her eyes, blurring everything.
The older man, Dennis Trevor, was saying, “Would you open your luggage, please?” It was not a question but an order.
Her only hope was to try to bluff it out. “Of course I won't! How dare you come barging into my compartment like this!” Her voice was filled with indignation. “Is that all you have to do — go around bothering innocent citizens? I'm going to call the conductor.”
“We've already spoken to the conductor,” Trevor said.
Her bluff was not working. “Do — do you have a search warrant?”
The younger man said gently, “We don't need a search warrant, Miss Whitney. We're apprehending you during the commission of a crime.” They even knew her name. She was trapped. There was no way out. None.
Trevor was at her suitcase, opening it. It was useless to try to stop him. Tracy watched as he reached inside and pulled out the chamois bag. He opened it, looked at his partner, and nodded. Tracy sank down onto the seat, suddenly too weak to stand.
Trevor took a list from his pocket, checked the contents of the bag against the list, and put the bag in his pocket. “It's all here, Tom.”
“How — how did you find out?” Tracy asked miserably.
“We're not permitted to give out any information,” Trevor replied. “You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and to have an attorney present before you say anything. Anything you say now may be used as evidence against you. Do you undersand?”
Her answer was a whispered, “Yes.”
Tom Bowers said, “I'm sorry about this. I mean, I know about your background, and I'm really sorry.”
“For Christ's sake,” the older man said, “this isn't a social visit.”
“I know, but still —”
The older man held out a pair of handcuffs to Tracy. “Hold ijut your wrists, please.”
Tracy felt her heart twisting in agony. She remembered the airport in New Orleans when they had handcuffed her, the staring faces. “Please! Do you — do you have to do that?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The younger man said, “Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Dennis?”
Dennis Trevor shrugged. “Okay.”
The two men stepped outside into the corridor. Tracy sat there, dazed, filled with despair. She could hear snatches of their conversation.
“For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away….”
“When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have…”
“Come on. Give her a break. She's embarrassed enough, and…”
“That's nothing to what she's going to…”
She could not hear the rest of the conversation. She did not want to hear the rest of the conversation.
In a moment they returned to the compartment. The older man seemed angry. “All right,” he said. “We're not cuffing you. We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment. Is that clear?”
Tracy nodded, too miserable to speak.
The younger man, Tom Bowers, gave her a sympathetic shrug, as though to say, “I wish there was something more I could do.”
There was nothing anyone could do. Not now. It was too late. She had been caught red-handed. Somehow the police had traced her and informed the FBI.
The agents were outside in the corridor talking to the conductor. Bowers pointed to Tracy and said something she could not hear. The conductor nodded. Bowers closed the door of the compartment, and to Tracy, it was like a cell door slamming.
The countryside sped by, flashing vignettes briefly framed by the window, but Tracy was unaware of the scenery. She sat there, paralyzed by fear. There was a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the sounds of the train. She would get no second chance. She was a convicted felon. They would give her the maximum sentence, and this time there would be no warden's daughter to rescue, there would be nothing but the deadly, endless years of prison facing her. And the Big Berthas. How had they caught her? The only person who knew about the robbery was Conrad Morgan, and he could have no possible reason to turn her and the jewelry over to the FBI. Possibly some clerk in his store had learned of the plan and tipped off the police. But how it happened made no difference. She had been caught. At the next stop she would be on her way to prison again. There would be a preliminary hearing and then the trial, and then….
Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to think about it any further. She felt hot tears, brush her cheeks.
The train began to lose speed. Tracy started to hyperventilate. She could not get enough air. The two FBI agents would be coming for her at any moment. A station came into view, and a few seconds later the train jerked to a stop. It was time to go. Tracy closed her suitcase, put on her coat, and sat down. She stared at the closed compartment door, waiting for it to open. Minutes went by. The two men did not appear. What could they be doing? She recalled their words: “We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment.”
She heard the conductor call, “All aboard….”
Tracy started to panic. Perhaps they had meant they would wait for her on the platform. That must be it. If she stayed on the train, they would accuse her of trying to run away from them, and it would make things even worse. Tracy grabbed her suitcase, opened the compartment door, and hurried out into the corridor.
The conductor was approaching. “Are you getting off here, miss?” he asked. “You'd better hurry. Let me help you. A woman in your condition shouldn't be lifting things.”
She stared. “In my condition?”
“You don't have to be embarrassed. Your brothers told me you're pregnant and to sort of keep an eye on you.”
“My brothers-?”
“Nice chaps. They seemed really concerned about you.”
The world was spinning around. Everything was topsy-turvy.
The conductor carried the suitcase to the end of the car and helped Tracy down the steps. The train began to move.
“Do you know where my brothers went?” Tracy called.
“No, ma'am. They jumped into a taxi when the train stopped.”
With a million dollars' worth of stolen jewelry.
Tracy headed for the airport. It was the only place she could think of. If the men had taken a taxi, it meant they did not have their own transportation, and they would surely want to get out of town as fast as possible. She sat back in the cab, filled with rage at what they had done to her and with shame at how easily they had conned her. Oh, they were good, both of them. Really good. They had been so convincing. She blushed to think how she had fallen for the ancient good cop-bad cop routine.
For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary -to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away….
When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have….
The Bureau? They were probably both fugitives from the law. Well, she was going to get those jewels back. She had gone through too much to be outwitted by two con artists. She had to get to the airport in time.
She leaned forward in her seat and said to the driver, “Could you go faster, please!”
They were standing in the boarding line at the departure gate, and she did not recognize them immediately. The younger man, who had called himself Thomas Bowers, no longer wore glasses, his eyes had changed from blue to gray, and his mustache was gone. The other man, Dennis Trevor, who had had thick black hair, was now totally bald. But still, there was no mistaking them. They had not had time to change their clothes. They were almost at the boarding gate when Tracy reached them.
“You forgot something,” Tracy said.
They turned to look at her, startled. The younger man frowned. “What are you doing here? A car from the Bureau was supposed to have been at the station to pick you up.” His southern accent was gone.
“Then why don't we go back and find it?” Tracy suggested.
“Can't. We're on another case,” Trevor explained. “We have to catch this plane.”
“Give me back the jewelry, first,” Tracy demanded.
“I'm afraid we can't do that,” Thomas Bowers told her. “It's evidence. We'll send you a receipt for it.”
“No. I don't want a receipt. I want the jewelry.”
“Sorry,” said Trevor. “We can't let it out of our possession.”
They had reached the gate. Trevor handed his boarding pass to the attendant. Tracy looked around, desperate, and saw an airport policeman standing nearby. She called out, “Officer! Officer!”
The two men looked at each other, startled.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Trevor hissed. “Do you want to get us all arrested?”
The policeman was moving toward them. “Yes, miss? Any problem?”
“Oh, no problem,” Tracy said gaily. “These two wonderful gentlemen found some valuable jewelry I lost, and they're returning it to me. I was afraid I was going to have to go to the FBI about it.”
The two men exchanged a frantic look.
“They suggested that perhaps you wouldn't mind escorting me to a taxi.”
“Certainly. Be happy to.”
Tracy turned toward the men. “It's safe to give the jewels to me now. This nice officer will take care of me.”
“No, really,” Tom Bowers objected. “It would be much better if we —”
“Oh, no, I insist,” Tracy urged. “I know how important it is for you to catch your plane.”
The two men looked at the policeman, and then at each other, helpless. There was nothing they could do. Reluctantly, Tom Bowers pulled the chamois bag from his pocket.
“That's it!” Tracy said. She took the bag from his hand, opened it, and looked inside. “Thank goodness. It's all here.”
Tom Bowers made one last-ditch try. “Why don't we keep it safe for you until —”
“That won't be necessary,” Tracy said cheerfully. She opened her purse, put the jewelry inside, and took out two $5.00 bills. She handed one to each of the men. “Here's a little token of my appreciation for what you've done.”
The other passengers had all departed through the gate. The airline attendant said, “That was the last call. You'll have to board now, gentlemen.”
“Thank you again,” Tracy beamed as she walked away with the policeman at her side. “It's so rare to find an honest person these days.”
Thomas Bowers — nй Jeff Stevens — sat at the plane window looking out as the aircraft took off. He raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and his shoulders heaved up and down.
Dennis Trevor — a.k.a. Brandon Higgins — seated next to him, looked at him in surprise. “Hey,” he said, “it's only money. It's nothing to cry about.”
Jeff Stevens turned to him with tears streaming down his face, and Higgins, to his astonishment, saw that Jeff was convulsed with laughter.
“What the hell's the matter with you?” Higgins demanded. “It's nothing to laugh about, either.”
To Jeff, it was. The manner in which Tracy Whitney had outwitted them at the airport was the most ingenius con he had ever witnessed. A scam on top of a scam. Conrad Morgan had told them the woman was an amateur. My God, Jeff thought, what would she be like if she were a professional? Tracy Whitney was without doubt the most beautiful woman Jeff Stevens had ever seen. And clever. Jeff prided himself on being the best confidence artist in the business, and she had outsmarted him. Uncle Willie would have loved her, Jeff thought.
It was Uncle Willie who had educated Jeff. Jeff's mother was the trusting heiress to a farm-equipment fortune, married to an improvident schemer filled with get-rich-quick projects that never quite worked out. Jeff's father was a charmer, darkly handsome and persuasively glib, and in the first five years of marriage he had managed to run through his wife's inheritance. Jeff's earliest memories were of his mother and father quarreling about money and his father's extramarital affairs. It was a bitter marriage, and the young boy had resolved, I'm never going to get married. Never.
His father's brother, Uncle Willie, owned a small traveling carnival, and whenever he was near Marion, Ohio, where the Stevenses lived, he came to visit them. He was the most cheerful man Jeff had ever known, filled with optimism and promises of a rosy tomorrow. He always managed to bring the boy exciting gifts, and he taught Jeff wonderful magic tricks. Uncle Willie had started out as a magician at a carnival and had taken it over when it went broke.
When Jeff was fourteen, his mother died in an automobile accident. Two months later Jeff's father married a nineteen-year-old cocktail waitress. “It isn't natural for a man to live by himself,” his father had explained. But the box was filled with a deep resentment, feeling betrayed by his father's callousness.
Jeff's father had been hired as a siding salesman and was on the road three days a week. One night when Jeff was alone in the house with his stepmother, he was awakened by the sound of his bedroom door opening. Moments later he felt a soft, naked body next to his. Jeff sat up in alarm.
“Hold me, Jeffie,” his stepmother whispered. “I'm afraid of thunder.”
“It — it isn't thundering,” Jeff stammered.
“But it could be. The paper said rain.” She pressed her body close to his. “Make love to me, baby.”
The boy was in a panic. “Sure. Can we do it in Dad's bed?”
“Okay.” She laughed. “Kinky, huh?”
“I'll be right there,” Jeff promised.
She slid out of bed and went into the other bedroom. Jeff had never dressed faster in his life. He went out the window and headed for Cimarron, Kansas, where Uncle Willie's carnival was playing. He never looked back.
When Uncle Willie asked Jeff why he had run away from home, all he would say was, “I don't get along with my stepmother.”
Uncle Willie telephoned Jeff's father, and after a long conversation, it was decided that the boy should remain with the carnival. “He'll get a better education here than any school could ever give him,” Uncle Willie promised.
The carnival was a world unto itself. “We don't run a Sunday school show,” Uncle Willie explained to Jeff. “We're flimflam artists. But remember, sonny, you can't con people unless they're greedy to begin with. W. C. Fields had it right. You can't cheat an honest man.”
The carnies became Jeff's friends. There were the “front-end” men, who had the concessions, and the “back-end” people, who ran shows like the fat woman and the tattooed lady, and the flat-store operators, who operated the games. The carnival had its share of nubile girls, and they were attracted to the young boy. Jeff had inherited his mother's sensitivity and his father's dark, good looks, and the ladies fought over who was going to relieve Jeff of his virginity. His first sexual experience was with a pretty contortionist, and for years she was the high-water mark that other women had to live up to.
Uncle Willie arranged for Jeff to work at various jobs around the carnival.
“Someday all this will be yours,” Uncle Willie told the boy, “and the only way you're gonna hang on to it is to know more about it than anybody else does.”
Jeff started out with the six-cat “hanky-park,” a scam where customers paid to throw balls to try to knock six cats made out of canvas with a wood-base bottom into a net. The operator running the joint would demonstrate how easy it was to knock them over, but when the customer tried it, a “gunner” hiding in back of the canvas lifted a rod to keep the wooden base on the cats steady. Not even Sandy Koufax could have downed the cats.
“Hey, you hit it too low,” the operator would say. “All you have to do is hit it nice and easy.”
Nice and easy was the password, and the moment the operator said it, the hidden gunner would drop the rod, and the operator would knock the cat off the board. He would then say, “See what I mean?” and that was the gunner's signal to put up the rod again. There was always another rube who wanted to show off his pitching arm to his giggling girl friend.
Jeff worked the “count stores,” where clothespins were arranged in a line. The customer would pay to throw rubber rings over the clothespins, which were numbered, and if the total added up to twenty-nine, he would win an expensive toy. What the sucker did not know was that the clothespins had different numbers at each end, so that the man running the count store could conceal the number that would add up to twenty-nine and make sure the mark never won.
One day Uncle Willie said to Jeff, “You're doin' real good, kid, and I'm proud of you. You're ready to move up to the skillo.”
The skillo operators were the crиme de la crиme, and all the other carnies looked up to them. They made more money than anyone else in the carnival, stayed at the best hotels, and drove flashy cars. The skillo game consisted of a flat wheel with an arrow balanced very carefully on glass with a thin piece of paper in the center. Each section was numbered, and when the customer spun the wheel and it stopped on a number, that number would be blocked off. The customer would pay again for another spin of the wheel, and another space would be blocked off. The skillo operator explained that when all the spaces were blocked off, the customer would win a large sum of money. As the customer got closer to filling in all the spaces, the skillo operator would encourage him to increase his bets. The operator would look around nervously and whisper, “I don't own this game, but I'd like you to win. If you do, maybe you'll give me a small piece.”
The operator would slip the customer five or ten dollars and say, “Bet this for me, will you? You can't lose now.” And the mark would feel as though he had a confederate. Jeff became an expert at milking the customers. As the open spaces on the board became smaller and the odds of winning grew greater, the excitement would intensify.
“You can't miss now!” Jeff would exclaim, and the player would eagerly put up more money. Finally, when there was only one tiny space left to fill, the excitement would peak. The mark would put up all the money he had, and often hurry home to get more. The customer never won, however, because the operator or his shill would give the table an imperceptible nudge, and the arrow would invariably land at the wrong place.
Jeff quickly learned all the carnie terms: The “gaff” was a term for fixing the games so that the marks could not win. The men who stood in front of a sideshow making their spiel were called “barkers” by outsiders, but the carnie people called them “talkers.” The talker got 10 percent of the take for building the tip — the “tip” being a crowd. “Slum” was the prize given away. The “postman” was a cop who had to be paid off.
Jeff became an expert at the “blow-off.” When customers paid to see a sideshow exhibition, Jeff would make his spiel: “Ladies and gentlemen: Everything that's pictured, painted, and advertised outside, you will see within the walls of this tent for the price of your general admission. However, immediately after the young lady in the electric chair gets finished being tortured, her poor body racked by fifty thousand watts of electricity, we have an extra added attraction that has absolutely nothing to do with the show and is not advertised outside. Behind this enclosure you are going to see something so truly remarkable, so chilling and hair-raising, that we dare not portray it outside, because it might come under the eyes of innocent children or susceptible women.”
And after the suckers had paid an extra dollar, Jeff would usher them inside to see a girl with no middle, or a two-headed baby, and of course it was all done with mirrors.
One of the most profitable carnival games was the “mouse running.” A live mouse was put in the center of a table and a bowl was placed over it. The rim of the table had ten holes around its perimeter into any one of which the mouse could run when the bowl was lifted. Each patron bet on a numbered hole. Whoever selected the hole into which the mouse would run won the prize.
“How do you gaff a thing like that?” Jeff asked Uncle Willie. “Do you use trained mice?”
Uncle Willie roared with laughter. “Who the hell's go time to train mice? No, no. It's simple. The operator sees which number no one has bet on, and he puts a little vinegar on his finger and touches the edge of the hole he wants the mouse to run into. The mouse will head for that hole every time.”
Karen, an attractive young belly dancer, introduced Jeff to the “key” game.
“When you've made your spiel on Saturday night,” Karen told him, “call some of the men customers aside, one at a time, and sell them a key to my trailer.”
The keys cost five dollars. By midnight, a dozen or more men would find themselves milling around outside her trailer. Karen, by that time, was at a hotel in town, spending the night with Jeff. When the marks came back to the carnival the following morning to get their revenge, the show was long gone.
During the next four years Jeff learned a great deal about human nature. He found out how easy it was to arouse greed, and how guillible people could be. They believed incredible tales because their greed made them want to believe. At eighteen, Jeff was strikingly handsome. Even the most casual woman observer would instantly note and approve his gray, well-spaced eyes, tall build, and curly dark hair. Men enjoyed his wit and air of easy good humor. Even children, as if speaking to some answering child in him, gave him their confidence immediately. Customers flirted outrageously with Jeff, but Uncle Willie cautioned, “Stay away from the townies, my boy. Their fathers are always the sheriff.”
It was the knife thrower's wife who caused Jeff to leave the carnival. The show had just arrived in Milledgeville, Georgia, and the tents were being set up. A new act had signed on, a Sicilian knife thrower called the Great Zorbini and his attractive blond wife. While the Great Zorbini was at the carnival setting up his equipment, his wife invited Jeff to their hotel room in town.
“Zorbini will be busy all day,” she told Jeff. “Let's have some fun.”
It sounded good.
“Give me an hour and then come up to the room,” she said.
“Why wait an hour?” Jeff asked.
She smiled and said, “It will take me that long to get everything ready.”
Jeff waited, his curiosity increasing, and when he finally arrived at the hotel room, she greeted him at the door, stark naked. He reached for her, but she took his hand and said, “Come in here.”
He walked into the bathroom and stared in disbelief. She had filled the bathtub with six flavors of Jell-O, mixed with warm water.
“What's that?” Jeff asked.
“It's dessert. Get undressed, baby.”
Jeff undressed.
“Now, into the tub.”
He stepped into the tub and sat down, and it was the wildest sensation he had ever experienced. The soft, slippery Jell-O seemed to fill every crevice of his body, massaging him all over. The blonde joined him in the tub.
“Now,” she said, “lunch.”
She started down his chest toward his groin, licking the Jell-O as she went. “Mmmm, you taste delicious. I like the strawberry best….”
Between her rapidly flicking tongue and the friction of the warm, viscous Jell-O, it was an erotic experience beyond description. In the middle of it, the bathroom door flew open and the Great Zorbini strode in. The Sicilian took one look at his wife and the startled Jeff, and howled, “Tu sei una puttana! Vi ammazzo tutti e due! Dove sono i miei coltelli?”
Jeff did not recognize any of the words, but the tone was familiar. As the Great Zorbini raced out of the room to get his knives, Jeff leaped out of the tub, his body looking like a rainbow with the multicolored Jell-O clinging to it, and grabbed his clothes. He jumped out of the window, naked, and began running down the alley. He heard a shout behind him and felt a knife sing past his head. Zing! Another, and then he was out of range. He dressed in a culvert, pulling his shirt and pants over the sticky Jell-O, and squished his way to the depot, where he caught the first bus out of town.
Six months later, he was in Vietnam.
Every soldier fights a different war, and Jeff came out of his Vietnam experience with a deep contempt for bureaucracy and a lasting resentment of authority. He spent two years in a war that could never be won, and he was appalled by the waste of money and matйriel and lives, and sickened by the treachery and deceit of the generals and politicians who performed their verbal sleight of hand. We've been suckered into a war that nobody wants, Jeff thought. It's a con game. The biggest con game in the world.
A week before Jeff's discharge, he received the news of Uncle Willie's death. The carnival had folded. The past was finished. It was time for him to enjoy the future.
The years that followed were filled with a series of adventures. To Jeff, the whole world was a carnival, and the people in it were his marks. He devised his own con games. He placed ads in newspapers offering a color picture of the President for a dollar. When he received a dollar, he sent his victim a postage stamp with a picture of the President on it.
He put announcements in magazines warning the public that there were only sixty days left to send in five dollars, that after that it would be too late. The ad did not specify what the five dollars would buy, but the money poured in.
For three months Jeff worked in a boiler room, selling phony oil stocks over the telephone.
He loved boats, and when a friend offered him a job working on a sailing schooner bound for Tahiti, Jeff signed on as a seaman.
The ship was a beauty, a 165-foot white schooner, glistening in the sun, all sails drawing well. It had teak decking, long, gleaming Oregon fir for the hull, with a main salon that sat twelve and a galley forward, with electric ovens. The crew's quarters were in the forepeak. In addition to the captain, the steward, and a cook, there were five deckhands. Jeff's job consisted of helping hoist the sails, polishing the brass portholes, and climbing up the ratlines to the lower spreader to furl the sails. The schooner was carrying a party of eight.
“The owner is named Hollander,” Jeff's friend informed him.
Hollander turned out to be Louise Hollander, a twenty-five year-old, golden-haired beauty, whose father owned half of Central America. The other passengers were her friends, whom Jeff's buddies sneeringly referred to as the “jest set.”
The first day out Jeff was working in the hot sun, polishing the brass on deck. Louise Hollander stopped beside him.
“You're new on board.”
He looked up. “Yes.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Jeff Stevens.”
“That's a nice name.” He made no comment. “Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“I'm Louise Hollander. I own this boat.”
“I see. I'm working for you.”
She gave him a slow smile. “That's right.”
“Then if you want to get your money's worth, you'd better let me get on with my work.” Jeff moved on to the next stanchion.
In their quarters at night, the crew members disparaged the passengers and made jokes about them. But Jeff admitted to himself that he was envious of them — their backgrounds, their educations, and their easy manners. They had come from monied families and had attended the best schools. His school had been Uncle Willie and the carnival.
One of the carnies had been a professor of archaeology until he was thrown out of college for stealing and selling valuable relics. He and Jeff had had long talks, and the professor had imbued Jeff with an enthusiasm for archaeology. “You can read the whole future of mankind in the past,” the professor would say. “Think of it, son. Thousands of years ago there were people just like you and me dreaming dreams, spinning tales, living out their lives, giving birth to our ancestors.” His eyes had taken on a faraway look. “Carthage — that's where I'd like to go on a dig. Long before Christ was born, it was a great city, the Paris of ancient Africa. The people had their games, and baths, and chariot racing. The Circus Maximus was as large as five football fields.” He had noted the interest in the boy's eyes. “Do you know how Cato the Elder used to end his speeches in the Roman Senate? He'd say, 'Delenda est cartaga'; 'Carthage must be destroyed.' His wish finally came true. The Romans reduced the place to rubble and came back twenty-five years later to build a great city on its ashes. I wish I could take you there on a dig one day, my boy.”
A year later the professor had died of alcoholism, but Jeff had promised himself that one day he would go on a dig. Carthage, first, for the professor.
On the last night before the schooner was to dock in Tahiti, Jeff was summoned to Louise Hollander's stateroom. She was wearing a sheer silk robe.
“You wanted to see me, ma'am?”
“Are you a homosexual, Jeff?”
“I don't believe it's any of your business, Miss Hollander, but the answer is no. What I am is choosy.”
Louise Hollander's mouth tightened. “What kind of women do you like? Whores, I suppose.”
“Sometimes,” Jeff said agreeably. “Was there anything else, Miss Hollander?”
“Yes. I'm giving a dinner party tomorrow night. Would you like to come?”
Jeff looked at the woman for a long moment before he answered. “Why not?”
And that was the way it began.
Louise Hollander had had two husbands before she was twenty-one, and her lawyer had just made a settlement with her third husband when she met Jeff. The second night they were moored at the harbor in Papeete, and as the passengers and crew were going ashore, Jeff received another summons to Louise Hollander's quarters. When Jeff arrived, she was dressed in a colorful silk pareu slit all the way up to the thigh.
“I'm trying to get this off,” she said. “I'm having a problem with the zipper.”
Jeff walked over and examined the costume. “It doesn't have a Zipper.”
She turned to face him, and smiled. “I know. That's my problem.”
They made love on the deck, where the soft tropical air caressed their bodies like a blessing. Afterward, they lay on their sides, facing each other. Jeff propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Louise. “Your daddy's not the sheriff, is he?” Jeff asked.
She sat up in surprise. “What?”
“You're the first townie I ever made love to. Uncle Willie used to warn me that their daddies always turned out to be the sheriff.”
They were together every night after that. At first Louise's friends were amused. He's another one of Louise's playthings, they thought. But when she informed them that she intended to marry Jeff, they were frantic.
“For Christ's sake, Louise, he's a nothing. He worked in a carnival. My God, you might as well be marrying a stable hand. He's handsome — granted. And he has a fab bod. But outside of sex, you have absolutely nothing in common, darling.”
“Louise, Jeff's for breakfast, not dinner.”
“You have a social position to uphold.”
“Frankly, angel, he just won't fit in, will he?”
But nothing her friends said could dissuade Louise. Jeff was the most fascinating man she had ever met. She had found that men who were outstandingly handsome were either monumentally stupid or unbearably dull. Jeff was intelligent and amusing, and the combination was irresistible.
When Louise mentioned the subject of marriage to Jeff, he was as surprised as her friends had been.
“Why marriage? You've already got my body. I can't give you anything you don't have.”
“It's very simple, Jeff. I love you. I want to share the rest of my life with you.”
Marriage had been an alien idea, and suddenly it no longer was. Beneath Louise Hollander's worldly, sophisticated veneer; there was a vulnerable, lost little girl. She needs me, Jeff thought. The idea of a stable homelife and children was suddenly immensely appealing. It seemed to him that ever since he could remember, he had been running. It was time to stop.
They were married in the town hall in Tahiti three days later..
When they returned to New York, Jeff was summoned to the office of Scott Fogarty, Louise Hollander's attorney, a small, frigid man, tight-lipped and probably, Jeff thought, tight-assed.
“I have a paper here for you to sign,” the attorney announced.
“What kind of paper?”
“It's a release. It simply states that in the event of the dissolution of your marriage to Louise Hollander —”
“Louise Stevens.”
“ —Louise Stevens, that you will not participate financially in any of her —”
Jeff felt the muscles of his jaw tightening. “Where do I sign?”
“Don't you want me to finish reading?”
“No. I don't think you get the point. I didn't marry her for her fucking money.”
“Really, Mr. Stevens! I just —-”
“Do you want me to sign it or don't you?”
The lawyer placed the paper in front of Jeff. He scrawled his signature and stormed out of the office. Louise's limousine and driver were waiting for him downstairs. As Jeff climbed in, he had to laugh to himself. What the hell am I so pissed off about? I've been a con artist all my life, and when I go straight for the first time and someone thinks I'm out to take them, I behave like a fucking Sunday school teacher.
Louise took Jeff to the best tailor in Manhattan. “You'll look fantastic in a dinner jacket,” she coaxed. And he did. Before the second month of the marriage, five of Louise's best friends had tried to seduce the attractive newcomer in their circle, but Jeff ignored them. He was determined to make his marriage work.
Budge Hollander, Louise's brother, put Jeff up for membership in the exclusive New York Pilgrim Club, and Jeff was accepted. Budge was a beefy, middle-aged man who had gotten his sobriquet playing right tackle on the Harvard football team, where he got the reputation of being a player his opponents could not budge. He owned a shipping line, a banana plantation, cattle ranches, a meat-packing company, and more corporations than Jeff could count. Budge Hollander was not subtle in concealing his contempt for Jeff Stevens.
“You're really out of our class, aren't you, old boy? But as long as you amuse Louise in bed, that will do nicely. I'm very fond of my sister.”
It took every ounce of willpower for Jeff to control himself. I'm not married to this prick. I'm married to Louise.
The other members of the Pilgrim Club were equally obnoxious. They found Jeff terribly amusing. All of them dined at the club every noontime, and pleaded for Jeff to tell them stories about his “carnie days,” as they liked to call them. Perversely, Jeff made the stories more and more outrageous.
Jeff and Louise lived in a twenty-room townhouse filled with servants, on the East Side of Manhattan. Louise had estates in Long Island and the Bahamas, a villa in Sardinia, and a large apartment on Avenue Foch in Paris. Aside from the yacht, Louise owned a Maserati, a Rolls Corniche, a Lamborghini, and a Daimler.
It's fantastic, Jeff thought.
It's great, Jeff thought.
It's boring, Jeff thought. And degrading.
One morning he got up from his eighteenth-century four-poster bed, put on a Sulka robe, and went looking for Louise. He found her in the breakfast room.
“I've got to get a job,” he told her.
“For heaven's sake, darling, why? We don't need the money.”
“It has nothing to do with money. You can't expect me to sit around on my hands and be spoonfed. I have to work.”
Louise gave it a moment's thought. “All right, angel. I'll speak to Budge. He owns a stockbrokerage firm. Would you like to be a stockbroker, darling?”
“I just want to get off my ass,” Jeff muttered.
He went to work for Budge. He had never had a job with regular hours before. I'm going to love it, Jeff thought.
He hated it. He stayed with it because he wanted to bring home a paycheck to his wife.
“When are you and I going to have a baby?” he asked Louise, after a lazy Sunday brunch.
“Soon, darling. I'm trying.”
“Come to bed. Let's try again.”
Jeff was seated at the luncheon table reserved for his brother-in-law and half a dozen other captains of industry at the Pilgrim Club.
Budge announced, “We just issued our annual report for the meat-packing company, fellas. Our profits are up forty percent.”
“Why shouldn't they be?” one of the men at the table laughed. “You've got the fucking inspectors bribed.” He turned to the others at the table. “Old clever Budge, here, buys inferior meat and has it stamped prime and sells it for a bloody fortune.”
Jeff was shocked. “People eat meat, for Christ's sake. They feed it to their children. He's kidding, isn't he, Budge?”
Budge grinned and whooped, “Look who's being moral!”
Over the next three months Jeff became very well acquainted with his table companions. Ed Zeller had paid a million in bribes in order to build a factory in Libya. Mike Quincy, the head of a conglomerate, was a raider who bought companies and illegally tipped off his friends when to buy and sell the stock. Alan Thompson, the richest man at the table, boasted of his company's policy. “Before they changed the damn law, we used to fire the old gray hairs one year before their pensions were due. Saved a fortune.”
All the men cheated on taxes, had insurance scams, falsified expense accounts, and put their current mistresses on their payrolls as secretaries or assistants.
Christ, Jeff thought. They're just dressed-up carnies. They all run flat stores.
The wives were no better. They grabbed everything they could get their greedy hands on and cheated on their husbands. They're playing the key game, Jeff marveled.
When he tried to tell Louise how he felt, she laughed. “Don't be naive, Jeff. You're enjoying your life, aren't you?”
The truth was that he was not. He had married Louise because he believed she needed him. He felt that children would change everything.
“Let's have one of each. It's time. We've been married a year now.”
“Angel, be patient. I've been to the doctor, and he told me I'm fine. Maybe you should have a checkup and see if you're all right.”
Jeff went.
“You should have no trouble producing healthy children,” the doctor assured him.
And still nothing happened.
On Black Monday Jeff's world fell apart. It started in the morning when he went into Louise's medicine chest for an aspirin. He found a shelf full of birth control pills. One of the cases was almost empty. Lying innocently next to it was a vial of white powder and a small golden spoon. And that was only the start of the day.
At noon, Jeff was seated in a deep armchair in the Pilgrim Club, waiting for Budge to appear, when he heard two men behind him talking.
“She swears that her Italian singer's cock is over ten inches long.”
There was a snicker. “Well, Louise always liked them big.”
They're talking about another Louise, Jeff told himself.
“That's probably why she married that carnival person in the first place. But she does tell the most amusing stories about him. You won't believe what he did the other day…”
Jeff rose and blindly made his way out of the club.
He was filled with a rage such as he had never known. He wanted to kill. He wanted to kill the unknown Italian. He wanted to kill Louise. How many other men had she been sleeping with during the past year? They had been laughing at him all this time. Budge and Ed Zeller and Mike Quincy and Alan Thompson and their wives had been having an enormous joke at his expense. And Louise, the woman he had wanted to protect. Jeff's immediate reaction was to pack up and leave. But that was not good enough. He had no intention of letting the bastards have the last laugh.
That afternoon when Jeff arrived home, Louise was not there. “Madame went out this morning,” Pickens, the butler, said. “I believe she had several appointments.”
I'll bet she did, Jeff thought. She's out fucking that ten-inch-cock Italian. Jesus Christ!
By the time Louise arrived home, Jeff had himself under tight control. “Did you have a nice day?” Jeff asked.
“Oh, the usual boring things, darling. A beauty appointment, shopping…. How was your day, angel?”
“It was interesting,” Jeff said truthfully. “I learned a lot.”
“Budge tells me you're doing beautifully.”
“I am,” Jeff assured her. “And very soon I'm going to be doing even better.”
Louise stroked his hand. “My bright husband. Why don't we go to bed early?”
“Not tonight,” Jeff said. “I have a headache.”
He spent the next week making his plans.
He began at lunch at the club. “Do any of you know anything about computer frauds?” Jeff asked.
“Why?” Ed Zeller wanted to know. “You planning to commit one?”
There was a sputter of laughter.
“No, I'm serious,” Jeff insisted. “It's a big problem. People are tapping into computers and ripping off banks and insurance companies and other businesses for billions of dollars. It gets worse all the time.”
“Sounds right up your alley,” Budge murmured.
“Someone I met has come up with a computer he says can't be tampered with.”
“And you want to have him knocked off,” Mike Quincy kidded.
“As a matter of fact, I'm interested in raising money to back him. I just wondered if any of you might know something about computers.”
“No,” Budge grinned, “but we know everything about backing inventors, don't we fellas?”
There was a burst of laughter.
Two days later at the club, Jeff. passed by the usual table and explained to Budge, “I'm sorry I won't be able to join you fellows today. I'm having a guest for lunch.”
When Jeff moved on to another table, Alan Thompson grinned, “He's probably having lunch with the bearded lady from the circus.”
A stooped, gray-haired man entered the dining room and was ushered to Jeff's table.
“Jesus!” Mike Quincy said. “Isn't that Professor Ackerman?”
“Who's Professor Ackerman?”
“Don't you ever read anything but financial reports, Budge? Vernon Ackerman was on the cover of Time last month. He's chairman of the President's National Scientific Board. He's the most brilliant scientist in the country.”
“What the hell is he doing with my dear brother-in-law?”
Jeff and the professor were engrossed in a deep conversation all during lunch, and Budge and his friends grew more and more curious. When the professor left, Budge motioned Jeff over to his table.
“Hey, Jeff. Who was that?”
Jeff looked guilty. “Oh… you mean Vernon?”
“Yeah. What were you two talking about?”
“We… ah…” The others could almost watch Jeff's thought processes as he tried to dodge the question. “I… ah… might write a book about him. He's a very interesting character.”
“I didn't know you were a writer.”
“Well, I guess we all have to start sometime.”
Three days later Jeff had another luncheon guest. This time it was Budge who recognized him. “Hey! That's Seymour Jarrett, chairman of the board of Jarrett International Computer. What the hell would he be doing with Jeff?”
Again, Jeff and his guest held a long, animated conversation. When the luncheon was over, Budge sought Jeff out.
“Jeffrey, boy, what's with you and Seymour Jarrett?”
“Nothing,” Jeff said quickly. “Just having a chat.” He started to walk away. Budge stopped him.
“Not so fast, old buddy. Seymour Jarrett is a very busy fellow. He doesn't sit around having long chats about nothing.”
Jeff said earnestly, “All right. The truth is, Budge, that Seymour collects stamps, and I told him about a stamp I might be able to acquire for him.”
The truth, my ass, Budge thought.
The following week, Jeff lunched at the club with Charles Bartlett, the president of Bartlett & Bartlett, one of the largest private capital venture groups in the world. Budge, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson, and Mike Quincy watched in fascination as the two men talked, their heads close together.
“Your brother-in-law is sure in high-flying company lately,” Zeller commented. “What kind of deal has he got cooking, Budge?”
Budge said testily, “I don't know, but I'm sure in hell going to find out. If Jarrett and Bartlett are interested, there must be a pot of money involved.”
They watched as Bartlett rose, enthusiastically pumped Jeff's hand, and left. As Jeff passed their table, Budge caught his arm. “Sit down, Jeff. We want to have a little talk with you.”
“I should get back to the office,” Jeff protested. “I —”
“You work for me, remember? Sit down.” Jeff sat. “Who were you having lunch with?”
Jeff hesitated. “No one special. An old friend.”
“Charlie Bartlett's an old friend?”
“Kind of.”
“What were you and your old friend Charlie discussing, Jeff?”
“Uh… cars, mostly. Old Charlie likes antique cars, and I heard about this '37 Packard, four-door convertible —”
“Cut the horseshit!” Budge snapped. “You're not collecting stamps or selling automobiles, or writing any fucking book. What are you really up to?”
“Nothing. I —”
“You're raising money for something, aren't you, Jeff?” Ed Zeller asked.
“No!” But he said it a shade too quickly.
Budge put a beefy arm around Jeff. “Hey, buddy, this is your brother-in-law. We're family, remember?” He gave Jeff a bear hug. “It's something about that tamper-proof computer you mentioned last week, right?”
They could see by the look on Jeff's face that they had trapped him.
“Well, yes.”
It was like pulling teeth to get anything out of the son of a bitch. “Why didn't you tell us Professor Ackerman was involved?”
“I didn't think you'd be interested.”
“You were wrong. When you need capital, you go to your friends.”
“The professor and I don't need capital,” Jeff said “Jarrett and Bartlett —”
“Jarrett and Bartlett are fuckin' sharks! They'll eat you alive,” Alan Thompson exclaimed.
Ed Zeller picked it up. “Jeff, when you deal with friends, you don't get hurt.”
“Everything is already arranged,” Jeff told them. “Charlie Bartlett —”
“Have you signed anything yet?”
“No, but I gave my word —”
“Then nothing's arranged. Hell, Jeff boy, in business people change their minds every hour.”
“I shouldn't even be discussing this with you,” Jeff protested. “Professor Ackerman's name can't be mentioned. He's under contract to a government agency.”
“We know that,” Thompson said soothingly. “Does the professor think this thing will work?”
“Oh, he knows it works.”
“If it's good enough for Ackerman, it's good enough for us, right fellows?”
There was a chorus of assent.
“Hey, I'm not a scientist,” Jeff said. “I can't guarantee anything. For all I know, this thing may have no value at all.”
“Sure. We understand. But say it does have a value, Jeff How big could this thing be?”
“Budge, the market for this is worldwide. I couldn't even begin to put a value on it. Everybody will be able to use it.”
“How much initial financing are you looking for?”
“Two million dollars, but all we need is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars down. Bartlett promised —”
“Forget Bartlett. That's chicken feed, old buddy. We'll put that up ourselves. Keep it in the family. Right, fellas?”
“Right!”
Budge looked up and snapped his fingers, and a captain came hurrying over to the table. “Dominick, bring Mr. Stevens some paper and a pen.”
It was produced almost instantly.
“We can wrap up this little deal right here,” Budge said to Jeff. “You just make out this paper, giving us the rights, and we'll all sign it, and in the morning you'll have a certified check for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. How does that suit you?”
Jeff was biting his lower lip. “Budge, I promised Mr. Bartlett ”
“Fuck Bartlett,” Budge snarled. “Are you married to his sister or mine? Now write.”
“We don't have a patent on this, and —”
“Write, goddamn it!” Budge shoved the pen in Jeff's hand.
Reluctantly, Jeff began to write: “This will transfer all my rights, title, and interest to a mathematical computer called SUCABA, to the buyers, Donald 'Budge' Hollander, Ed Zeller, Alan Thompson, and Mike Quincy, for the consideration of two million dollars, with a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on signing. SUCABA has been extensively tested, is inexpensive, trouble-free, and uses less power than any computer currently on the market. SUCABA will require no maintenance or parts for a minimum period of ten years.” They were all looking over Jeff's shoulder as he wrote.
“Jesus!” Ed Zeller said. “Ten years! There's not a computer on the market that can claim that!”
Jeff continued. “The buyers understand that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I holds a patent on SUCABA —”
“We'll take care of all that,” Alan Thompson interrupted impatiently. “I've got one hell of a patent attorney.”
Jeff kept writing. “I have explained to the buyers that SUCABA may have no value of any kind, and that neither Professor Vernon Ackerman nor I makes any representations or warranties about SUCABA except as written above.” He signed it and held up the paper. “Is that satisfactory?”
“You sure about the ten years?” Budge asked.
“Guaranteed. I'll just make a copy of this,” Jeff said. They watched as he carefully made a copy of what he had written.
Budge snatched the papers out of Jeff's hand and signed them. Zeller, Quincy, and Thompson followed suit.
Budge was beaming. “A copy for us and a copy for you. Old Seymour Jarrett and Charlie Bartlett are sure going to have egg on their faces, huh, boys? I can't wait until they hear that they got screwed out of this deal.”
The following morning Budge handed Jeff a certified check for $250,000.
“Where's the computer?” Budge asked.
“I arranged for it to be delivered here at the club at noon. I thought it only fitting that we should all be together when you receive it.”
Budge clapped him on the shoulder. “You know, Jeff, you're a smart fellow. See you at lunch.”
At the stroke of noon a messenger carrying a box appeared in the dining room of the Pilgrim, Club and was ushered to Budge's table, where he was seated with Zeller, Thompson, and Quincy.
“Here it is!” Budge exclaimed. “Jesus! The damned thing's even portable!”
“Should we wait for Jeff?” Thompson asked.
“Fuck him. This belongs to us now.” Budge ripped the paper away from the box. Inside was a nest of straw. Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted out the object that lay in the nest. The men sat there, staring at it. It was a square frame about a foot in diameter, holding a series of wires across which were strung rows of beads. There was a long silence.
“What is it?” Quincy finally asked.
Alan Thompson said, “It's an abacus. One of those things Orientals use to count —” The expression on his face changed. “Jesus! SUCABA is abacus spelled backward!” He turned to Budge. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Zeller was sputtering. “Low power, trouble-free, uses less power than any computer currently on the market… Stop the goddamned check!”
There was a concerted rush to the telephone.
“Your certified check?” the head bookkeeper said. “There's nothing to worry about. Mr. Stevens cashed it this morning.”
Pickens, the butler, was very sorry, indeed, but Mr. Stevens had packed and left. “He mentioned something about an extended journey.”
That afternoon, a frantic Budge finally managed to reach Professor Vernon Ackerman.
“Of course. Jeff Stevens. A charming man. Your brother-in-law, you say?”
“Professor, what were you and Jeff discussing?”
“I suppose it's no secret. Jeff is eager to write a book about me. He has convinced me that the world wants to know the human being behind the scientist….”
Seymour Jarrett was reticent. “Why do you want to know what Mr. Stevens and I discussed? Are you a rival stamp collector?”
“No I —”
“Well, it won't do you any good to snoop around. There's only one stamp like it in existence, and Mr. Stevens has agreed to sell it to me when he acquires it.”
And he slammed down the receiver.
Budge knew what Charlie Bartlett was going to say before the words were out. “Jeff Stevens? Oh, yes. I collect antique cars. Jeff knows where this '37 Packard four-door convertible in mint condition —-”
This time it was Budge who hung up.
“Don't worry,” Budge told his partners. “We'll get our money back and put the son of a bitch away for the rest of his life. There are laws against fraud.”
The group's next stop was at the office of Scott Fogarty.
“He took us for two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Budge told the attorney. “I want him put behind bars for the rest of his life. Get a warrant out for —”
“Do you have the contract with you, Budge?”
“It's right here.” He handed Fogarty the paper Jeff had written out.
The lawyer scanned it quickly, then read it again, slowly. “Did he forge your names to this paper?”
“Why, no,” Mike Quincy said. “We signed it.”
“Did you read it first?”
Ed Zeller angrily said, “Of course we read it. Do you think we're stupid?”
“I'll let you be the judge of that, gentlemen. You signed a contract stating that you were informed that what you were purchasing with a down payment of two hundred fifty thousand dollars was an object that had not been patented and could be completely worthless. In the legal parlance of an old professor of mine, 'You've been royally fucked.' ”
Jeff had obtained the divorce in Reno. It was while he was establishing residence there that he had run into Conrad Morgan. Morgan had once worked for Uncle Willie. “How would you like to do me a small favor, Jeff?” Conrad Morgan had asked. “There's a young lady traveling on a train from New York to St. Louis with some jewelry….”
Jeff looked out of the plane window and thought about Tracy. There was a smile on his face.
When Tracy returned to New York, her first stop was at Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. Conrad Morgan ushered Tracy into his office and closed the door. He rubbed his hands together and said, “I was getting very worried, my dear. I waited for you in St. Louis and —”
“You weren't in St. Louis.”
“What? What do you mean?” His blue eyes seemed to twinkle.
“I mean, you didn't go to St. Louis. You never intended to meet me.”
“But of course I did! You have the jewels and I —”
“You sent two men to take them away from me.”
There was a puzzled expression on Morgan's face. “I don't understand.”
“At first I thought there might be a leak in your organization, but there wasn't, was there? It was you. You told me that you personally arranged for my train ticket, so you were the only one who knew the number of my compartment. I used a different name and a disguise, but your men knew exactly where to find me.”
There was a look of surprise on his cherubic face. “Are you trying to tell me that some men robbed you of the jewels?”
Tracy smiled. “I'm trying to tell you that they didn't.”
This time the surprise on Morgan's face was genuine. “You have the jewels?”
“Yes. Your friends were in such a big hurry to catch a plane that they left them behind.”
Morgan studied Tracy a moment. “Excuse me.”
He went through a private door, and Tracy sat down on the couch, perfectly relaxed.
Conrad Morgan was gone for almost fifteen minutes, and when he returned, there was a look of dismay on his face. “I'm afraid a mistake has been made. A big mistake. You're a very clever young lady, Miss Whitney. You've earned your twenty-five thousand dollars.” He smiled admiringly. “Give me the jewels and —”
“Fifty thousand.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had to steal them twice. That's fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Morgan. ”
“No,” he said flatly. His eyes had lost their twinkle. “I'm afraid I can't give you that much for them.”
Tracy rose. “That's perfectly all right. I'll try to find someone in Las Vegas who thinks they're worth that.” She moved toward the door.
“Fifty thousand dollars?” Conrad Morgan asked.
Tracy nodded.
“Where are the jewels?”
“In a locker at Penn Station. As soon as you give me the money — in cash — and put me in a taxi, I'll hand you the key.”
Conrad Morgan gave a sigh of defeat. “You've got a deal.”
“Thank you,” Tracy said cheerfully. “It's been a pleasure doing business with you.”
Daniel Cooper was already aware of what the meeting in J. J. Reynolds's office that morning was about, for all the company's investigators had been sent a memo the day before regarding the Lois Bellamy burglary that had taken place a week earlier. Daniel Cooper loathed conferences. He was too impatient to sit around listening to stupid chatter.
He arrived in J. J. Reynolds's office forty-five minutes late, while Reynolds was in the middle of a speech.
“Nice of you to drop by,” J. J. Reynolds said sarcastically. There was no response. It's a waste of time, Reynolds decided. Cooper did not understand sarcasm — or anything else, as far as Reynolds was concerned. Except how to catch criminals. There, he had to admit, the man was a goddamned genius.
Seated in the office were three of the agency's top investigators: David Swift, Robert Schiffer, and Jerry Davis.
“You've all read the report on the Bellamy burglary,” Reynolds said, “but something new has been added. It turns out that Lois Bellamy is a cousin of the police commissioner's. He's raising holy hell.”
“What are the police doing?” Davis asked.
“Hiding from the press. Can't blame them. The investigating officers acted like the Keystone Kops. They actually talked to the burglar they caught in the house and let her get away.”
“Then they should have a good description of her,” Swift suggested.
“They have a good description of her nightgown,” Reynolds retorted witheringly. “They were so goddamned impressed with her figure that their brains melted. They don't even know the color of her hair. She wore some kind of curler cap, and her face was covered with a mudpack. Their description is of a woman somewhere in her middle twenties, with a fantastic ass and tits. There's not one single clue. We have no information to go on. Nothing.”
Daniel Cooper spoke for the first time. “Yes, we have.”
They all turned to look at him, with varying degrees of dislike.
“What are you talking about?” Reynolds asked
“I know who she is.”
When Cooper had read the memo the morning before, he had decided to take a look at the Bellamy house, as a logical first step. To Daniel Cooper, logic was the orderliness of God's mind, the basic solution to every problem, and to apply logic, one always started at the beginning. Cooper drove out to the Bellamy estate in Long Island, took one look at it, and, without getting out of his car, turned around and drove back to Manhattan. He had learned all he needed to know. The house was isolated, and there was no public transportation nearby, which meant that the burglar could have reached the house only by car.
He was explaining his reasoning to the men assembled in Reynolds's office. “Since she probably would have been reluctant to use her own car, which could have been traced, the vehicle either had to be stolen or rented. I decided to try the rental agencies first. I assumed that she would have rented the car in Manhattan, where it would be easier for her to cover her trail.”
Jerry Davis was not impressed. “You've got to be kidding, Cooper. There must be thousands of cars a day rented in Manhattan.”
Cooper ignored the interruption. “All car-rental operations are computerized. Relatively few cars are rented by women. I checked them all out. The lady in question went to Budget Rent a Car at Pier Sixty-one on West Twenty-third Street, rented a Chevy Caprice at eight P.M. the night of the burglary, and returned it to the office at two A.M.”
“How do you know it was the getaway car?” Reynolds asked skeptically.
Cooper was getting bored with the stupid questions. “I checked the elapsed mileage. It's thirty-two miles to the Lois Bellamy estate and another thirty-two miles back. That checks exactly with the odometer on the Caprice. The car was rented in the name of Ellen Branch.”
“A phony,” David Swift surmised.
“Right. Her real name is Tracy Whitney.”
They were all staring at him. “How the hell do you know that?” Schiffer demanded.
“She gave a false name and address, but she had to sign a rental agreement. I took the original down to One Police Plaza and had them run it through for fingerprints. They matched the prints of Tracy Whitney. She served time at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. If you remember, I talked to her about a year ago about a stolen Renoir.”
“I remember,” Reynolds nodded. “You said then that she was innocent.”
“She was — then. She's not innocent anymore. She pulled the Bellamy job.”
The little bastard had done it again! And he had made it seem so simple. Reynolds tried not to sound grudging. “That's — that's fine work, Cooper. Really fine work. Let's nail her. We'll have the police pick her up and —”
“On what charge?” Cooper asked mildly. “Renting a car? The police can't identify her, and there's not a shred of evidence against her.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Schiffer asked. “Let her walk away scot-free?”
“This time, yes,” Cooper said. “But I know who she is now. She'll try something again. And when she does, I'll catch her.”
The meeting was finally over. Cooper desperately wanted a shower. He took out a little black book and wrote in it very carefully: TRACY WHITNEY.
It's time to begin my new life, Tracy decided. But what kind of life? I've gone from an innocent, naive victim to a… what? A thief — that's what. She thought of Joe Romano and Anthony Orsatti and Perry Pope and Judge Lawrence. No. An avenger. That's what I've become. And an adventuress, perhaps. She had outwitted the police, two professional con artists, and a double-crossing jeweler. She thought of Ernestine and Amy and felt a pang. On an impulse, Tracy went to F.A.O. Schwarz and bought a puppet theater, complete with half a dozen characters, and had it mailed to Amy. The card read: SOME NEW FRIENDS FOR YOU. MISS YOU. LOVE TRACY.
Next she visited a furrier on Madison Avenue and bought a blue fox boa for Ernestine and mailed it with a money order for two hundred dollars. The card simply read: THANKS, ERNIE. TRACY.
All my debts are paid now, Tracy thought. It was a good feeling. She was free to go anywhere she liked, do anything she pleased.
She celebrated her independence by checking into a Tower Suite in The Helmsley Palace Hotel. From her forty-seventh-floor living room, she could look down at St. Patrick's Cathedral and see the George Washington Bridge in the distance. Only a few miles in another direction was the dreary place she had recently lived in. Never again, Tracy swore.
She opened the bottle of champagne that the management had sent up and sat sipping it, watching the sun set over the skyscrapers of Manhattan. By the time the moon had risen, Tracy had made up her mind. She was going to London. She was ready for all the wonderful things life had to offer. I've paid my dues, Tracy thought. I deserve some happiness.
She lay in bed and turned on the late television news. Two men were being interviewed. Boris Melnikov was a short, stocky Russian, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, and Pietr Negulesco was his opposite, tall and thin and elegant-looking. Tracy wondered what the two men could possibly have in common.
“Where is the chess match going to be held?” the news anchorman asked.
“At Sochi, on the beautiful Black Sea,” Melnikov replied.
“You are both international grand masters, and this match has created quite a stir, gentlemen. In your previous matches you have taken the title from each other, and your last one was a draw. Mr. Negulesco, Mr. Melnikov currently holds the title. Do you think you will be able to take it away from him again?”
“Absolutely,” the Romanian replied.
“He has no chance,” the Russian retorted.
Tracy knew nothing about chess, but there was an arrogance about both men that she found distasteful. She pressed the remote-control button that turned off the television set and went to sleep.
Early the following morning Tracy stopped at a travel agency and reserved a suite on the Signal Deck of the Queen Elizabeth 2. She was as excited as a child about her first trip abroad, and spent the next three days buying clothes and luggage.
On the morning of the sailing Tracy hired a limousine to drive her to the pier. When she arrived at Pier 90, Berth 3, at West Fifty-fifth and Twelfth Avenue, where the QE II was docked, it was crowded with photographers and television reporters, and for a moment, Tracy was panic-stricken. Then she realized they were interviewing the two men posturing at the foot of the gangplank — Melnikov and Negulesco, the international grand masters. Tracy brushed past them, showed her passport to a ship's officer at the gangplank, and walked up onto the ship. On deck, a steward looked at Tracy's ticket and directed her to her stateroom. It was a lovely suite, with a private terrace. It had been ridiculously expensive, but Tracy decided it was going to be worth it.
She unpacked and then wandered along the corridor. In almost every cabin there were farewell parties going on, with laughter and champagne and conversation. She felt a sudden ache of loneliness. There was no one to see her off, no one for her to care about, no one who cared about her. That's not true, Tracy told herself. Big Bertha wants me. And she laughed aloud.
She made her way up to the Boat Deck and had no idea of the admiring glances of the men and the envious stares of the women cast her way.
Tracy heard the sound of a deep-throated boat whistle and calls of “All ashore who's going ashore,” and she was filled with a sudden excitement. She was sailing into a completely unknown future. She felt the huge ship shudder as the tugs started to pull it out of the harbor, and she stood among the passengers on the Boat Deck, watching the Statue of Liberty slide out of sight, and then she went exploring.
The QE II was a city, more than nine hundred feet long and thirteen stories high. It had four restaurants, six bars, two ballrooms, two nightclubs, and a “Golden Door Spa at Sea.” There were scores of shops, four swimming pools, a gymnasium, a golf driving range, a jogging track. I may never want to leave the ship, Tracy marveled.
She had reserved a table upstairs in the Princess Grill, which was smaller and more elegant than the main dining room. She barely had been seated when a familiar voice said, “Well, hello there!”
She looked up, and there stood Tom Bowers, the bogus FBI man. Oh, no. I don't deserve this, Tracy thought.
“What a pleasant surprise. Do you mind if I join you?”
“Very much.”
He slid into the chair across from her and gave her an engaging smile. “We might as well be friends. After all, we're both here for the same reason, aren't we?”
Tracy had no idea what he was talking about. “Look, Mr. Bowers —”
“Stevens,” he said easily. “Jeff Stevens.”
“Whatever.” Tracy started to rise.
“Wait. I'd like to explain about the last time we met.”
“There's nothing to explain,” Tracy assured him. “An idiot child could have figured it out — and did.”
“I owed Conrad Morgan a favor.” He grinned ruefully. “I'm afraid he wasn't too happy with me.”
There was that same easy, boyish charm that had completely taken her in before. For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away….
She said hostilely, “I'm not too happy with you; either. What are you doing aboard this ship? Shouldn't you be on a riverboat?”
He laughed. “With Maximilian Pierpont on board, this is a riverboat.”
“Who?”
He looked at her in surprise. “Come on. You mean you really don't know?”
“Know what?”
“Max Pierpont is one of the richest men in the world. His hobby is forcing competitive companies out of business. He loves slow horses and fast women, and he owns a lot of both. He's the last of the big-time spenders.”
“And you intend to relieve him of some of his excess wealth.”
“Quite a lot of it, as a matter of fact.” He was eyeing her speculatively. “Do you know what you and I should do?”
“I certainly do, Mr. Stevens. We should say good-bye.”
And he sat there watching as Tracy got up and walked out of the dining room.
She had dinner in her cabin. As she ate, she wondered what ill fate had placed Jeff Stevens in her path again. She wanted to forget the fear she had felt on that train when she thought she was under arrest. Well, I'm not going to let him spoil this trip. I'll simply ignore him.
After dinner Tracy went up on deck. It was a fantastic night, with a magic canopy of stars sprayed against a velvet sky. She was standing at the rail in the moonlight, watching the soft phosphorescence of the waves and listening to the sounds of the night wind, when he moved up beside her.
“You have no idea how beautiful you look standing there. Do you believe in shipboard romances?”
“Definitely. What I don't believe in is you.” She started to walk away.
“Wait. I have some news for you. I just found out that Max Pierpont isn't on board, after all. He canceled at the last minute.”
“Oh, what a shame. You wasted your fare.”
“Not necessarily.” He eyed her speculatively. “How would you like to pick up a small fortune on this voyage?”
The man is unbelievable. “Unless you have a submarine or a helicopter in your pocket, I don't think you'll get away with robbing anyone on this ship.”
“Who said anything about robbing anyone? Have you ever heard of Boris Melnikov or Pietr Negulesco?”
“What if I have?”
“Melnikov and Negulesco are on their way to Russia for a championship match. If I can arrange for you to play the two of them,” Jeff said earnestly, “we can win a lot of money. It's a perfect setup.”
Tracy was looking at him incredulously. “If you can arrange for me to play the two of them? That's your perfect setup?”
“Uh-huh. How do you like it?”
“I love it. There's just one tiny hitch.”
“What's that?”
“I don't play chess.”
He smiled benignly. “No problem. I'll teach you.”
“You're insane,” Tracy said. “If you want some advice, you'll find yourself a good psychiatrist. Good night.”
The following morning Tracy literally bumped into Boris Melnikov. He was jogging on the Boat Deck, and as Tracy rounded a corner, he ran into her, knocking her off her feet.
“Watch where you're going,” he growled. And he kept running.
Tracy sat on the deck, looking after him. “Of all the rude —!” She stood up and brushed herself off.
A steward approached. “Are you hurt, miss? I saw him —”
“No, I'm fine, thank you.”
Nobody was going to spoil this trip.
When Tracy returned to her cabin, there were six messages to call Mr. Jeff Stevens. She ignored them. In the afternoon she swam and read and had a massage, and by the time she went into the bar that evening to have a cocktail before dinner, she was feeling wonderful. Her euphoria was short-lived. Pietr Negulesco, the Romanian, was seated at the bar. When he saw Tracy, he stood up and said, “May I buy you a drink, beautiful lady?”
Tracy hesitated, then smiled. “Why, yes, thank you.”
“What would you like?”
“A vodka and tonic, please.”
Negulesco gave the order to the barman and turned back to Tracy. “I'm Pietr Negulesco.”
“I know.”
“Of course. Everyone knows me. I am the greatest chess player in the world. In my country, I am a national hero.” He leaned close to Tracy, put a hand on her knee, and said, “I am also a great fuck.”
Tracy thought she had misunderstood him. “What?”
“I am a great fuck.”
Her first reaction was to throw her drink in his face, but she controlled herself. She had a better idea. “Excuse me,” she said, “I have to meet a friend.”
She went to look for Jeff Stevens. She found him in the Princess Grill, but as Tracy started toward his table, she saw that he was dining with a lovely-looking blonde with a spectacular figure, dressed in an evening gown that looked as if it had been painted on. I should have known better, Tracy thought. She turned and headed down the corridor. A moment later Jeff was at her side.
“Tracy… did you want to see me?”
“I don't want to take you away from your… dinner.”
“She's dessert,” Jeff said lightly. “What can I do for you?”
“Were you serious about Melnikov and Negulesco?”
“Absolutely. Why?”
“I think they both need a lesson in manners.”
“So do I. And we'll make money while we teach them.”
“Good. What's your plan?”
“You're going to beat them at chess.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I”
“I told you, I don't play chess. I don't know a pawn from a king. I —”
“Don't worry,” Jeff promised her. “A couple of lessons from me, and you'll slaughter them both.”
“Both?”
“Oh, didn't I tell you? You're going to play them simultaneously.”
Jeff was seated next to Boris Melnikov in the. Double Down Piano Bar.
“The woman is a fantastic chess player,” Jeff confided to Melnikov. “She's traveling incognito.”
The Russian grunted. “Women know nothing about chess. They cannot think.”
“This one does. She says she could beat you easily.”
Boris Melnikov laughed aloud. “Nobody beats me — easily or not.”
“She's willing to bet you ten thousand dollars that she can play you and Pietr Negulesco at the same time and get a draw with at least one of you.”
Boris Melnikov choked on his drink. “What! That's — that's ridiculous! Play two of us at the same time? This — this female amateur?”
“That's right. For ten thousand dollars each.”
“I should do it just to teach the stupid idiot a lesson.”
“If you win, the money will be deposited in any country you choose.”
A covetous expression flitted across the Russian's face. “I've never even heard of this person. And to play the two of us! My God, she must be insane.”
“She has the twenty thousand dollars in cash.”
“What nationality is she?”
“American.”
“Ah, that explains it. All rich Americans are crazy, especially their women.”
Jeff started to rise. “Well, I guess she'll just have to play Pietr Negulesco alone.”
“Negulesco is going to play her?”
“Yes, didn't I tell you? She wanted to play the two of you, but if you're afraid…”
“Afraid! Boris Melnikov afraid?” His voice was a roar. “I will destroy her. When is this ridiculous match to take place?”
“She thought perhaps Friday night. The last night out.”
Boris Meinikov was thinking hard. “The best two out of three?”
“No. Only one game.”
“For ten thousand dollars?”
“That is correct.”
The Russian sighed. “I do not have that much cash with me.”
“No problem,” Jeff assured him. “All Miss Whitney really wants is the glory of playing the great Boris Melnikov. If you lose, you give her a personally autographed picture. If you win, you get ten thousand dollars.”
“Who holds the stakes?” There was a sharp note of suspicion in his voice.
“The ship's purser.”
“Very well,” Melnikov decided. “Friday night We will start at ten o'clock, promptly.”
“She'll be so pleased,” Jeff assured him.
The following morning Jeff was talking to Pietr Negulesco in the gymnasium, where the two men were working out.
“She's an American?” Pietr Negulesco said. “I should have known. All Americans are cuckoo.”
“She's a great chess player..”
Pietr Negulesco made a gesture of contempt. “Great is not good enough. Best is what counts. And I am the best.”
“That's why she's so eager to play against you. If you lose, you give her an autographed picture. If you win, you get ten thousand dollars in cash…”
“Negulesco does not play amateurs.”
“…deposited in any country you like.”
“Out of the question.”
“Well, then, I guess she'll have to play only Boris Melnikov.”
“What? Are you saying Melnikov has agreed to play against this woman?”
“Of course. But she was hoping to play you both at once.”
“I've never heard of anything so — so —” Negutesco sputtered, at a loss for words. “The arrogance! Who is she that she thinks she can defeat the two top chess masters in the world? She must have escaped from some lunatic asylum.”
“She's a little erratic,” Jeff confessed, “but her money is good. All cash.”
“You said ten thousand dollars for defeating her?”
“That's right.”
“And Boris Meinikov gets the same amount?”
“If he defeats her.”
Pietr Negulesco grinned. “Oh, he will defeat her. And so will I.”
“Just between us, I wouldn't be a bit surprised.”
“Who will hold the stakes?”
“The ship's purser.”
Why should Melnikov be the only one to take money from this woman? thought Pietr Negutesco.
“My friend, you have a deal. Where and when?”
“Friday night. Ten o'clock. The Queen's Room.”
Pietr Negulesco smiled wolfishly. “I will be there.”
“You mean they agreed?” Tracy cried.
“That's right.”
“I'm going to be sick.”
“I'll get you a cold towel.”
Jeff hurried into the bathroom of Tracy's suite, ran cold water on a towel, and brought it back to her. She was lying on the chaise longue. He placed the towel on her forehead. “How does that feel?”
“Terrible. I think I have a migraine.”
“Have you ever had a migraine before?”
“No.”
“Then you don't have one now. Listen to me, Tracy, it's perfectly natural to be nervous before something like this.”
She leapt up and flung down the towel. “Something like this? There's never been anything like this! I'm playing two international master chess players with one chess lesson from you and —”
“Two,” Jeff corrected her. “You have a natural talent for chess.”
“My God, why did I ever let you talk me into this?”
“Because we're going to make a lot of money.”
“I don't want to make a lot of money,” Tracy wailed. “I want this boat to sink. Why couldn't this be the Titanic?”
“Now, just stay calm,” Jeff said soothingly. “It's going to be —”
“It's going to be a disaster! Everyone on this ship is going to be watching.”
“That's exactly the point, isn't it?” Jeff beamed.
Jeff had made all the arrangements with the ship's purser. He had given the purser the stakes to hold — $20,000 in traveler's checks — and asked him to set up two chess tables for Friday evening. The word spread rapidly throughout the ship, and passengers kept approaching Jeff to ask if the matches were actually going to take place.
“Absolutely,” Jeff assured all who inquired. “It's incredible. Poor Miss Whitney believes she can win. In fact, she's betting on it.”
“I wonder,” a passenger asked, “If I might place a small bet?”
“Certainly. As much money as you like. Miss Whitney is asking only ten-to-one odds.”
A million-to-one odds would have made more sense. From the moment the first bet was accepted, the floodgates opened. It seemed that everyone on board, including the engine-room crew and the ship's officers, wanted to place bets on the game. The amounts varied from five dollars to five thousand dollars and every single bet was on the Russian and the Romanian.
The suspicious purser reported to the captain. “I've never seen anything like it, sir. It's a stampede. Nearly all the passengers have placed wagers. I must be holding two hundred thousand dollars in bets.”
The captain studied him thoughtfully. “You say Miss Whitney is going to play Melnikov and Negulesco at the same time?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Have you verified that the two men are really Pietr Negulesco and Boris Melnikov?”
“Oh, yes, of course, sir.”
“There's no chance they would deliberately throw the chess game, is there?”
“Not with their egos. I think they'd rather die first. And if they lost to this woman, that's probably exactly what would happen to them when they got home.”
The captain ran his fingers through his hair, a puzzled frown on his face. “Do you know anything about Miss Whitney or this Mr. Stevens?”
“Not a thing, sir. As far as I can determine, they're traveling separately.”
The captain made his decision. “It smells like some kind of con game, and ordinarily I would put a stop to it. However, I happen to be a bit of an expert myself, and if there was one thing I'd stake my life on, it's the fact that there is no way to cheat at chess. Let the match go on.” He walked over to his desk and withdrew a black leather wallet. “Put down fifty pounds for me. On the masters.”
By 9:00 Friday evening the Queen's Room was packed with passengers from first class, those who had sneaked in from second and third class, and the ship's officers and members of the crew who were off duty. At Jeff Stevens's request, two rooms had been set up for the tournament. One table was in the center of the Queen's Room, and the other table was in the adjoining salon. Curtains had been drawn to separate the two rooms.
“So that the players aren't distracted by each other,” Jeff explained. “And we would like the spectators to remain in whichever room they choose.”
Velvet ropes had been placed around the two tables to keep the crowds back. The spectators were about to witness something they were sure they would never see again. They knew nothing about the beautiful young American woman, except that it would be impossible for her — or anyone else — to play the great Negulesco and Melnikov simultaneously and obtain a draw with either of them.
Jeff introduced Tracy to the two grand masters shortly before the game was to begin. Tracy looked like a Grecian painting in a muted green chiffon Galanos gown which left one shoulder bare. Her eyes seemed tremendous in her pale face.
Pietr Negulesco looked her over carefully. “Have you won all the national tournaments you have played in?” he asked.
“Yes,” Tracy replied truthfully.
He shrugged. “I have never heard of you.”
Boris Melnikov was equally rude. “You Americans do not know what to do with your money,” he said. “I wish to thank you in advance. My winnings will make my family very happy.”
Tracy's eyes were green jade. “You haven't won, yet, Mr. Melnikov.”
Melnikov's laugh boomed out through the room. “My dear lady, I don't know who you are, but I know who I am. I am the great Boris Melnikov.”
It was 10:00. Jeff looked around and saw that both salons had filled up with spectators. “It's time for the match to start.”
Tracy sat down across the table from Melnikov and wondered for the hundredth time how she had gotten herself into this.
“There's nothing to it,” Jeff had assured her. “Trust me.”
And like a fool she had trusted him. I must have been out of my mind, Tracy thought. She was playing the two greatest chess players in the world, and she knew nothing about the same, except what Jeff had spent four hours teaching her.
The big moment had arrived. Tracy felt her legs trembling. Melnikov turned to the expectant crowd and grinned. He made a hissing noise at a steward. “Bring me a brandy. Napoleon.”
“In order to be fair to everyone,” Jeff had said to Melnikov, “I suggest that you play the white so that you go first, and in the game with Mr. Negulesco, Miss Whitney will play the white and she will go first.”
Both grand masters agreed.
While the audience stood hushed, Boris Melnikov reached across the board and played the queen's gambit decline opening, moving his queen pawn two squares. I'm not simply going to beat this woman. I'm going to crush her.
He glanced up at Tracy. She studied the board, nodded, and stood up, without moving a piece. A steward cleared the way through the crowd as Tracy walked into the second salon, where Pietr Negulesco was seated at a table waiting for her. There were at least a hundred people crowding the room as Tracy took her seat opposite Negulesco.
“Ah, my little pigeon. Have you defeated Boris yet?” Pietr Negulesco laughed uproariously at his joke.
“I'm working on it, Mr. Negulesco,” Tracy said quietly.
She reached forward and moved her white queen's pawn two squares. Negulesco looked up at her and grinned. He had arranged for a massage in one hour, but he planned to finish this game before then. He reached down and moved his black queen's pawn two squares. Tracy studied the board a moment, then rose. The steward escorted her back to Boris Melnikov.
Tracy sat down at the table and moved her black queen's pawn two squares. In the background she saw Jeffs almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Without hesitation, Boris Melnikov moved his white queen's bishop pawn two squares.
Two minutes later, at Negulesco's table, Tracy moved her white queen's bishop two squares.
Negulesco played his king's pawn square.
Tracy rose and returned to the room where Boris Melnikov was waiting. Tracy played her king's pawn square.
So! She is not a complete amateur, Melnikov thought in surprise. Let us see what she does with this. He played his queen's knight to queen's bishop 3.
Tracy watched his move, nodded, and returned to Negulesco, where she copied Melnikov's move.
Negulesco moved the queen's bishop pawn two squares, and Tracy went back to Melnikov and repeated Negulesco's move.
With growing astonishment, the two grand masters realized they were up against a brilliant opponent. No matter how clever their moves, this amateur managed to counteract them.
Because they were separated, Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco had no idea that, in effect, they were playing against each other. Every move that Melnikov made with Tracy, Tracy repeated with Negulesco. And when Negulesco countered with a move, Tracy used that move against Melnikov.
By the time the grand masters entered the middle game, they were no longer smug. They were fighting for their reputations. They paced the floor while they contemplated moves and puffed furiously on cigarettes. Tracy appeared to be the only calm one.
In the beginning, in order to end the game quickly, Melnikov had tried a knight's sacrifice to allow his white bishop to put pressure on the black king's side. Tracy had carried the move to Negulesco. Negulesco had examined the move carefully, then refuted the sacrifice by covering his exposed side, and when Negulesco had sacked a bishop to advance a rook to white's seventh rank, Melnikov had refuted it before the black rook could damage his pawn structure.
There was no stopping Tracy. The game had been going on for four hours, and not one person in either audience had stirred.
Every grand master carries in his head hundreds of games played by other grand masters. It was as this particular match was going into the end game that both Melnikov and Negulesco recognized the hallmark of the other.
The bitch, Melnikov thought. She has studied with Negulesco. He has tutored her.
And Negulesco thought, She is Melnikov's protegee. The bastard has taught her his game.
The harder they fought Tracy, the more they came to realize there was simply no way they could beat her. The match was appearing drawish.
In the sixth hour of play, at 4:00 A.M., when the players had reached the end game, the pieces on each board had been reduced to three pawns, one rook, and a king. There was no way for either side to win. Melnikov studied the board for a long time, then took a deep, choked breath and said, “I offer a draw.”
Over the hubbub, Tracy said, “I accept.”
The crowd went wild.
Tracy rose and made her way through the crowd into the next room. As she started to take her seat, Neguleseo, in a strangled voice said, “I offer a draw.”
And the uproar from the other room was repeated. The crowd could not believe what it had just witnessed. A woman had come out of nowhere to simultaneously stalemate the two greatest chess masters in the world.
Jeff appeared at Tracy's side. “Come on,” he grinned. “We both need a drink.”
When they left, Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco were sill slumped in their chairs, mindlessly staring at their boards.
Tracy and Jeff sat at a table for two in the Upper Deck bar. “You were beautiful,” Jeff laughed. “Did you notice the look on Melnikov's face? I thought he was going to have a heart attack.”
“I thought I was going to have a heart attack,” Tracy said. “How much did we win?”
“About two hundred thousand dollars. We'll collect it from the purser in the morning when we dock at Southampton. I'll meet you for breakfast in the dining room.”
“Fine.”
“I think I'll turn in now. Let me walk you to your stateroom.”
“I'm not ready to go to bed yet, Jeff. I'm too excited. You go ahead.”
“You were a champion,” Jeff told her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Good night, Tracy.”
“Good night, Jeff.”
She watched him leave. Go to sleep? Impossible! It had been one of the most fantastic nights of her life. The Russian and the Romanian had been so sure of themselves, so arrogant. Jeff had said, “Trust me,” and she had. She had no illusions about what he was. He was a con artist. He was bright and amusing and clever, easy to be with. But of course she could never be seriously interested in him.
Jeff was on the way to his stateroom when he encountered one of the ship's officers.
“Good show, Mr. Stevens. The word about the match has already gone out over the wireless. I imagine the press will be meeting you both at Southampton. Are you Miss Whitney's manager?”
“No, we're just shipboard acquaintances,” Jeff said easily, but his mind was racing. If he and Tracy were linked together, it would look like a setup. There could even be an investigation. He decided to collect the money before any suspicions were aroused.
Jeff wrote a note to Tracy. HAVE PICKED UP MONEY AND WILL MEET YOU FOR A CELEBRATION BREAKFAST AT THE SAVOY HOTEL. YOU WERE MAGNIFICENT. JEFF. He sealed it in an envelope and handed it to a steward. “Please see that Miss Whitney gets this first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Jeff headed for the purser's office.
“Sorry to bother you,” Jeff apologized, “but we'll be docking in a few hours, and I know how busy you're going to be, so I wondered whether you'd mind paying me off now?”
“No trouble at all,” the purser smiled. “Your young lady is really wizard, isn't she?”
“She certainly is.”
“If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Stevens, where in the world did she learn to play chess like that?”
Jeff leaned close and confided, “I heard she studied with Bobby Fischer.”
The purser took two large manila envelopes out of the safe. “This is a lot of cash to carry around. Would you like me to give you a check for this amount?”
“No, don't bother. The cash will be fine,” Jeff assured him. “I wonder if you could do me a favor? The mail boat comes out to meet the ship before it docks, doesn't it?”
“Yes, Sir. We're expecting it at six A.M.”
“I'd appreciate it if you could arrange for me to leave on the mail boat. My mother is seriously ill, and I'd like to get to her before it's” — his voice dropped — “before it's too late.”
“Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr. Stevens. Of course I can handle that for you. I'll make the arrangements with customs.”
At 6:15 A.M. Jeff Stevens, with the two envelopes carefully stashed away in his suitcase, climbed down the ship's ladder into the mail boat. He turned to take one last look at the outline of the huge ship towering above him. The passengers on the liner were sound asleep. Jeff would be on the dock long before the QE II landed. “It was a beautiful voyage,” Jeff said to one of the crewmen on the mail boat.
“Yes, it was, wasn't it?” a voice agreed.
Jeff turned around. Tracy was seated on a coil of rope, her hair blowing softly around her face.
“Tracy! What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I'm doing?”
He saw the expression on her face. “Wait a minute! You didn't think I was going to run out on you?”
“Why would I think that?” Her tone was bitter.
“Tracy, I left a note for you. I was going to meet you at the Savoy and —”
“Of course you were,” she said cuttingly. “You never give up, do you?”
He looked at her, and there was nothing more for him to say.
In Tracy's suite at the Savoy, she watched carefully as Jeff counted out the money. “Your share comes to one hundred and one thousand dollars.”
“Thank you.” Her tone was icy.
Jeff said, “You know, you're wrong about me, Tracy. I wish you'd give me a chance to explain. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”
“Good. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock.”
When Jeff Stevens arrived at the hotel that evening and asked for Tracy, the room clerk said, “I'm sorry, sir. Miss Whitney checked out early this afternoon. She left no forwarding address.”
It was the handwritten invitation. Tracy decided later, that changed her life.
After, collecting her share of the money from Jeff Stevens, Tracy checked out of the Savoy and moved into 47 Park Street, a quiet, semiresidential hotel with large, pleasant rooms and superb service.
On her second day in London the invitation was delivered to her suite by the hall porter. It was written in a fine, copperplate handwriting: “A mutual friend has suggested that it might be advantageous for us to become acquainted. Won't you join me for tea at the Ritz this afternoon at 4:00? If you will forgive the clichй, I will be wearing a red carnation.” It was signed “Gunther Hartog.”
Tracy had never heard of him. Her first inclination was to ignore the note, but her curiosity got the better of her, and at 4:15 she was at the entrance of the elegant dining hall of the Ritz Hotel. She noticed him immediately. He was in his sixties, Tracy guessed, an interesting-looking man with a lean, intellectual face. His skin was smooth and clear, almost translucent. He was dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit and wore a red carnation in his lapel.
As Tracy walked toward his table, he rose and bowed slightly. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
He seated her with an old-fashioned gallantry that Tracy found attractive. He seemed to belong to another world. Tracy could not imagine what on earth he wanted with her.
“I came because I was curious,” Tracy confessed, “but are you sure you haven't confused me with some other Tracy Whitney?”
Gunther Hartog smiled. “From what I have heard, there is only one Tracy Whitney.”
“What exactly have you heard?”
“Shall we discuss that over tea?”
Tea consisted of finger sandwiches, filled with chopped egg, salmon, cucumber, watercress, and chicken. There were hot scones with clotted cream and jam, and freshly made pastries, accompanied by Twinings tea. As they ate, they talked.
“Your note mentioned a mutual friend,” Tracy began.
“Conrad Morgan. I do business with him from time to time.”
I did business with him once, Tracy thought grimly. And he tried to cheat me.
“He's a great admirer of yours,” Gunther Hartog was saying.
Tracy looked at her host more closely. He had the bearing of an aristocrat and the look of wealth. What does he want with me? Tracy wondered again. She decided to let him pursue the subject, but there was no further mention of Conrad Morgan or of what possible mutual benefit there could be between Gunther Hartog and Tracy Whitney.
Tracy found the meeting enjoyable and intriguing. Gunther told her about his background. “I was born in Munich. My father was a banker. He was wealthy, and I'm afraid I grew up rather spoiled, surrounded by beautiful paintings and antiques. My mother was Jewish, and when Hitler came to power, my father refused to desert my mother, and so he was stripped of everything. They were both killed in the bombings. Friends smuggled me out of Germany to Switzerland, and when the war was over, I decided not to return to Germany. I moved London and opened a small antique shop on Mount Street. I hope that you will visit it one day.”
That's what this is all about, Tracy thought in surprise. He wants to sell me something.
As it turned out, she was wrong.
As Gunther Hartog was paying the check, he said, casually, “I have a little country house in Hampshire. I'm having a few friends down for the weekend, and I'd be delighted if you would join us.”
Tracy hesitated. The man was a complete stranger, and she still had no idea what he wanted from her. She decided she had nothing to lose.
The weekend turned out to be fascinating. Gunther Hartog's “little country house” was a beautiful seventeenth-century manor home on a thirty-acre estate. Gunther was a widower, and except for his servants, he lived alone. He took Tracy on a tour of the grounds. There was a barn stabling half a dozen horses, and a yard where he raised chickens and pigs.
“That's so we'll never go hungry,” he said gravely. “Now, let me show you my real hobby.”
He led Tracy to a cote full of pigeons. “These are homing pigeons.” Gunther's voice was filled with pride. “Look at these little beauties. See that slate-gray one over there? That's Margo.” He picked her up and held her. “You really are a dreadful girl, do you know that? She bullies the others, but she's the brightest.” He gently smoothed the feathers over the small head and carefully set her down.
The colors of the birds were spectacular: There was a variety of blue-black, blue-gray with checked patterns, and silver.
“But no white ones,” Tracy noticed.
“Homing pigeons are never white,” Gunther explained, “because white feathers come off too easily, and when pigeons are homing, they fly at an average of forty miles an hour.”
Tracy watched Gunther as he fed the birds a special racing feed with added vitamins.
“They are an amazing species,” Gunther said. “Do you know they can find their way home from over five hundred miles away?”
“That's fascinating.”
The guests were equally fascinating. There was a cabinet minister, with his wife; an earl; a general and his girl friend; and the Maharani of Morvi, a very attractive, friendly young woman. “Please call me V.J.,” she said, in an almost unaccented voice. She wore a deep-red sari shot with golden threads, and the most beautiful jewels Tracy had ever seen.
“I keep most of my jewelry in a vault,” V.J. explained. “There are so many robberies these days.”
On Sunday afternoon, shortly before Tracy was to return to London, Gunther invited her into his study. They sat across from each other over a tea tray. As Tracy poured the tea into the wafer-thin Belleek cups, she said, “I don't know why you invited me here, Gunther, but whatever the reason, I've had a wonderful time.”
“I'm pleased, Tracy.” Then, after a moment, he continued. “I've been observing you.”
“I see.”
“Do you have any plans for the future?”
She hesitated. “No. I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet.”
“I think we could work well together.”
“You mean in your antique shop?”
He laughed. “No, my dear. It would be a shame to waste your talents. You see, I know about your escapade with Conrad Morgan. You handled it brilliantly.”
“Gunther… all that's behind me.”
“But what's ahead of you? You said you have no plans. You must think about your future. Whatever money you have is surely going to run out one day. I'm suggesting a partnership. I travel in very affluent, international circles. I attend charity balls and hunting parties and yachting parties. I know the comings and goings of the rich.”
“I don't see what that has to do with me —”
“I can introduce you into that golden circle. And I do mean golden, Tracy. I can supply you with information about fabulous jewels and paintings, and how you can safely acquiree them. I can dispose of them privately. You would be balancing the ledgers of people who have become wealthy at the expense of others. Everything would be divided evenly between us. What do you say?”
“I say no.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “I see. You will call me if you change your mind?”
“I won't change my mind, Gunther.”
Late that afternoon Tracy returned to London.
Tracy adored London. She dined at Le Gavroche and Bill Bentley's and Coin du Feu, and went to Drones after the theater, for real American hamburgers and hot chili. She went to the National Theatre and the Royal Opera House and attended auctions at Christie's and Sotheby's. She shopped at Harrods, and Fortnum and Mason's, and browsed for books at Hatchards and Foyles, and W. H. Smith. She hired a car and driver and spent a memorable weekend at the Chewton Glen Hotel in Hampshire, on the fringe of the New Forest, where the setting was spectacular and the service impeccable.
But all these things were expensive. Whatever money you have is sure to run out some day. Gunther Hartog was right. Her money was not going to last forever, and Tracy realized she would have to make plans for the future.
She was invited back for more weekends at Gunther's country home, and she thoroughly enjoyed each visit and delighted in Gunther's company.
One Sunday evening at dinner a member of Parliament turned to Tracy and said, “I've never met a real Texan, Miss Whitney. What are they like?”
Tracy went into a wicked imitation of a nouveau riche Texas dowager and had the company roaring with laughter.
Later, when Tracy and Gunther were alone, he asked, “How would you like to make a small fortune doing that imitation?”
“I'm not an actress, Gunther.”
“You underestimate yourself. There's a jewelry firm in London — Parker and Parker — that takes a delight in — as you Americans would say — ripping off their customers. You've given me an idea how to make them pay for their dishonesty.” He told Tracy his idea.
“No,” Tracy said. But the more she thought about it, the more intrigued she was. She remembered the excitement of outwitting the police in Long Island, and Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco, and Jeff Stevens. It had been a thrill that was indescribable. Still, that was part of the past.
“No, Gunther,” she said again. But this time there was less certainty in her voice.
London was unseasonably warm for October, and Englishmen and tourists alike took advantage of the bright sunshine. The noon traffic was heavy with tie-ups at Trafalgar Square, Charing Cross, and Piccadilly Circus. A white Daimler turned off Oxford Street to New Bond Street and threaded its way through the traffic, passing Roland Cartier, Geigers, and the Royal Bank of Scotland. A few doors farther on, it coasted to a stop in front of a jewelry store. A discreet, polished sign at the side of the door read: PARKER & PARKER. A liveried chauffeur stepped out of the limousine and hurried around to open the rear door for his passenger. A young woman with blond Sassoon-ed hair, wearing far too much makeup and a tight-fitting Italian knit dress under a sable coat, totally inappropriate for the weather, jumped out of the car.
“Which way's the joint, junior?” she asked. Her voice was loud, with a grating Texas accent.
The chauffeur indicated the entrance. “There, madame.”
“Okay, honey. Stick around. This ain't gonna take long.”
“I may have to circle the block, madame. I won't be permitted to park here.”
She clapped him on the back and said, “You do what you gotta do, sport.”
Sport! The chauffeur winced. It was his punishment for being reduced to chauffeuring rental cars. He disliked all Americans, particularly Texans. They were savages; but savages with money. He would have been astonished to learn that his passenger had never even seen the Lone Star State.
Tracy checked her reflection in the display window, smiled broadly, and strutted toward the door, which was opened by a uniformed attendant.
“Good afternoon, madame.”
“Afternoon, sport. You sell anythin' besides costume jewelry in this joint?” She chuckled at her joke.
The doorman blanched. Tracy swept into the store, trailing an overpowering scent of Chloй behind her.
Arthur Chilton, a salesman in a morning coat, moved toward her. “May I help you, madame?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Old P.J. told me to buy myself a little birthday present, so here I am. Whatcha got?”
“Is there something in particular Madame is interested in?”
“Hey, pardner, you English fellows are fast workers, ain'cha?” She laughed raucously and clapped him on the shoulder. He forced himself to remain impassive. “Mebbe somethin' in emeralds. Old P.J. loves to buy me emeralds.”
“If you'll step this way, please….”
Chilton led her to a vitrine where several trays of emeralds were displayed.
The bleached blonde gave them one disdainful glance. “These're the babies. Where are the mamas and papas?”
Chilton said stiffly, “These range in price up to thirty thousand dollars.”
“Hell, I tip my hairdresser that.” The woman guffawed. “Old P.J. would be insulted if I came back with one of them little pebbles.”
Chilton visualized old P.J. Fat and paunchy and as loud and obnoxious as this woman. They deserved each other. Why did money always flow to the undeserving? he wondered.
“What price range was Madame interested in?”
“Why don't we start with somethin' around a hundred G's.”
He looked blank. “A hundred G's?”
“Hell, I thought you people was supposed to speak the king's English. A hundred grand. A hundred thou.”
He swallowed. “Oh. In that case, perhaps it would be better if you spoke with our managing director.”
The managing director, Gregory Halston, insisted on personally handling all large sales, and since the employees of Parker & Parker received no commission, it made no difference to them. With a customer as distasteful as this one, Chilton was relieved to let Halston deal with her. Chilton pressed a button under the counter, and a moment later a pale, reedy-looking man bustled out of a back room. He took a look at the outrageously dressed blonde and prayed that none of his regular customers appeared until the woman had departed.
Chilton said, “Mr. Halston, this is Mrs…. er…?” He turned to the woman.
“Benecke, honey. Mary Lou Benecke. Old P.J. Benecke's wife. Betcha you all have heard of P.J. Benecke.”
“Of course.” Gregory Halston gave her a smile that barely touched his lips.
“Mrs. Benecke is interested in purchasing an emerald, Mr. Halston.”
Gregory Halston indicated the trays of emeralds. “We have some fine emeralds here that —”
“She wanted something for approximately a hundred thousand dollars.”
This time the smile that lit Gregory Halston's face was genuine. What a nice way to start the day.
“You see; it's my birthday, and old P.J. wants me to buy myself somethin' pretty.”
“Indeed,” Halston said. “Would you follow me, please?”
“You little rascal, what you got in mind?” The blonde giggled.
Halston and Chilton exchanged a pained look. Bloody Americans!
Halston led the woman to a locked door and opened it with a key. They entered a small, brightly lit room, and Halston carefully locked the door behind them.
“This is where we keep our merchandise for our valued customers,” he said.
In the center of the room was a showcase filled with a stunning array of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, flashing their bright colors.
“Well, this is more like it. Old P.J.'d go crazy in here.”
“Does Madame see something she likes?”
“Well, let's jest see what we got here.” She walked over to to jewelry case containing emeralds. “Let me look at that there bunch.”
Halston extracted another small key from his pocket, unlocked the case, lifted out a tray of emeralds, and placed it on top of the table. There were ten emeralds in the velvet case. Halston watched as the woman picked up the largest of them, as exquisite pin in a platinum setting.
“As old P.J. would say, 'This here one's got my name writ on it.' ”
“Madame has excellent taste. This is a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. It's flawless and —”
“Emeralds ain't never flawless.”
Halston was taken aback for an instant. “Madame is correct, of course. What I meant was —” For the first time he noticed that the woman's eyes were as green as the stone she twisted in her hands, turning it around, studying its facets.
“We have a wider selection if —”
“No sweat, sweetie. I'll take this here one.”
The sale had taken fewer than three minutes.
“Splendid,” Ralston said. Then he added delicately, “In dollars it comes to one hundred thousand. How will Madame paying?”
“Don't you worry, Halston, old sport, I have a dollar account at a bank here in London. I'll write out a little ole personal check. Then P.J. can jest pay me back.”
“Excellent. I'll have the stone cleaned for you and delivered to your hotel.”
The stone did not need cleaning, but Halston had no intention of letting it out of his possession until her check had cleared, for too many jewelers he knew had been bilked by clever swindlers. Halston prided himself on the fact that he had never been cheated out of one pound.
“Where shall I have the emerald delivered?”
“We got ourselves the Oliver Messel Suite at the Dorch.”
Halston made a note. “The Dorchester.”
“I call it the Oliver Messy Suite,” she laughed. “Lots of people don't like the hotel anymore because it's full of A-rabs, but old P.J. does a lot of business with them. `Oil is its own country,' he always says. P.J. Benecke's one smart fella.”
“I'm sure he is,” Halston replied dutifully.
He watched as she tore out a check and began writing. He noted that it was a Barclays Bank check. Good. He had a friend there who would verify the Beneckes' account.
He picked up the check. “I'll have the emerald delivered to you personally tomorrow morning.”
“Old P.J.'s gonna love it,” she beamed.
“I am sure he will,” Halston said politely.
He walked her to the front door.
“Ralston —”
He almost corrected her, then decided against it. Why bother? He was never going to lay eyes on her again, thank God! “Yes, madame?”
“You gotta come up and have tea with us some afternoon. You'll love old P.J.”
“I am sure I would. Unfortunately, I work afternoons.”
“Too bad.”
He watched as his customer walked out to the curb. A white Daimler slithered up, and a chauffeur got out and opened the door for her. The blonde turned to give Halston the thumbsup sign as she drove off.
When Halston returned to his office, he immediately picked up the telephone and called his friend at Barclays. “Peter, dear, I have a check here for a hundred thousand dollars drawn on the account of a Mrs. Mary Lou Benecke. Is it good?”
“Hold on, old boy.”
Halston waited. He hoped the check was good, for business had been slow lately. The miserable Parker brothers, who owned the store, were constantly complaining, as though it were he who was responsible and not the recession. Of course, profits were not down as much as they could have been, for Parker & Parker had a department that specialized in cleaning jewelry, and at frequent intervals the jewelry that was returned to the customer was inferior to the original that had been brought in. Complaints had been lodged, but nothing had ever been proven.
Peter was back on the line. “No problem, Gregory. There's more than enough money in the account to cover the check.” Halston felt a little frisson of relief. “Thank you, Peter.”
“Not at all.”
“Lunch next week — on me.”
The check cleared the following morning, and the Colombian emerald was delivered by bonded messenger to Mrs. P.J. Benecke at the Dorchester Hotel.
That afternoon, shortly before closing time, Gregory Halston's secretary said, “A Mrs. Benecke is here to see you, Mr. Halston.”
His heart sank. She had come to return the pin, and he could hardly refuse to take it back. Damn all women, all Americans, and all Texans! Halston put on a smile and went out to greet her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Benecke. I assume your husband didn't like the pin.”
She grinned. “You assume wrong, buster. Old P.J. was just plain crazy about it.”
Halston's heart began to sing. “He was?”
“In fact, he liked it so much he wants me to get another one so we can have 'em made into a pair of earrings. Let me have a twin to the one I got.”
A small frown appeared on Gregory Halston's face. “I'm afraid we might have a little problem there, Mrs. Benecke.”
“What kinda problem, honey?”
“Yours is a unique stone. There's not another one like it. Now, I have a lovely set in a different style I could —”
“I don't want a different style. I want one jest like the one I bought.”
“To be perfectly candid, Mrs. Benecke, there aren't very many ten-carat Colombian flawless” — he saw her look — “nearly flawless stones available.”
“Come on, sport. There's gotta be one somewhere.”
“In all honesty, I've seen very few stones of that quality, and to try to duplicate it exactly in shape and color would be almost impossible.”
“We got a sayin' in Texas that the impossible jest takes a little longer. Saturday's my birthday. P.J. wants me to have those earrings, and what P.J. wants, P.J. gets.”
“I really don't think I can —”
“How much did I pay for that pin — a hundred grand? I know old P.J. will go up to two hundred or three hundred thousand for another one.”
Gregory Halston was thinking fast. There had to be a duplicate of that stone somewhere, and if P. J. Benecke was willing to pay an extra $200,000 for it, that would mean a tidy profit. In fact, Halston thought, I can work it out so that it means a tidy profit for me.
Aloud he said, “I'll inquire around, Mrs. Benecke. I'm sure that no other jeweler in London has the identical emerald, but there are always estates coming up for auction. I'll do some advertising and see what results I get.”
“You got till the end of the week,” the blonde told him. “And jest between you and me and the lamppost, old P.J. will probably be willin' to go up to three hundred fifty thousand for it.”
And Mrs. Benecke was gone, her sable coat billowing out behind her.
Gregory Halston sat in his office lost in a daydream. Fate had placed in his hands a man who was so besotted with his blond tart that he was willing to pay $350,000 for a $100,000 emerald. That was a net profit of $250,000. Gregory Halston saw no need to burden the Parker brothers with the details of the transaction. It would be a simple matter to record the sale of the second emerald at $100,000 and pocket the rest. The extra $250,000 would set him up for life.
All he had to do now was to find a twin to the emerald he had sold to Mrs. P.J. Benecke.
It turned out to be even more difficult than Halston had anticipated. None of the jewelers he telephoned had anything in stock that resembled what he required. He placed advertisements in the London Times and the Financial Times, and he called Christie's and Sotheby's, and a dozen estate agents. In the next few days Halston was inundated with a flood of inferior emeralds, good emeralds, and a few first-quality emeralds, but none of them came close to what he was looking for.
On Wednesday Mrs. Benecke telephoned. “Old P.J.'s gettin' mighty restless,” she warned. “Did you find it yet?”
“Not yet, Mrs. Benecke,” Halston assured her, “but don't worry, we will.”
On Friday she telephoned again. “Tomorrow's my birthday,” she reminded Halston.
“I know, Mrs. Benecke. If I only had a few more days, I know I could —”
“Well, never mind, sport. If you don't have that emerald by tomorrow mornin', I'll return the one I bought from you. Old P.J. — bless his heart — says he's gonna buy me a big ole country estate instead. Ever hear of a place called Sussex?”
Halston broke out in perspiration. “Mrs. Benecke,” he moaned earnestly, “you would hate living in Sussex. You would loathe living in a country house. Most of them are in deplorable condition. They have no central heating and —”
“Between you and I,” she interrupted, “I'd rather have them earrings. Old P.J. even mentioned somethin' about bein' willin' to pay four hundred thousand dollars for a twin to that stone. You got no idea how stubborn old P.J. can be.”
Four hundred thousand! Halston could feel the money slipping between his fingers. “Believe me, I'm doing everything I can,” he pleaded. “I need a little more time.”
“It ain't up to me, honey,” she said. “It's up to P.J.”
And the line went dead.
Halston sat there cursing fate. Where could he find an identical ten-carat emerald? He was so busy with his bitter thoughts that he did not hear his intercom until the third buzz. He pushed down the button and snapped, “What is it?”
“There's a Contessa Marissa on the telephone, Mr. Halston. She's calling about our advertisement for the emerald.”
Another one! He had had at least ten calls that morning, every one of them a waste of time. He picked up the telephone and said ungraciously, “Yes?”
A soft female voice with an Italian accent said, “Buon giorno, signore. I have read you are interested possibly in buying an emerald, sм?”
“If it fits my qualifications, yes.” He could not keep the impatience out of his voice.
“I have an emerald that has been in my family for many years. It is a peccato — a pity — but I am in a situation now where I am forced to sell it.”
He had heard that story before. I must try Christie's again, Halston thought. Or Sotheby's. Maybe something came in at the last minute, or —
“Signore? You are looking for a ten-carat emerald, sм?”
“Yes ”
“I have a ten-carat verde — green — Colombian.”
When Halston started to speak, he found that his voice was choked. “Would — would you say that again, please?”
“Sм. I have a ten-carat grass-green Colombian. Would you be interested in that?”
“I might be,” he said carefully. “I wonder if you could drop by and let me have a look at it.”
“No, scusi, I am afraid I am very busy right now. We are preparing a party at the embassy for my husband. Perhaps next week I could —”
No! Next week would be too late. “May I come to see you?” He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “I could come up now.”
“Ma, no. Sono occupata stamani. I was planning to go shopping —”
“Where are you staying, Contessa?”
“At the Savoy.”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes. Ten.” His voice was feverish.
“Molto bene. And your name is —”
“Halston. Gregory Halston.”
“Suite ventisei — twenty-six.”
The taxi ride was interminable. Halston transported himself from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, and back again. If the emerald was indeed similar to the other one, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Four hundred thousand dollars, he'll pay. A $300,000 profit. He would buy a place on the Riviera. Perhaps get a cruiser. With a villa and his own boat, he would be able to attract as many handsome young men as he liked….
Gregory halston was an atheist, but as he walked down the corridor of the Savoy Hotel to Suite 26, he found himself praying, Let the stone be similar enough to satisfy old P.J. Benecke.
He stood in front of the door of the contessa's room taking slow, deep breaths, fighting to get control of himself. He knocked on the door, and there was no answer.
Oh, my God, Halston thought. She's gone; she didn't wait for me. She went out shopping and —
The door opened, and Halston found himself facing an elegant-looking lady in her fifties, with dark eyes, a lined face, and black hair laced with gray.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, with the familiar melodic Italian accent. “Sм?”
“I'm G-Gregory Halston. You t-telephoned me.” In his nervousness he was stuttering.
“Ah, sм. I am the Contessa Marissa. Come in, signore, per favore.”
“Thank you.”
He entered the suite, pressing his knees together to keep them from trembling. He almost blurted out, “Where's the emerald? But he knew he must control himself. He must not seem too eager. If the stone was satisfactory, he would have the advantage in bargaining. After all, he was the expert. She was an amateur.”
“Please to sit yourself,” the contessa said.
He took a chair.
“Scusi. Non parlo molto bene inglese. I speak poor English.”
“No, no. It's charming, charming.”
“Grazie. Would you take perhaps coffee? Tea?”
“No, thank you, Contessa.”
He could feel his stomach quivering. Was it too soon to bring up the subject of the emerald? He could not wait another second. “The emerald —”
She said, “Ah, sм. The emerald was given to me by my grandmother. I wish to pass it on to my daughter when she is twenty-five, but my husband is going into a new business in Milano, and I —”
Halston's mind was elsewhere. He was not interested in the boring life story of the stranger sitting across from him. He was burning to see the emerald. The suspense was more than he could bear.
“Credo che sia importante to help my husband get started in his business.” She smiled ruefully. “Perhaps I am making a mistake —”
“No, no,” Halston said hastily. “Not at all, Contessa. It's a wife's duty to stand by her husband. Where is the emerald now?”
“I have it here,” the contessa said.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a jewel wrapped in a tissue, and held it out to Halston. He stared at it, and his spirits soared. He was looking at the most exquisite ten-carat grass-green Colombian emerald he had ever seen. It was so close in appearance, size, and color to the one he had sold Mrs. Benecke that the difference was almost impossible to detect. It is not exactly the same, Halston told himself, but only an expert would be able to tell the difference. His hands began to tremble. He forced himself to appear calm.
He turned the stone over, letting the light catch the beautiful facets, and said casually, “It's a rather nice little stone.”
“Splendente, sм. I have loved it very much all these years. I will hate to part with it.”
“You're doing the right thing,” Halston assured her. “Once your husband's business is successful, you will be able to buy as many of these as you wish.”
“That is exactly what I feel. You are molto simpatico.”
“I'm doing a little favor for a friend, Contessa. We have much better stones than this in our shop, but my friend wants one to match an emerald that his wife bought. I imagine he would be willing to pay as much as sixty thousand dollars for this stone.”
The contessa sighed. “My grandmother would haunt me from her grave if I sold it for sixty thousand dollars.”
Halston pursed his lips. He could afford to go higher. He smiled. “I'll tell you what… I think I might persuade my friend to go as high as one hundred thousand. That's a great deal of money, but he's anxious to have the stone.”
“That sounds fair,” the contessa said.
Gregory Halston's heart swelled within his breast. “Bene! I brought my checkbook with me, so I'll just write out a check —”
“Ma, no…. I am afraid it will not solve my problem.” The contessa's voice was sad.
Halston stared at her. “Your problem?”
“Sм. As I explain, my husband is going into this new business, and he needs three hundred fifty thousand dollars. I have a hundred thousand of my money to give him, but I need two hundred fifty thousand more. I was hope to get it for this emerald.”
He shook his head. “My dear Contessa, no emerald in the world is worth that kind of money. Believe me, one hundred thousand dollars is more than a fair offer.”
“I am sure it is so, Mr. Halston,” the contessa told him, “but it will not help my husband, will it?” She rose to her feet. “I will save this to give to our daughter.” She held out a slim, delicate hand. “Grazie, signore. Thank you for coming.”
Halston stood there in a panic. “Wait a minute,” he said. His greed was dueling with his common sense, but he knew he must not lose the emerald now. “Please sit down, Contessa. I'm sure we can come to some equitable arrangement. If I can persuade my client to pay a hundred fifty thousand —?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Let's say, two hundred thousand?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
There was no budging her. Halston made his decision. A $150,000 profit was better than nothing. It would mean a smaller villa and boat, but it was still a fortune. It would serve the Parker brothers right for the shabby way they treated him. He would wait a day or two and then give them his notice. By next week he would be on the Cфte d'Azur.
“You have a deal,” he said.
“Meraviglioso! Sono contenta!”
You should be contented, you bitch, Halston thought. But he had nothing to complain about. He was set for life. He took one last look at the emerald and slipped it into his pocket. “I'll give you a check written on the store's account.”
“Bene, signore.”
Halston wrote out the check and handed it to her. He would have Mrs. P.J. Benecke make out her $400,000 check to cash. Peter would cash the check for him, and he would exchange the contessa's check for the Parker brothers' check and pocket the difference. He would arrange it with Peter so that the $250,000 check would not appear on the Parker brothers' monthly statement. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
He could already feel the warm French sun on his face.
The taxi ride back to the store seemed to take only seconds. Halston visualized Mrs. Benecke's happiness when he broke the good news to her. He had not only found the jewel she wanted, he had spared her from the excruciating experience of living in a drafty, rundown country house.
When Halston floated into the store, Chilton said, “Sir, a customer here is interested in —”
Halston cheerfully waved him aside. “Later.”
He had no time for customers. Not now, not ever again. From now on people would wait on him. He would shop at Hermes and Gucci and Lanvin.
Halston fluttered into his office, closed the door, set the emerald on the desk in front of him, and dialed a number.
An operator's voice said, “Dorchester Hotel.”
“The Oliver Messel Suite, please.”
“To whom did you wish to speak?”
“Mrs. P.J. Benecke.”
“One moment, please.”
Halston whistled softly while he waited.
The operator came back on the line. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Benecke has checked out.”
“Then ring whatever suite she's moved to.”
“Mrs. Benecke has checked out of the hotel.”
“That's impossible. She —”
“I'll connect you with reception.”
A male voice said, “Reception. May I help you?”
“Yes. What suite is Mrs. P.J. Benecke in?”
“Mrs. Benecke checked out of the hotel this morning.”
There had to be an explanation. Some unexpected emergency.
“May I have her forwarding address, please. This is —”
“I'm sorry. She didn't leave one.”
“Of course she left one.”
“I checked Mrs. Benecke out myself. She left no forwarding address.”
It was a jab to the pit of his stomach. Halston slowly replaced the receiver and sat there, bewildered. He had to find a way to get in touch with her, to let her know that he had finally located the emerald. In the meantime, he had to get back the $250,000 check from the Contessa Marissa.
He hurriedly dialed the Savoy Hotel. “Suite twenty-six.”
“Whom are you calling, please?”
“The Contessa Marissa.”
“One moment, please.”
But even before the operator came back on the line, some terrible premonition told Gregory Halston the disastrous news he was about to hear.
“I'm sorry. The Contessa Marissa has checked out.”
He hung up. His fingers were trembling so hard that he was barely able to dial the number of the bank. “Give me the head bookkeeper…. quickly! I wish to stop payment on a check.”
But, of course, he was too late. He had sold an emerald for $100,000 and had bought back the same emerald for $250,000. Gregory Halston sat there slumped in his chair, wondering how he was going to explain it to the Parker brothers.
It was the beginning of a new life for Tracy. She purchased a beautiful old Georgian house at 45 Eaton Square that was bright and cheerful and perfect for entertaining. It had a Queen Anne — British slang for a front garden — and a Mary Anne — a back garden — and in season the flowers were magnificent. Gunther helped Tracy furnish the house, and before the two of them were finished, it was one of the showplaces of London.
Gunther introduced Tracy as a wealthy young widow whose husband had made his fortune in the import-export business. She was an instant success; beautiful, intelligent, and charming, she was soon inundated with invitations.
At intervals, Tracy made short trips to France and Switzerland and Belgium and Italy, and each time she and Gunther Hartog profited.
Under Gunther's tutelage, Tracy studied the Almanach de Gotha and Debrett's Peerage and Baronetage, the authoritative books listing detailed information on all the royalty and titles in Europe. Tracy became a chameleon, an expert in makeup and disguises and accents. She acquired half a dozen passports. In various countries, she was a British duchess, a French airline stewardess, and a South American heiress. In a year she had accumulated more money than she would ever need. She set up a fund from which she made large, anonymous contributions to organizations that helped former women prisoners, and she arranged for a generous pension to be sent to Otto Schmidt every month. She no longer even entertained the thought of quitting. She loved the challenge of outwitting clever, successful people. The thrill of each daring escapade acted like a drug, and Tracy found that she constantly needed new and bigger challenges. There was one credo she lived by: She was careful never to hurt the innocent. The people who jumped at her swindles were greedy or immoral, or both. No one will ever commit suicide because of what I've done to them, Tracy promised herself.
The newspapers began to carry stories of the daring escapades that were occurring all over Europe, and because Tracy used different disguises, the police were convinced that a rash of ingenious swindles and burglaries was being carried out by a gang of women. Interpol began to take an interest.
At the Manhattan headquarters of the International Insurance Protection Association, J. J. Reynolds sent for Daniel Cooper.
“We have a problem,” Reynolds said. “A large number of our European clients are being hit apparently by a gang of women. Everybody's screaming bloody murder. They want the gang caught. Interpol has agreed to cooperate with us. It's your assignment, Dan. You leave for Paris in the morning.”
Tracy was having dinner with Gunther at Scott's on Mount Street.
“Have you ever heard of Maximilian Pierpont, Tracy?”
The name sounded familiar. Where had she heard it before? She remembered. Jeff Stevens, on board the QE II, had said, “We're here for the same reason. Maximilian Pierpont.”
“Very rich, isn't he?”
“And quite ruthless. He specializes in buying up companies and stripping them.”
When Joe Romano took over the business, he fired everybody and brought in his own people to run things. Then he began to raid the company…. They took everything — the business, this house, your mother's car….
Gunther was looking at her oddly. “Tracy, are you all right?”
“Yes. I'm fine.” Sometimes life can be unfair, she thought, and it's up to us to even things out. “Tell me more about Maximilian Pierpont.”
“His third wife just divorced him, and he's alone now. I think it might be profitable if you made the gentleman's acquaintance. He's booked on the Orient Express Friday, from London to Istanbul.”
Tracy smiled. “I've never been on the Orient Express. I think I'd enjoy it.”
Gunther smiled back. “Good. Maximilian Pierpont has the only important Fabergй egg collection outside of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. It's conservatively estimated to be worth twenty million dollars.”
“If I managed to get some of the eggs for you,” Tracy asked, curious, “what would you do with them, Gunther? Wouldn't they be too well known to sell?”
“Private collectors, dear Tracy. You bring the little eggs to me, and I will find a nest for them.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Maximilian Pierpont is not an easy man to approach. However, there are two other pigeons also booked on the Orient Express Friday, bound for the film festival in Venice. I think they're ripe for plucking. Have you heard of Silvana Luadi?”
“The Italian movie star? Of course.”
“She's married to Alberto Fornati, who produces those terrible epic films. Fornati is infamous for hiring actors and directors for very little cash, promising them big percentages of the profits, and keeping all the profits for himself. He manages to make enough to buy his wife very expensive jewels. The more unfaithful he is to her, the more jewelry he gives her. By this time Silvana should be able to open her own jewelry store. I'm sure you'll find all of them interesting company.”
“I'm looking forward to it,” Tracy said.
The Venice Simplon Orient Express departs from Victoria Station in London every Friday morning at 11:44, traveling from London to Istanbul, with intermediate stops in Boulogne, Paris, Lausanne, Milan, and Venice. Thirty minutes before departure a portable check-in counter is set up at the entrance to the boarding platform in the terminal, and two burly uniformed men roll a red rug up to the counter, elbowing aside eagerly waiting passengers.
The new owners of the Orient Express had attempted to recreate the golden age of rail travel as it existed in the late nineteenth century, and the rebuilt train was a duplicate of the original, with a British Pullman car, wagon-lit restaurants, a bar-salon car, and sleeping cars.
An attendant in a 1920's marine-blue uniform with gold braid carried Tracy's two suitcases and her vanity case to her cabin, which was disappointingly small. There was a single seat, upholstered with a flower-patterned mohair. The rug, as well as the ladder that was used to reach the top berth, was covered in the same green plush. It was like being in a candy box.
Tracy read the card accompanying a small bottle of champagne in a silver bucket: OLIVER AUBERT, TRAIN MANAGER.
I'll save it until I have something to celebrate, Tracy decided. Maximilian Pierpont. Jeff Stevens had failed. It would be a wonderful feeling to top Mr. Stevens. Tracy smiled at the thought.
She unpacked in the cramped space and hung up the clothes she would be needing. She preferred traveling on a Pan American jet rather than a train; but this journey promised to be an exciting one.
Exactly on schedule, the Orient Express began to move out of the station. Tracy sat back in her seat and watched the southern suburbs of London roll by.
At 1:15 that afternoon the train arrived at the port of Folkestone, where the passengers transferred to the Sealink ferry, which would take them across the channel to Boulogne, where they would board another Orient Express heading south.
Tracy approached one of the attendants. “I understand Maximilian Pierpont is traveling with us. Could you point him out to me?”
The attendant shook his head. “I wish I could, ma'am. He booked his cabin and paid for it, but he never showed up. Very unpredictable gentleman, so I'm told.”
That left Silvana Luadi and her husband, the producer of forgettable epics.
In Boulogne, the passengers were escorted onto the continental Orient Express. Unfortunately, Tracy's cabin on the second train was identical to the one she had left, and the rough roadbed made the journey even more uncomfortable. She remained in her cabin all day making her plans, and at 8:00 in the evening she began to dress.
The dress code of the Orient Express recommended evening clothes, and Tracy chose a stunning dove-gray chiffon gown with gray hose and gray satin shoes. Her only jewelry was a single strand of matched pearls. She checked herself in the mirror before she left her quarters, staring at her reflection for a long time. Her green eyes had a look of innocence, and her face looked guileless and vulnerable. The mirror is lying, Tracy thought. I'm not that woman anymore. I'm living a masquerade. But an exciting one.
As Tracy left her cabin, her purse slipped out of her hand, and as she knelt down to retrieve it, she quickly examined the outside locks on the door. There were two of them: a Yale lock and a Universal lock. No problem. Tracy rose and moved on toward the dining cars.
There were three dining cars aboard the train. The seats were plush-covered, the walls were veneered, and the soft lights came from brass sconces topped with Lalique shades. Tracy entered the first dining room and noted several empty tables. The maоtre d' greeted her. “A table for one, mademoiselle?”
Tracy looked around the room. “I'm joining some friends, thank you.”
She continued on to the next dining car. This one was more crowded, but there were still several unoccupied tables.
“Good evening,” the maоtre d' said. “Are you dining alone?”
“No, I'm meeting someone. Thank you.”
She moved on to the third dining car. There, every table was occupied.
The maоtre d' stopped her at the door. “I'm afraid there will be a wait for a table, madam. There are available tables in the other dining cars, however.”
Tracy looked around the room, and at a table in the far corner she saw what she was looking for. “That's all right,” Tracy said. “I see friends.”
She moved past the maоtre d' and walked over to the corner table. “Excuse me,” she said apologetically. “All the tables seem to be occupied. Would you mind if I joined you?”
The man quickly rose to his feet, took a good look at Tracy, and exclaimed, “Prego! Con piacere! I am Alberto Fornati and this is my wife, Silvans Luadi.”
“Tracy Whitney.” She was using her own passport.
“Ah! И Americana! I speak the excellent English.”
Alberto Fornati was short, bald; and fat. Why Silvana Luadi had ever married him had been the most lively topic in Rome for the twelve years they had been together. Silvana Luadi was a classic beauty, with a sensational figure and a compelling, natural talent. She had won an Oscar and a Silver Palm award and was always in great demand. Tracy recognized that she was dressed in a Valentino evening gown that sold for five thousand dollars, and the jewelry she wore must have been worth close to a million. Tracy remembered Gunther Hartog's words: The more unfaithful he is to her, the more jewelry he gives her. By this time Silvana should be able to open her own jewelry store.
“This is your first time on the Orient Express, signorina?” Fornati opened the conversation, after Tracy was seated.
“Yes, it is.”
“Ah, it is a very romantic train, filled with legend.” His eyes were moist. “There are many interessante tales about it. For instance, Sir Basil Zaharoff, the arms tycoon, used to ride the old Orient Express — always in the seventh compartment. One night he hears a scream and a pounding on his door. A bellissima young Spanish duchess throws herself upon him.” Fornati paused to butter a roll and take a bite. “Her husband was trying to murder her. The parents had arranged the marriage, and the poor girl now realized her husband was insane. Zaharoff restrained the husband and calmed the hysterical young woman and thus began a romance that lasted forty years.”
“How exciting,” Tracy said. Her eyes were wide with interest.
“Sм. Every year after that they meet on the Orient Express, he in compartment number seven, she in number eight. When her husband died; the lady and Zaharoff were married, and as a token of his love, he bought her the casino at Monte Carlo as a wedding gift.”
“What a beautiful story, Mr. Fornati.”
Silvana Luadi sat in stony silence.
“Mangia,” Fornati urged Tracy. “Eat.”
The menu consisted of six courses, and Tracy noted that Alberto Fornati ate each one and finished what his wife left on her plate. In between bites he kept up a constant chatter.
“You are an actress, perhaps?” he asked Tracy.
She laughed. “Oh no. I'm just a tourist.”
He beamed at her. “Bellissima. You are beautiful enough to be an actress.”
“She said she is not an actress,” Silvana said sharply.
Alberto Fornati ignored her. “I produce motion pictures,” he told Tracy. “You have heard of them, of course: Wild Savages, The Titans versus Superwoman….”
“I don't see many movies,” Tracy apologized. She felt his fat leg press against hers under the table.
“Perhaps I can arrange to show you some of mine.”
Silvana turned white with anger.
“Do you ever get to Rome, my dear?” His leg was moving up and down against Tracy's.
“As a matter of fact, I'm planning to go to Rome after Venice.”
“Splendid! Benissimo! We will all get together for dinner. Won't we, cara?” He gave a quick glance toward Silvana before he continued. “We have a lovely villa off the Appian Way. Ten acres of —” His hand made a sweeping gesture and knocked a bowl of gravy into his wife's lap. Tracy could not be sure whether it was deliberate or not.
Silvana Luadi rose to her feet and looked at the spreading stain on her dress. “Sei un mascalzone!” she screamed. “Tieni le tue puttane lontano da me!”
She stormed out of the dining car, every eye following her.
“What a shame,” Tracy murmured. “It's such a beautiful dress.” She could have slapped the man for degrading his wife. She deserves every carat of jewelry she has, Tracy thought, and more.
He sighed. “Fornati will buy her another one. Pay no attention to her manners. She is very jealous of Fornati.”
“I'm sure she has good reason to be.” Tracy covered her irony with a small smile.
He preened. “It is true. Women find Fornati very attractive.”
It was all Tracy could do to keep from bursting out laughing at the pompous little man. “I can understand that.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Fornati likes you,” he said. “Fornati likes you very much. What do you do for a living?”
“I'm a legal secretary. I saved up all my money for this trip. I hope to get an interesting position in Europe.”
His bulging eyes roved over her body. “You will have no problem, Fornati promises you. He is very nice to people who are very nice to him.”
“How wonderful of you,” Tracy said shyly.
He lowered his voice. “Perhaps we could discuss this later this evening in your cabin?”
“That might be embarrassing.”
“Perchй? Why?”
“You're so famous. Everyone on the train probably knows who you are.”
“Naturally.”
“If they see you come to my cabin — well, you know, some people might misunderstand. Of course, if your cabin is near mine… What number are you in?”
“E settanta — seventy.” He looked at her hopefully.
Tracy sighed. “I'm in another car. Why don't we meet in Venice?”
He beamed. “Bene! My wife, she stays in her room most of the time. She cannot stand the sun on her face. Have you ever been to Venezia?”
“No.”
“Ah. You and I shall go to Torcello, a beautiful little island with a wonderful restaurant, the Locanda Cipriani. It is also a small hotel.” His eyes gleamed. “Molto privato.”
Tracy gave him a slow, understanding smile. “It sounds exciting.” She lowered her eyes, too overcome to say more.
Fornati leaned forward, squeezed her hand, and whispered wetly, “You do not know what excitement is yet, cara.”
Half an hour later Tracy was back in her cabin.
The Orient Express sped through the lonely night, past Paris and Dijon and Vallarbe, while the passengers slept. They had turned in their passports the evening before, and the border formalities would be handled by the conductors.
At 3:30 in the morning Tracy quietly left her compartment. The timing was critical. The train would cross the Swiss border and reach Lausanne at 5:21 A.M. and was due to arrive in Milan, Italy, at 9:15 A.M.
Clad in pajamas and robe, and carrying a sponge bag, Tracy moved down the corridor, every sense alert, the familiar excitement making her pulse leap. There were no toilets in the cabins of the train, but there were some located at the end of each car. If Tracy was questioned, she was prepared to say that she was looking for the ladies' room, but she encountered no one. The conductors and porters were taking advantage of the early-morning hours to catch up on their sleep.
Tracy reached Cabin E 70 without incident. She quietly tried the doorknob. The door was locked. Tracy opened the sponge bag and took out a metallic object and a small bottle with a syringe, and went to work.
Ten minutes later she was back in her cabin, and thirty minutes after that she was asleep, with the trace of a smile on her freshly scrubbed face.
At 7:00 A.M., two hours before the Orient Express was due to arrive in Milan, a series of piercing screams rang out. They came from Cabin E 70, and they awakened the entire car. Passengers poked their heads out of their cabins to see what was happening. A conductor came hurrying along the car and entered E 70.
Silvana Luadi was in hysterics. “Aiuto! Help!” she screamed. “All my jewelry is gone! This miserable train is full of ladri — thieves!”
“Please calm down, madame,” the conductor begged. “The other —”
“Calm down!” Her voice went up an octave. “How dare you tell me to calm down, stupido maiale! Someone has stolen more than a million dollars' worth of my jewels!”
“How could this have happened?” Alberto Fornati demanded. “The door was locked — and Fornati is a light sleeper. If anyone had entered, I would have awakened instantly.”
The conductor sighed. He knew only too well how it had happened, because it had happened before. During the night someone had crept down the corridor and sprayed a syringe full of ether through the keyhole. The locks would have been child's play for someone who knew what he was doing. The thief would have closed the door behind him, looted the room, and, having taken what he wanted, quietly crept back to his compartment while his victims were still unconscious. But there was one thing about this burglary that was different from the others. In the past the thefts had not been discovered until after the train had reached its destination, so the thieves had had a chance to escape. This was a different situation. No one had disembarked since the robbery, which meant that the jewelry still had to be on board.
“Don't worry,” the conductor promised the Fornatis. “You'll get your jewels back. The thief is still on this train.”
He hurried forward to telephone the police in Milan.
When the Orient Express pulled into the Milan terminal, twenty uniformed policemen and plainclothes detectives lined the station platform, with orders not to let any passengers or baggage off the train.
Luigi Ricci, the inspector in charge, was taken directly to the Fornati compartment.
If anything, Silvana Luadi's hysteria had increased. “Every bit of jewelry I owned was in that jewel case,” she screamed. “And none of it was insured!”
The inspector examined the empty jewel case. “You are sure you put your jewels in there last night, signora?”
“Of course I am sure. I put them there every night.” Her luminous eyes, which had thrilled millions of adoring fans, pooled over with large tears, and Inspector Ricci was ready to slay dragons for her.
He walked over to the compartment door, bent down, and sniffed the keyhole. He could detect the lingering odor of ether. There had been a robbery, and he intended to catch the unfeeling bandit.
Inspector Ricci straightened up and said, “Do not worry, signora. There is no way the jewels can be removed from this train. We will catch the thief, and your gems will be returned to you.”
Inspector Ricci had every reason to be confident. The trap was tightly sealed, and there was no possibility for the culprit to get away.
One by one, the detectives escorted the passengers to a station waiting room that had been roped off, and they were expertly body searched. The passengers, many of them people of prominence, were outraged by this indignity.
“I'm sorry,” Inspector Ricci explained to each of them, “but a million-dollar theft is a very serious business.”
As each passenger was led from the train, detectives turned their cabins upside down. Every inch of space was examined. This was a splendid opportunity for Inspector Ricci, and he intended to make the most of it. When he recovered the stolen jewels, it would mean a promotion and a raise. His imagination became inflamed. Silvana Luadi would be so grateful to him that she would probably invite him to… He gave orders with renewed vigor.
There was a knock at Tracy's cabin door and a detective entered. “Excuse me, signorina. There has been a robbery. It is necessary to search all passengers. If you will come with me, please…”
“A robbery?” Her voice was shocked. “On this train?”
“I fear so, signorina.”
When Tracy stepped out of her compartment, two detectives moved in, opened her suitcases, and began carefully sifting through the contents.
At the end of four hours the search had turned up several packets of marijuana, five ounces of cocaine, a knife, and an illegal gun. There was no sign of the missing jewelry.
Inspector Ricci could not believe it. “Have you searched the entire train?” he demanded of his lieutenant.
“Inspector, we have searched every inch. We have examined the engine, the dining rooms, the bar, the toilets, the compartments. We have searched the passengers and crew and examined every piece of luggage. I can swear to you that the jewelry is not on board this train. Perhaps the lady imagined the theft.”
But Inspector Ricci knew better. He had spoken to the waiters, and they had confirmed that Silvana Luadi had indeed worn a dazzling display of jewelry at dinner the evening before.
A representative of the Orient Express had flown to Milan. “You cannot detain this train any longer,” he insisted. “We are already far behind schedule.”
Inspector Ricci was defeated. He had no excuse for holding the train any further. There was nothing more he could do. The only explanation he could think of was that somehow, during the night, the thief had tossed the jewels off the train to a waiting confederate. But could it have happened that way? The timing would have been impossible. The thief could not have known in advance when the corridor would be clear, when a conductor or passenger might be prowling about, what time the train would be at some deserted assignation point. This was a mystery beyond the inspector's power to solve.
“Let the train go on,” he ordered.
He stood watching helplessly as the Orient Express slowly pulled out of the station. With it went his promotion, his raise, and a blissful orgy with Silvana Luadi.
The sole topic of conversation in the breakfast car was the robbery.
“It's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in years,” confessed a prim teacher at a girls' school. She fingered a small gold necklace with a tiny diamond chip. “I'm lucky they didn't take this.”
“Very,” Tracy gravely agreed.
When Alberto Fornati walked into the dining car, he caught sight of Tracy and hurried over to her. “You know what happened, of course. But did you know it was Fornati's wife who was robbed?”
“No!”
“Yes! My life was in great danger. A gang of thieves crept into my cabin and chloroformed me. Fornati could have been murdered in his sleep.”
“How terrible.”
“И una bella fregatura! Now I shall have to replace all of Silvana's jewelry. It's going to cost me a fortune.”
“The police didn't find the jewels?”
“No, but Fornati knows how the thieves got rid of them.”
“Really! How?”
He looked around and lowered his voice. “An accomplice was waiting at one of the stations we passed during the night. The ladri threw the jewels out of the train, and — ecco — it was done.”
Tracy said admiringly, “How clever of you to figure that out.”
“Sм.” He raised his brows meaningfully. “You will not forget our little tryst in Venezia?”
“How could I?” Tracy smiled.
He squeezed her arm hard. “Fornati is looking forward to it. Now I must go console Silvana. She is hysterical.”
When the Orient Express arrived at the Santa Lucia station in Venice, Tracy was among the first passengers to disembark. She had her luggage taken directly to the airport and was on the next plane to London with Silvana Luadi's jewelry.
Gunther Hartog was going to be pleased.
The seven-story headquarters building of Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization, is at 26 Rue Armengaud, in the hills of St. Cloud, about six miles west of Paris, discreetly hidden behind a high green fence and white stone walls. The gate at the street entrance is locked twenty-four hours a day, and visitors are admitted only after being scrutinized through a closed-circuit television system. Inside the building, at the head of the stairs at each floor, are white iron gates which are locked at night, and every floor is equipped with a separate alarm system and closed-circuit television.
The extraordinary security is mandatory, for within this building are kept the world's most elaborate dossiers with files on two and a half million criminals. Interpol is a clearinghouse of information for 126 police forces in 78 countries, and coordinates the worldwide activities of police forces in dealing with swindlers, counterfeiters, narcotics smugglers, robbers, and murderers. It disseminates up-to-the-second information by an updated bulletin called a circulation; by radio, photo-telegraphy, and early-bird satellite. The Paris headquarters is manned by former detectives from the Sыretй Nationale or the Paris Prйfecture.
On an early May morning a conference was under way in the office of Inspector Andrй Trignant, in charge of Interpol headquarters. The office was comfortable and simply furnished, and the view was breathtaking. In the far distance to the east, the Eiffel Tower loomed, and in another direction the white dome of the Sacrй Coeur in Montmartre was clearly visible. The inspector was in his mid-forties, an attractive, authoritative figure, with an intelligent face, dark hair, and shrewd brown eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses. Seated in the office with him were detectives from England, Belgium, France, and Italy.
“Gentlemen,” Inspector Trignant said, “I have received urgent requests from each of your countries for information about the rash of crimes that has recently sprung up all over Europe. Half a dozen countries have been hit by an epidemic of ingenious swindles and burglaries, in which there are several similarities. The victims are of unsavory reputation, there is never violence involved, and the perpetrator is always a female. We have reached the conclusion that we are facing an international gang of women. We have identi-kit pictures based on the descriptions by victims and random witnesses. As you will see, none of the women in the pictures is alike. Some are blond, some brunet. They have variously been reported as being English, French, Spanish, Italian, American — or Texan.”
Inspector Trignant pressed a switch, and a series of pictures began to appear on the wall screen. “Here you see an identi-kit sketch of a brunet with short hair.” He pressed the button again. “Here is a young blonde with a shag cut…. Here is another blonde with a perm… a brunet with a pageboy…. Here is an older woman with a French twist… a young woman with blond streaks… an older woman with a coup sauvage”. He turned off the projector. “We have no idea who the gang's leader is or where their headquarters is located. They never leave any clues behind, and they vanish like smoke rings. Sooner or later we will catch one of them, and when we do, we shall get them all. In the meantime, gentlemen, until one of you can furnish us with some specific information, I am afraid we are at a dead end….”
When Daniel Cooper's plane landed in Paris, he was met at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport by one of Inspector Trignant's assistants, and driven to the Prince de Galles, next door to its more illustrious sister hotel, the George V.
“It is arranged for you to meet Inspector Trignant tomorrow,” his escort told Cooper. “I will pick you up at eight-fifteen.”
Daniel Cooper had not been looking forward to the trip to Europe. He intended to finish his assignment as quickly as possible and return home. He knew about the fleshpots of Paris, and he had no intention of becoming involved.
He checked into his room and went directly into the bathroom. To his surprise, the bathtub was satisfactory. In fact, he admitted to himself, it was much larger than the one at home. He ran the bath water and went into the bedroom to unpack. Near the bottom of his suitcase was the small locked box, safe between his extra suit and his underwear. He picked up the box and held it in his hands, staring at it, and it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He carried it into the bathroom and placed it on the sink. With the tiny key dangling from his key ring, he unlocked the box and opened it, and the words screamed up at him from the yellowed newspaper clipping.
BOY TESTIFIES IN MURDER TRIAL
Twelve-year-old Daniel Cooper today testified in the trial of Fred Zimmer, accused of the rape-murder of the young boy's mother. According to his testimony, the boy returned home from school and saw Zimmer, a next-door neighbor, leaving the Cooper home with blood on his hands and face. When the boy entered his home, he discovered the body of his mother in the bathtub. She had been savagely stabbed to death. Zimmer confessed to being Mrs. Cooper's lover, but denied that he had killed her.
The young boy has been placed in the care of an aunt.
Daniel Cooper's trembling hands dropped the clipping back into the box and locked it. He looked around wildly. The walls and ceiling of the hotel bathroom were spattered with blood. He saw his mother's naked body floating in the red water. He felt a wave of vertigo and clutched the sink. The screams inside him became gutteral moans, and he frantically tore off his clothes and sank down into the blood-warm bath.
“I must inform you, Mr. Cooper,” Inspector Trignant said, “that your position here is most unusual. You are not a member of any police force, and your presence here is unofficial. However, we have been requested by the police departments of several European countries to extend our cooperation.”
Daniel Cooper said nothing.
“As I understand it, you are an investigator for the International Insurance Protective Association, a consortium of insurance companies.”
“Some of our European clients have had heave losses lately. I was told there are no clues.”
Inspector Trignant sighed. “I'm afraid that is the case. We. know we are dealing with a gang of very clever women, but beyond that —”
“No information from informers?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Doesn't that strike you as odd?”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
It seemed so obvious to Cooper that he did not bother to keep the impatience out of his voice. “When a gang is involved, there's always someone who talks too much, drinks too much, spends too much. It's impossible for a large group of people to keep a secret. Would you mind giving me your files on this gang?”
The inspector started to refuse. He thought Daniel Cooper was one of the most physically unattractive men he had ever met. And certainly the most arrogant. He was going to be a chierie, “a pain in the ass”; but the inspector had been asked to cooperate fully.
Reluctantly, he said, “I will have copies made for you.” He spoke into an intercom and gave the order. To make conversation, Inspector Trignant said, “An interesting report just crossed my desk. Some valuable jewels were stolen aboard the Orient Express while it —”
“I read about it. The thief made a fool of the Italian police.”
“No one has been able to figure out how the robbery was accomplished.”
“It's obvious,” Daniel Cooper said rudely. “A matter of simple logic.”
Inspector Trignant looked over his glasses in surprise. Mon Dieu, he has the manners of a pig. He continued, coolly, “In this case, logic does not help. Every inch of that train was examined, and the employees, passengers, and all the luggage searched.”
“No,” Daniel Cooper contradicted.
This man is crazy, Inspector Trignant decided. “No — what?”
“They didn't search all the luggage.”
“And I tell you they did,” Inspector Trignant insisted. “I have seen the police report.”
“The woman from whom the jewels were stolen — Silvana Luadi?”
“Yes?”
“She had placed her jewels in an overnight case from which they were taken?”
“That is correct.”
“Did the police search Miss Luadi's luggage?”
“Only her overnight case. She was the victim. Why should they search her luggage?”
“Because that's logically the only place the thief could have hidden the jewels — in the bottom of one of her other suitcases. He probably had a duplicate case, and when all the luggage was piled on the platform at the Venice station, all he had to do was exchange suitcases and disappear.” Daniel Cooper rose. “If those reports are ready, I'll be running along.”
Thirty minutes later, Inspector Trignant was speaking to Alberto Fornati in Venice.
“Monsieur,” the inspector said, “I was calling to inquire whether there happened to be any problem with your wife's luggage when you arrived in Venice.”
“Sм, sм,” Fornati complained. “The idiot porter got her suitcase mixed up with someone else's. When my wife opened her bag at the hotel, it contained nothing but a lot of old magazines. I reported it to the office of the Orient Express. Have they located my wife's suitcase?” he asked hopefully.
“No, monsieur,” the inspector said. And he added silently to himself, Nor would I expect it, if I were you.
When he completed the telephone call, he sat back in his chair thinking, This Daniel Cooper is trиs formidable. Very formidable, indeed.
Tracy's house in Eaton Square was a haven. It was in one of the most beautiful areas in London, with the old Georgian houses facing tree-filled private parks. Nannies in stiffly starched uniforms wheeled their small charges in status-named prams along the graveled paths, and children played their games. I miss Amy, Tracy thought.
Tracy walked along the storied old streets and shopped at the greengrocers and the chemist on Elizabeth Street; she marveled at the variety of brilliantly colored flowers sold outside the little shops.
Gunther Hartog saw to it that Tracy contributed to the right charities and met the right people. She dated wealthy dukes and impoverished earls and had numerous proposals of marriage. She was young and beautiful and rich, and she seemed so vulnerable.
“Everyone thinks you're a perfect target,” Gunther laughed. “You've really done splendidly for yourself, Tracy. You're set now. You have everything you'll ever need.”
It was true. She had money in safe-deposit boxes all over Europe, the house in London, and a chalet in St. Moritz. Everything she would ever need. Except for someone to share it with. Tracy thought of the life she had almost had, with a husband and a baby. Would that ever be possible for her again? She could never reveal to any man who she really was, nor could she live a lie by concealing her past. She had played so many parts, she was no longer sure who she really was, but she did know that she could never return to the life she had once had. It's all right, Tracy thought defiantly. A lot of people are lonely. Gunther is right. I have everything.
She was giving a cocktail party the following evening, the first since her return from Venice.
“I'm looking forward to it,” Gunther told her. “Your parties are the hottest ticket in London.”
Tracy said fondly, “Look who my sponsor is.”
“Who's going to be there?”
“Everybody,” Tracy told him.
Everybody turned out to be one more guest than Tracy had anticipated. She had invited the Baroness Howarth, an attractive young heiress, and when Tracy saw the baroness arrive, she walked over to greet her. The greeting died on Tracy's lips. With the baroness was Jeff Stevens.
“Tracy, darling, I don't believe you know Mr. Stevens. Jeff, this is Mrs. Tracy Whitney, your hostess.”
Tracy said stiffly, “How do you do, Mr. Stevens?”
Jeff took Tracy's hand, holding it a fraction longer than necessary. “Mrs. Tracy Whitney?” he said. “Of course! I was a friend of your husband's. We were together in India.”
“Isn't that exciting!” Baroness Howarth exclaimed.
“Strange, he never mentioned you,” Tracy said coolly.
“Didn't he, really? I'm surprised. Interesting old fella. Pity he had to go the way he did.”
“Oh, what happened?” Baroness Howarth asked.
Tracy glared at Jeff. “It was nothing, really.”
“Nothing!” Jeff said reproachfully. “If I remember correctly, he was hanged in India.”
“Pakistan,” Tracy said tightly. “And I believe I do remember my husband mentioning you. How is your wife?”
Baroness Howarth looked at Jeff. “You never mentioned that you were married, Jeff.”
“Cecily and I are divorced.”
Tracy smiled sweetly. “I meant Rose.”
“Oh, that wife.”
Baroness Howarth was astonished. “You've been married twice?”
“Once,” he said easily. “Rose and I got an annulment. We were very young.” He started to move away.
Tracy asked, “But weren't there twins?”
Baroness Howarth exclaimed, “Twins?”
“They live with their mother,” Jeff told her. He looked at Tracy: “I can't tell you how pleasant it's been talking to you, Mrs. Whitney, but we mustn't monopolize you.” And he took the baroness's hand and walked away.
The following morning Tracy ran into Jeff in an elevator at Harrods. The store was crowded with shoppers. Tracy got off at the second floor. As she left the elevator, she turned to Jeff and said in a loud, clear voice, “By the way, how did you ever come out on that morals charge?” The door closed, and Jeff was trapped in an elevator filled with indignant strangers.
Tracy lay in bed that night thinking about Jeff, and she had to laugh. He really was a charmer. A scoundrel, but an engaging one. She wondered what his relationship with Baroness Howarth was: She knew very well what his relationship with Baroness Howarth was. Jeff and I are two of a kind, Tracy thought. Neither of them would ever settle down. The life they led was too exciting and stimulating and rewarding.
She turned her thoughts toward her next job. It was going to take place in the South of France, and it would be a challenge. Gunther had told her that the police were looking for a gang. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.
In his hotel room in Paris, Daniel Cooper was reading the reports Inspector Trignant had given him. It was 4:00 A.M., and Cooper had been poring over the papers for hours, analyzing the imaginative mix of robberies and swindles. Some of the scams Cooper was familiar with, but others were new to him. As Inspector Trignant had mentioned, all the victims had unsavory reputations. This gang apparently thinks they're Robin Hoods, Cooper reflected.
He had nearly finished. There were only three reports left. The one on top was headed BRUSSELS. Cooper opened the cover and glanced at the report. Two million dollars' worth of jewelry had been stolen from the wall safe of a Mr. Van Ruysen, a Belgian stockbroker, who had been involved in some questionable financial dealings.
The owners were away on vacation, and the house was empty, and — Cooper caught something on the page that made his heart quicken. He went back to the first sentence and began rereading the report, focusing on every word. This one varied from the others in one significant respect: The burglar had set off an alarm, and when the police arrived, they were greeted at the door by a woman wearing a filmy negligee. Her hair was tucked into a curler cap, and her face was thickly covered with cold cream. She claimed to be a houseguest of the Van Ruysens'. The police accepted her story, and by the time they were able to check it out with the absent owners, the woman and the jewelry had vanished.
Cooper laid down the report. Logic, logic.
Inspector Trignant was losing his patience. “You're wrong. I tell you it is impossible for one woman to be responsible for all these crimes.”
“There's a way to check it out,” Daniel Cooper said.
“How?”
“I'd like to see a computer run on the dates and locations of the last few burglaries and swindles that fit into this category.”
“That's simple enough, but —”
“Next, I would like to get an immigration report on every female American tourist who was in those same cities at the times the crimes were committed. It's possible that she uses false passports some of the time, but the probabilities are that she also uses her real identity.”
Inspector Trignant was thoughtful. “I see your line of reasoning, monsieur.” He studied the little man before him and found himself half hoping that Cooper was mistaken. He was much too sure of himself. “Very well. I will set the wheels in motion.”
The first burglary in the series had been committed in Stockholm. The report from Interpol Sektionen Rikspolis Styrelsen, the Interpol branch in Sweden, listed the American tourists in Stockholm that week, and the names of the women were fed into a computer. The next city checked was Milan. When the names of American women tourists in Milan at the time of the burglary was cross-checked with the names of women who had been in Stockholm during that burglary, there were fifty-five names on the list. That list was checked against the names of female Americans who had been in Ireland during a swindle, and the list was reduced to fifteen. Inspector Trignant handed the printout to Daniel Cooper.
“I'll start checking these names against the Berlin swindle,” Inspector Trignant said, “and —”
Daniel Cooper looked up. “Don't bother.”
The name at the top of the list was Tracy Whitney.
With something concrete finally to go on, Interpol went into action. Red circulations, which meant top priority, were sent to each member nation, advising them to be on the lookout for Tracy Whitney.
“We're also Teletyping green notices,” Inspector Trignant told Cooper.
“Green notices?”
“We use a color-code 'system. A red circulation is top priority, blue is an inquiry for information about a suspect, a green notice puts police departments on warning that an individual is under suspicion and should be watched, black is an inquiry into unidentified bodies. X-D signals that a message is very urgent, while D is urgent. No matter what country Miss Whitney goes to, from the moment she checks through customs, she will be under observation.”
The following day Telephoto pictures of Tracy Whitney from the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women were in the hands of Interpol.
Daniel Cooper put in a call to J. J. Reynolds's home. The phone rang a dozen times before it was answered.
“Hello…”
“I need some information.”
“Is that you, Cooper? For Christ's sake, it's four o'clock in the morning here. I was sound —”
“I want you to send me everything you can find on Tracy Whitney. Press clippings, videotapes — everything.”
“What's happening over —?”
Cooper had hung up.
One day I'll kill the son of a bitch, Reynolds swore.
Before, Daniel Cooper had been only casually interested in Tracy Whitney. Now she was his assignment. He taped her photographs on the walls of his small Paris hotel room and read all the newspaper accounts about her. He rented a video cassette player and ran and reran the television news shots of Tracy after her sentencing, and after her release from prison. Cooper sat in his darkened room hour after hour, looking at the film, and the first glimmering of suspicion became a certainty. “You're the gang of women, Miss Whitney,” Danie Cooper said aloud. Then he flicked the rewind button of the cassette player once more.
Every year, on the first Saturday in June, the Count de Matigny sponsored a charity ball for the benefit of the Children's Hospital in Paris. Tickets for the white-tie affair were a thousand dollars apiece, and society's elite flew in from all over the world to attend.
The Chвteau de Matigny, at Cap d'Antibes, was one of the showplaces of France. The carefully manicured grounds were superb, and the chвteau itself dated back to the fifteenth century. On the evening of the fete, the grand ballroom and the petit ballroom were filled with beautifully dressed guests and smartly liveried servants offering endless glasses of champagne. Huge buffet tables were set up, displaying an astonishing array of hors d'oeuvres on Georgian silver platters.
Tracy, looking ravishing in a white lace gown, her hair dressed high and held in place by a diamond tiara, was dancing with her host, Count de Matigny, a widower in his late sixties, small and trim, with pale, delicate features. The benefit ball the count dives each year for the Children's Hospital is a racket. Gunther Hartog had told Tracy. Ten percent of the money goes to the children — ninety percent goes into his pocket.
“You are a superb dancer, Duchess,” the count said.
Tracy smiled. “That's because of my partner.”
“How is it that you and I have not met before?”
“I've been living in South America,” Tracy explained. “In the jungles, I'm afraid.”
“Why on earth!”
“My husband owns a few mines in Brazil.”
“Ah. And is your husband here this evening?”
“No. Unfortunately, he had to stay in Brazil and take care of business.”
“Unlucky for him. Lucky for me.” His arm tightened around her waist. “I look forward to our becoming very good friends.”
“And I, too,” Tracy murmured.
Over the count's shoulder Tracy suddenly caught sight of Jeff Stevens, looking suntanned and ridiculously fit. He was dancing with a beautiful, willowy brunet in crimson taffeta, who was clinging to him possessively. Jeff saw Tracy at the same moment and smiled.
The bastard has every reason to smile, Tracy thought grimly. During the previous two weeks Tracy had meticulously planned two burglaries. She had broken into the first house and opened the safe, only to find it empty. Jeff Stevens had been there first. On the second occasion Tracy was moving through the grounds toward the targeted house when she heard the sudden acceleration of a car and caught a glimpse of Jeff as he sped away. He had beaten her to it again. He was infuriating. Now he's here at the house I'm planning to burgle next, Tracy thought.
Jeff and his partner danced nearer. Jeff smiled and said, “Good evening, Count.”
The Count de Matigny smiled. “Ah, Jeffrey. Good evening. I'm so pleased that you could come.”
“I wouldn't have missed it.” Jeff indicated the voluptuous-looking woman in his arms. “This is Miss Wallace. The Count de Matigny.”
“Enchantй!” The count indicated Tracy. “Duchess, may I present Miss Wallace and Mr. Jeffrey Stevens? The Duchess de Larosa.”
Jeff's eyebrows raised questioningly. “Sorry. I didn't hear the name.”
“De Larosa,” Tracy said evenly.
“De Larosa… De Larosa.” Jeff was studying Tracy. “That name seems so familiar. Of course! I know your husband. Is the dear fellow here with you?”
“He's in Brazil.” Tracy found that she was gritting her teeth.
Jeff smiled. “Ah, too bad. We used to go hunting together. Before he had his accident, of course.”
“Accident?” the count asked.
“Yes.” Jeff's tone was rueful. “His gun went off and shot him in a very sensitive area. It was one of those stupid things.” He turned to Tracy. “Is there any hope that he'll ever be normal again?”
Tracy said tonelessly, “I'm sure that one day he'll be as normal as you are, Mr. Stevens.”
“Oh, good. You will give him my best regards when you talk to him, won't you, Duchess?”
The music stopped. The Count de Matigny apologized to Tracy. “If you'll excuse me, my dear, I have a few hostly duties to attend to.” He squeezed her hand. “Don't forget you're seated at my table.”
As the count moved away, Jeff said to his companion, “Angel, you put some aspirin in your bag, didn't you? Could you get one for me? I'm afraid I'm getting a terrible headache.”
“Oh, my poor darling.” There was an adoring look in her eyes. “I'll be right back, sweetheart.”
Tracy watched her slink across the floor. “Aren't you afraid she'll give you diabetes?”
“She is sweet, isn't she? And how have you been lately, Duchess?”
Tracy smiled for the benefit of those around them. “That's really none of your concern, is it?”
“Ah, but it is. In fact, I'm concerned enough to give you some friendly advice. Don't try to rob this chвteau.”
“Why? Are you planning to do it first?”
Jeff took Tracy's arm and walked her over to a deserted spot near the piano, where a dark-eyed young man was soulfully massacring American show tunes.
Only Tracy could hear Jeff's voice over the music. “As a matter of fact, I was planning a little something, but it's too dangerous.”
“Really?” Tracy was beginning to enjoy the conversation.
It was a relief to be herself, to stop playacting. The Greeks had the right word for it, Tracy thought. Hypocrite was from the Greek word for “actor.”
“Listen to me, Tracy.” Jeff's tone was serious. “Don't try this. First of all, you'd never get through the grounds alive. A killer guard dog is let loose at night.”
Suddenly, Tracy was listening intently. Jeff was planning to rob the place.
“Every window and door is wired. The alarms connect directly to the police station. Even if you did manage to get inside the house, the whole place is crisscrossed with invisible infrared beams.”
“I know all that.” Tracy was a little smug.
“Then you must also know that the beam doesn't sound the alarm when you step into it. It sounds the alarm when you step out of it. It senses the heat change. There's no way you can get through it without setting it off.”
She had not known that. How had Jeff learned of It?
“Why are you telling me all this?”
He smiled, and she thought he had never looked more attractive. “I really don't want you to get caught, Duchess. I like having you around. You know, Tracy, you and I could become very good friends.”
“You're wrong,” Tracy assured him. She saw Jeff's date hurrying toward them. “Here comes Ms. Diabetes. Enjoy yourself.”
As Tracy walked away, she heard Jeff's date say, “I brought you some champagne to wash it down with, poor baby.”
The dinner was sumptuous. Each course was accompanied by the appropriate wine, impeccably served by white-gloved footmen. The first course was a native asparagus with a white truffle sauce, followed by a consommй with delicate morels. After that came a saddle of lamb with an assortment of fresh vegetables from the count's gardens. A crisp endive salad was next. For dessert there were individually molded ice-cream servings and a silver epergne, piled high with petite fours. Coffee and brandy came last. Cigars were offered to the men, and the women were given Joy perfume in a Baccarat crystal flacon.
After dinner, the Count de Matigny turned to Tracy. “You mentioned that you were interested in seeing some of my paintings. Would you like to take a look now?”
“I'd love to,” Tracy assured him.
The picture gallery was a private museum filled with Italian masters, French Impressionists, and Picassos. The long hall was ablaze with the bewitching colors and forms painted by immortals. There were Monets and Renoirs, Canalettos and Guardis and Tintorettos. There was an exquisite Tiepolo and Guercino and a Titian, and there was almost a full wall of Cйzannes. There was no calculating the value of the collection.
Tracy stared at the paintings a long time, savoring their beauty. “I hope these are well guarded.”
The count smiled. “On three occasions thieves have tried to get at my treasures. One was killed by my dog, the second was maimed, and the third is serving a life term in prison. The chвteau is an invulnerable fortress, Duchess.”
“I'm so relieved to hear that, Count.”
There was a bright flash of light from outside. “The fireworks display is beginning,” the count said. “I think you'll be amused.” He took Tracy's soft hand in his papery, dry one and led her out of the picture gallery. “I'm leaving for Deauville in the morning, where I have a villa on the sea. I've invited a few friends down next weekend. You might enjoy it.”
“I'm sure I would,” Tracy said regretfully, “but I'm afraid my husband is getting restless. He insists that I return.”
The fireworks display lasted for almost an hour, and Tracy took advantage of the distraction to reconnoiter the house. What Jeff had said was true: The odds against a successful burglary were formidable, but for that very reason Tracy found the challenge irresistible. She knew that upstairs in the count's bedroom were $2 million in jewels, and half a dozen masterpieces, including a Leonardo.
The chвteau is a treasure house, Gunther Hartog had told her, and it's guarded like one. Don't make a move unless you have a foolproof plan.
Well, I've worked out a plan, Tracy thought. Whether it's foolproof or not, I'll know tomorrow.
The following night was chilly and cloudy, and the high walls around the chвteau appeared grim and forbidding as Tracy stood in the shadows, wearing black coveralls, gum-soled shoes, and supple black kid gloves, carrying a shoulder bag. For an unguarded moment Tracy's mind embraced the memory of the walls of the penitentiary, and she gave an involuntary shiver.
She had driven the rented van alongside the stone wall at the back of the estate. From the other side of the wall came a low, fierce growl that developed into a frenzied barking, as the dog leapt into the air, trying to attack. Tracy visualized the Doberman's powerful, heavy body and deadly teeth.
She called out softly to someone in the van, “Now.”
A slight, middle-aged man, also dressed in black, with a rucksack on his back, came out of the van holding onto a female Doberman. The dog was in season, and the tone of barking from the other side of the stone wall suddenly changed to an excited whine.
Tracy helped lift the bitch to the top of the van, which was almost the exact height of the wall.
“One, two, three,” she whispered.
And the two of them tossed the bitch over the wall into the grounds of the estate. There were two sharp barks, followed by a series of snuffling noises, then the sound of the dogs running. After that all was quiet.
Tracy turned to her confederate. “Let's go.”
The man, Jean Louis, nodded. She had found him in Antibes. He was a thief who had spent most of his life in prison. Jean Louis was not bright, but he was a genius with locks and alarms, perfect for this job.
Tracy stepped from the roof of the van onto the top of the wall. She unrolled a scaling ladder and hooked it to the edge of the wall. They both moved down it onto the grass below. The estate appeared vastly different from the way it had looked the evening before, when it was brightly lit and crowded with laughing guests. Now, everything was dark and bleak.
Jean Louis trailed behind Tracy, keeping a fearful watch for the Dobermans.
The chвteau was covered with centuries-old ivy clinging to the wall up to the rooftop. Tracy had casually tested the ivy the evening before. Now, as she put her weight on a vine, it held. She began to climb, scanning the grounds below. There was no sign of the dogs. l hope they stay busy for a long time, she prayed.
When Tracy reached the roof, she signaled to Jean Louis and waited until he climbed up beside her. From the pinpoint light Tracy switched on, they saw a glass skylight, securely locked from below. As Tracy watched, Jean Louis reached into the rucksack on his back and pulled out a small glass cutter. It took him less than a minute to remove the glass.
Tracy glanced down and saw that their way was blocked by a spiderweb of alarm wires. “Can you handle that, Jean?” she whispered.
“Je peux faire зa. No problem.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a foot-long wire with an alligator clamp on each end. Moving slowly, he traced the beginning of the alarm wire, stripped it, and connected the alligator clamp to the end of the alarm. He pulled out a pair of pliers and carefully cut the wire. Tracy tensed herself, waiting for the sound of the alarm, but all was quiet. Jean Louis looked up and grinned. “Voilа. Fini.”
Wrong, Tracy thought. This is just the beginning.
They used a second scaling ladder to climb down through the skylight. So far so good. They had made it safely into the attic. But when Tracy thought of what lay ahead, her heart began to pound.
She pulled out two pairs of red-lens goggles and handed one of them to Jean Louis. “Put these on.”
She had figured out a way to distract the Doberman, but the infrared-ray alarms had proved to be a more difficult problem to solve. Jeff had been correct: The house was crisscrossed with invisible beams. Tracy took several long, deep breaths. Center your energy, your chi. Relax. She forced her mind into a crystal clarity: When a person moves into a beam, nothing happens, but the instant the person moves out of the beam, the sensor detects the difference in temperature and the alarm is set off. It has been set to go off before the burglar opens the safe, leaving him no time to do anything before the police arrive.
And there, Tracy had decided, was the weakness in the system. She had needed to devise a way to keep the alarm silent until after the safe was opened. At 6:30 in the morning she had found the solution. The burglary was possible, and Tracy had felt that familiar feeling of excitement begin to build within her.
Now, she slipped the infrared goggles on, and instantly everything in the room took on an eerie red glow. In front of the attic door Tracy saw a beam of light that would have been invisible without the glasses.
“Slip under it,” she warned Jean Louis. “Careful.”
They crawled under the beam and found themselves in a dark hallway leading to Count de Matigny's bedroom. Tracy flicked on the flashlight and led the way. Through the infrared goggles, Tracy saw another light beam, this one low across the threshold of the bedroom door. Gingerly, she jumped over it. Jean Louis was right behind her.
Tracy played her flashlight around the walls, and there were the paintings, impressive, awesome.
Promise to bring me the Leonardo, Gunther had said. And of course the jewelry.
Tracy took down the picture, turned it over, and laid it on the floor. She carefully removed it from its frame, rolled up the vellum, and stored it in her shoulder bag. All that remained now was to get into the safe, which stood in a curtained alcove at the far end of the bedroom.
Tracy opened the curtains. Four infrared lights transversed the alcove, from the floor to the ceiling, crisscrossing one another. It was impossible to reach the safe without breaking one of the beams.
Jean Louis stared at the beams with dismay. “Bon Dieu de merde! We can't get through those. They're too low to crawl under and too high to jump over.”
“I want you to do just as I tell you,” Tracy said. She stepped in back of him and put her arms tightly around his waist. “Now, walk with me. Left foot first.”
Together, they took a step toward the beams, then another.
Jean Louis breathed, “Alors! We're going into them!”
“Right.”
They moved directly into the center of the beams, where they converged, and Tracy stopped.
“Now, listen carefully,” she said. “I want you to walk over to the safe.”
“But the beams —”
“Don't worry. It will be all right.” She fervently hoped she was right.
Hesitantly, Jean Louis stepped out of the infrared beams. All was quiet. He looked back at Tracy with large, frightened eyes. She was standing in the middle of the beams, her body heat keeping the sensors from sounding the alarm. Jean Louis hurried over to the safe. Tracy stood stock-still, aware that the instant she moved, the alarm would sound.
Out of the corner of one eye, Tracy could see Jean Louis as he removed some tools from his pack and began to work on the dial of the safe. Tracy stood motionless, taking slow, deep breaths. Time stopped. Jean Louis seemed to be taking forever. The calf of Tracy's right leg began to ache, then went into spasm. Tracy gritted her teeth. She dared not move.
“How long?” she whispered.
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
It seemed to Tracy she had been standing there a lifetime. The leg muscles in her left leg were beginning to cramp. She felt like screaming from the pain. She was pinned in the beams, frozen. She heard a click. The safe was open.
“Magnifique! C'est la banque! Do you wish everything?” Jean Louis asked.
“No papers. Only the jewels. Whatever cash is there is yours.”
“Merci.”
Tracy heard Jean Louis riffling through the safe, and a few moments later he was walking toward her.
“Formidable!” he said. “But how do we get out of here without breaking the beam?”
“We don't,” Tracy informed him.
He stared at her. “What?”
“Stand in front of me.”
“But —”
“Do as I say.”
Panicky, Jean Louis stepped into the beam.
Tracy held her breath. Nothing happened. “All right. Now, very slowly, we're going to back out of the room.”
“And then?” Jean Louis's eyes looked enormous behind the goggles.
“Then, my friend, we run for it.”
Inch by inch, they backed through the beams toward the curtains, where the beams began. When they reached them, Tracy took a deep breath. “Right. When I say now, we go out the same way we came in.”
Jean Louis swallowed and nodded. Tracy could feel his small body tremble.
“Now!”
Tracy spun around and raced toward the door, Jean Louis after her. The instant they stepped out of the beams, the alarm sounded. The noise was deafening, shattering.
Tracy streaked to the attic and scurried up the hook ladder, Jean Louis close behind. They raced across the roof and clambered down the ivy, and the two of them sped across the grounds toward the wall where the second ladder was waiting. Moments later they reached the roof of the van and scurried down. Tracy leapt into the driver's seat, Jean Louis at her side.
As the van raced down the side road, Tracy saw a dark sedan parked under a grove of trees. For an instant the headlights of the van lit the interior of the car. Behind the wheel sat Jeff Stevens. At his side was a large Doberman. Tracy laughed aloud and blew a kiss to Jeff as the van sped away.
From the distance came the wail of approaching police sirens.
Biarritz, on the southwestern coast of France, has lost much of its turn-of-the-century glamour. The once-famed Casino Bellevue is closed for badly needed repairs, while the Casino Municipal on Rue Mazagran is now a run-down building housing small shops and a dancing school. The old villas on the hills have taken on a look of shabby gentility.
Still, in high season, from July to September, the wealthy and titled of Europe continue to flock to Biarritz to enjoy the gambling and the sun and their memories. Those who do not have their own chвteaus stay at the luxurious Hфtel du Palais, at 1 Avenue Impйratrice. The former summer residence of Napoleon III, the hotel is situated on a promontory over the Atlantic Ocean, in one of nature's most spectacular settings: a lighthouse on one side, flanked by huge jagged rocks looming out of the gray ocean like prehistoric monsters, and the boardwalk on the other side.
On an afternoon in late August the French Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly swept into the lobby of the Hфtel du Palais. The baroness was an elegant young woman with a sleek cap of ash-blond hair. She wore a green-and-white silk Givency dress that set off a figure that made the women turn and watch her enviously, and the men gape.
The baroness walked up to the concierge. “Ma clй, s'il vous plaоt,” she said. She had a charming French accent.
“Certainly, Baroness.” He handed Tracy her key and several telephone messages.
As Tracy walked toward the elevator, a bespectacled, rumpled-looking man turned abruptly away from the vitrine displaying Hermes scarves and crashed into her, knocking the purse from her hand.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I'm terribly sorry.” He picked up her purse and handed it to her. “Please forgive me.” He spoke with a Middle European accent.
The Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly gave him an imperious nod and moved on.
An attendant ushered her into the elevator and let her off at the third floor. Tracy had chosen Suite 312, having learned that often the selection of the hotel accommodations was as important as the hotel itself. In Capri, it was Bungalow 522 in the Quisisana. In Majorca, it was the Royal Suite of Son Vida, overlooking the mountains and the distant bay. In New York, it was Tower Suite 4717 at The Helmsley Palace Hotel, and in Amsterdam, Room 325 at the Amstel, where one was lulled to sleep by the soothing lapping of the canal waters.
Suite 312 at the Hфtel du Palais had a panoramic view of both the ocean and the city. From every window Tracy could watch the waves crashing against the timeless rocks protruding from the sea like drowning figures. Directly below her window was an enormous kidney-shaped swimming pool, its bright blue water clashing with the gray of the ocean, and next to it a large terrace with umbrellas to ward off the summer sun. The walls of the suite were upholstered in blue-and-white silk damask, with marble baseboards, and the rugs and curtains were the color of faded sweetheart roses. The wood of the doors and shutters was stained with the soft patina of time.
When Tracy had locked the door behind her, she took off the tight-fitting blond wig and massaged her scalp. The baroness persona was one of her best. There were hundreds of titles to choose from in Debrett's Peerage and Baronetage and Almanach de Gotha. There were ladies and duchesses and princesses and baronesses and countesses by the score from two dozen countries, and the books were invaluable to Tracy, for they gave family histories dating back centuries, with the names of fathers and mothers and children, schools and houses, and addresses of family residences. It was a simple matter to select a prominent family and become a distant cousin — particularly a wealthy distant cousin. People were so impressed by titles and money.
Tracy thought of the stranger who had bumped into her in the hotel lobby and smiled. It had begun.
At 8:00 that evening the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly was seated in the hotel's bar when the man who had collided with her earlier approached her table.
“Excuse me,” he said diffidently, “but I must apologize again for my inexcusable clumsiness this afternoon.”
Tracy gave him a gracious smile. “That's quite all right. It was an accident.”
“You are most kind.” He hesitated. “I would feel much better if you would permit me to buy you a drink.”
“Oui. If you wish.”
He slid into a chair opposite her. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Professor Adolf Zuckerman.”
“Marguerite de Chantilly.”
Zuckerman signaled the captain. “What are you drinking?” Zuckerman asked Tracy.
“Champagne. But perhaps —”
He raised a reassuring hand. “I can afford it. In fact, I am on the verge of being able to afford anything in the world.”
“Really?” Tracy gave him a small smile. “How nice for you.”
“Yes.”
Zuckerman ordered a bottle of Bollinger, then turned to Tracy. “The most extraordinary thing has happened to me. I really should not be discussing this with a stranger, but it is too exciting to keep to myself.” He leaned closer and lowered 'his voice. “To tell you the truth, I am a simple school-teacher — or I was, until recently. I teach history. It is most enjoyable, you understand, but not too exciting.”
She listened, a look of polite interest on her face.
“That is to say, it was not exciting until a few months ago.”
“May I ask what happened a few months ago, Professor Zuckerman?”
“I was doing research on the Spanish Armada, looking for odd bits and pieces that might make the subject more interesting for my students, and in the archives of the local museum, I came across an old document that had somehow gotten mixed in with other papers. It gave the details of a secret expedition that Prince Philip sent out in 1588. One of the ships, loaded with gold bullion, was supposed to have sunk in a storm and vanished without a trace.”
Tracy looked at him thoughtfully. “Supposed to have sunk?”
“Exactly. But according to these records, the captain and crew deliberately sank the ship in a deserted cove, planning to come back later and retrieve the treasure, but they were attacked and killed by pirates before they could return. The document survived only because none of the sailors on the pirate ship could read or write. They did not know the significance of what they had.” His voice was trembling with excitement. “Now” — he lowered his voice and looked around to make sure it was safe to continue — “I have the document, with detailed instructions on how to get to the treasure.”
“What a fortunate discovery for you, Professor.” There was a note of admiration in her voice.
“That gold bullion is probably worth fifty million dollars today,” Zuckerman said. “All I have to do is bring it up.”
“What's stopping you?”
He gave an embarrassed shrug. “Money. I must outfit a ship to bring the treasure to the surface.”
“I see. How much would that cost?”
“A hundred thousand dollars. I must confess, I did something extremely foolish. I took twenty thousand dollars — my life's savings — and I came to Biarritz to gamble at the casino, hoping to win enough to…” His voice trailed off.
“And you lost it.”
He nodded. Tracy saw the glint of tears behind his spectacles.
The champagne arrived, and the captain popped the cork and poured the golden liquid into their glasses.
“Bonne chance,” Tracy toasted.
“Thank you.”
They sipped their drinks in contemplative silence.
“Please forgive me for boring you with all this,” Zuckerman said. “I should not be telling a beautiful lady my troubles.”
“But I find your story fascinating,” she assured him. “You are sure the gold is there, oui?”
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt. I have the original shipping orders and a map drawn by the captain, himself. I know the exact location of the treasure.”
She was studying him with a thoughtful expression on her face. “But you need a hundred thousand dollars?”
Zuckerman chuckled ruefully. “Yes. For a treasure worth fifty million.” He took another sip of his drink.
“C'est possible…” She stopped.
“What?”
“Have you considered taking in a partner?”
He looked at her in surprise. “A partner? No. I planned to do this alone. But of course now that I've lost my money…” His voice trailed off again.
“Professor Zuckerman, suppose I were to give you the hundred thousand dollars?”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not, Baroness. I could not permit that. You might lose your money.”
“But if you're sure the treasure is there —?”
“Oh, of that I am positive. But a hundred things could go wrong. There are no guarantees.”
“In life, there are few guarantees. Your problem is trиs intйressant. Perhaps if I help you solve it, it could be lucrative for both of us.”
“No, I could never forgive myself if by any remote chance you should lose your money.”
“I can afford it,” she assured him. “And I would stand to make a great deal on my investment, n'est-ce pas?”
“Of course, there is that side of it,” Zuckerman admitted. He sat there weighing the matter, obviously torn with doubts. Finally, he said, “If that is what you wish, you will be a fifty-fifty partner.”
She smiled, pleased. “D'accord. I accept.”
The professor added quickly, “After expenses, of course.”
“Naturellement. How soon can we get started?”
“Immediately.” The professor was charged with a sudden vitality. “I have already found the boat I want to use. It has modern dredging equipment and a crew of four. Of course, we will have to give them a small percentage of whatever we bring up.”
“Bien sыr.”
“We should get started as quickly as possible, or we might lose the boat.”
“I can have the money for you in five days.”
“Wonderful!” Zuckerman exclaimed. “That will give me time to make all the preparations. Ah, this was a fortuitous meeting for both of us, was it not?”
“Oui. Sans doute.”
“To our adventure.” The professor raised his glass.
Tracy raised hers and toasted, “May it prove to be as profitable as I feel it will be.”
They clinked glasses. Tracy looked across the room and froze. At a table in the far corner was Jeff Stevens, watching her with an amused smile on his face. With him was an attractive woman ablaze with jewels.
Jeff nodded to Tracy, and she smiled, remembering how she had last seen him outside the De Matigny estate, with that silly dog beside him. That was one for me, Tracy thought happily.
“So, if you will excuse me,” Zuckerman was saying, “I have much to do. I will be in touch with you.” Tracy graciously extended her hand, and he kissed it and departed.
“I see your friend has deserted you, and I can't imagine why. You look absolutely terrific as a blonde.”
Tracy glanced up. Jeff was standing beside her table. He sat down in the chair Adolf Zuckerman had occupied a few minutes earlier.
“Congratulations,” Jeff said. “The De Matigny caper was ingenious. Very neat.”
“Coming from you, that's high praise, Jeff.”
“You're costing me a lot of money, Tracy.”
“You'll get used to it.”
He toyed with the glass in front of him. “What did Professor Zuckerman want?”
“Oh, you know him?”
“You might say that.”
“He… er… just wanted to have a drink.”
“And tell you all about his sunken treasure?”
Tracy was suddenly wary. “How do you know about that?”
Jeff looked at her in surprise. “Don't tell me you fell for it? It's the oldest con game in the world.”
“Not this time.”
“You mean you believed him?”
Tracy said stiffly, “I'm not at liberty to discuss it, but the professor happens to have some inside information.”
Jeff shook his head in disbelief. “Tracy, he's trying to take you. How much did he ask you to invest in his sunken treasure?”
“Never mind,” Tracy said primly. “It's my money and my business.”
Jeff shrugged. “Right. Just don't say old Jeff didn't try to warn you.”
“It couldn't be that you're interested in that gold for yourself, could it?”
He threw up his hands in mock despair. “Why are you always so suspicious of me?”
“It's simple,” Tracy replied. “I don't trust you. Who was the woman you were with?” She instantly wished she could have withdrawn the question.
“Suzanne? A friend.”
“Rich, of course.”
Jeff gave her a lazy smile. “As a matter of fact, I think she does have a bit of money. If you'd like to join us for luncheon tomorrow, the chef on her two-hundred-fifty-foot yacht in the harbor makes a —”
“Thank you. I wouldn't dream of interfering with your lunch. What are you selling her?”
“That's personal.”
“I'm sure it is.” It came out harsher than she had intended.
Tracy studied him over the rim of her glass. He really was too damned attractive. He had clean, regular features, beautiful gray eyes with long lashes, and the heart of a snake. A very intelligent snake.
“Have you ever thought of going into a legitimate business?” Tracy asked. “You'd probably be very successful.”
Jeff looked shocked. “What? And give up all this? You must be joking!”
“Have you always been a con artist?”
“Con artist? I'm an entrepreneur,” he said reprovingly.
“How did you become a — an — entrepreneur?”
“I ran away from home when I was fourteen and joined a carnival.”
“At fourteen?” It was the first glimpse Tracy had had into what lay beneath the sophisticated, charming veneer.
“It was good for ma — I learned to cope. When that wonderful war in Vietnam came along, I joined up as a Green Beret and got an advanced education. I think the main thing I learned was that that war was the biggest con of all. Compared to that, you and I are amateurs.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Do you like pelota?”
“If you're selling it, no thank you.”
“It's a game, a variation of jai alai. I have two tickets for tonight, and Suzanne can't make it. Would you like to go?”
Tracy found herself saying yes.
They dined at a little restaurant in the town square, where they had a local wine and confit de canard а l' ail — roast duck simmered in its own juices with roasted potatoes and garlic. It was delicious.
“The specialty of the house,” Jeff informed Tracy.
They discussed politics and books and travel, and Tracy found Jeff surprisingly knowledgeable.
“When you're on your own at fourteen,” Jeff told her, “you pick up things fast. First you learn what motivates you, then you learn what motivates other people. A con game is similar to ju jitsu. In ju jitsu you use your opponent's strength to win. In a con game, you use his greed. You make the first move, and he does the rest of your work for you.”
Tracy smiled, wondering if Jeff had any idea how much alike they were. She enjoyed being with him, but she was sure that given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to double-cross her. He was a man to be careful of, and that she intended to be.
The fronton where pelota was played was a large outdoor arena the size of a football field, high in the hills of Biarritz. There were huge green concrete backboards at either end of the court, and a playing area in the center, with four tiers of stone benches on both sides of the field. At dusk, floodlights were turned on. When Tracy and Jeff arrived, the stands were almost full, crowded with fans, as the two teams went into action.
Members of each team took turns slamming the ball into the concrete wall and catching it on the rebound in their cestas, the long, narrow baskets strapped to their arms. Pelota was a fast, dangerous game.
When one of the players missed the ball, the crowd screamed,
“They really take this very seriously,” Tracy commented.
“A lot of money is bet on these games. The Basques are a gambling race.”
As spectators kept filing in, the benches became more crowded, and Tracy found herself being pressed against Jeff. If he was aware of her body against his, he gave no sign of it.
The pace and ferocity of the game seemed to intensify as the minutes passed, and the screams of the fans kept echoing through the night.
“Is it as dangerous as it looks?” Tracy asked.
“Baroness, that ball travels through the air at almost a hundred miles an hour. If you get hit in the head, you're dead. 'INK it's rare for a player to miss.” He patted her hand absently, his eyes glued to the action.
The players were experts, moving gracefully, in perfect control. But in the middle of the game, without warning, one of the players hurled the ball at the backboard at the wrong angle, and the lethal ball came hurtling straight toward the bench where Tracy and Jeff sat. The spectators scrambled for cover. Jeff grabbed Tracy and shoved her to the ground, his body covering hers. They heard the sound of the ball sailing directly over their heads and smashing into the side wall. Tracy lay on the ground, feeling the hardness of Jeff's body. His face was very close to hers.
He held her a moment, then lifted himself up and pulled her to her feet. There was a sudden awkwardness between them.
“I — I think I've had enough excitement for one evening,” Tracy said. “I'd like to go back to the hotel, please.”
They said good-night in the lobby.
“I enjoyed this evening,” Tracy told Jeff. She meant it.
“Tracy, you're not really going ahead with Zuckerman's crazy sunken-treasure scheme, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
He studied her for a long moment “You still think I'm after that gold, don't you?”
She looked him in the eye. “Aren't you?”
His expression hardened. “Good luck ”
“Good night, Jeff.”
Tracy watched him turn and walk out of the hotel. She supposed he was on his way to see Suzanne. Poor woman.
The concierge said, “Ah, good evening, Baroness. There is a message for you.”
It was from Professor Zuckerman.
Adolf Zuckerman had a problem. A very large problem. He was seated in the office of Armand Grangier, and Zuckerman was so terrified of what was happening that he discovered he had wet his pants. Grangier was the owner of an illegal private casino located in an elegant private villa at 123 Rue de Frias. It made no difference to Grangier whether the Casino Municipal was closed or not, for the club at Rue de Frias was always filled with wealthy patrons. Unlike the government-supervised casinos, bets there were unlimited, and that was where the high rollers came to play roulette, chemin de fer, and craps. Grangier's customers included Arab princes, English nobility, Oriental businessmen, African heads of state. Scantily clad young ladies circulated around the room taking orders for complimentary champagne and whiskey, for Armand Grangier had learned long before that, more than any other class of people, the rich appreciated getting something for nothing. Grangier could afford to give drinks away. His roulette wheels and his card games were rigged.
The club was usually filled with beautiful young women escorted by older gentlemen with money, and sooner or later the women were drawn to Grangier. He was a miniature of a man, with perfect features, liquid brown eyes, and a soft, sensual mouth. He stood five feet four inches, and the combination of his looks and his small stature drew women like a magnet. Grangier treated each one with feigned admiration.
“I find you irresistible, chйrie, but unfortunately for both of us, I am madly in love with someone.”
And it was true. Of course, that someone changed from week to week, for in Biarritz there was an endless supply of beautiful young men, and Armand Grangier gave each one his brief place in the sun.
Grangier's connections with the underworld and the police were powerful enough for him to maintain his casino. He had worked his way up from being a ticket runner for the mob to running drugs, and finally, to ruling his own little fiefdom in Biarritz; those who opposed him found out too late how deadly the little man could be.
Now Adolf Zuckerman. was being cross-examined by Armand Grangier.
“Tell me more about this baroness you talked into the sunken-treasure scheme.”
From the furious tone of his voice, Zuckerman knew that something was wrong, terribly wrong.
He swallowed and said, “Well, she's a widow whose husband left her a lot of money, and she said she's going to come up with a hundred thousand dollars.” The sound of his own voice gave him confidence to go on: “Once we get the money, of course, we'll tell her that the salvage ship had an accident and that we need another fifty thousand. Then it'll be another hundred thousand, and — you know — just like always.”
He saw the look of contempt on Armand Grangier's face. “What's — what's the problem, chief?”
“The problem,” said Grangier in a steely tone, “is that I just received a call from one of my boys in Paris. He forged a passport for your baroness. Her name is Tracy Whitney, and she's an American.”
Zuckerman's mouth was suddenly dry. He licked his lips. “She — she really seemed interested, chief.”
“Balle! Conneau! She's a con artist. You tried to pull a swindle on a swindler!”
“Then w-why did she say yes? Why didn't she just turn it down?”
Armand Grangier's voice was icy. “I don't know, Professor, but I intend to find out. And when I do, I'm sending the lady for a swim in the bay. Nobody can make a fool out of Armand Grangier. Now, pick up that phone. Tell her a friend of yours has offered to put up half the money, and that I'm on my way over to see her. Do you think you can handle that?”
Zuckerman said eagerly, “Sure, chief. Not to worry.”
“I do worry,” Armand Grangier said slowly. “I worry a lot about you, Professor.”
Armand Grangier did not like mysteries. The sunken-treasure game had been worked for centuries, but the victims had to be gullible. There was simply no way a con artist would ever fall for it. That was the mystery that bothered Grangier, and he intended to solve it; and when he had the answer, the woman would be turned over to Bruno Vicente. Vicente enjoyed playing games with his victims before disposing of them.
Armand Grangier stepped out of the limousine as it stopped in front of the Hфtel du Palais, walked into the lobby, and approached Jules Bergerac, the white-haired Basque who had worked at the hotel from the age of thirteen.
“What's the number of the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly's suite?”
There was a strict rule that desk clerks not divulge the room numbers of guests, but rules did not apply to Armand Grangier.
“Suite three-twelve, Monsieur Grangier.”
“Merci.”
“And Room three-eleven.”
Grangier stopped. “What?”
“The countess also has a room adjoining her suite.”
“Oh? Who occupies it?”
“No one.”
“No one? Are you sure?”
“Oui, monsieur. She keeps it locked. The maids have been ordered to keep out.”
A puzzled frown appeared on Grangier's face. “You have a passkey?”
“Of course.” Without an instant's hesitation, the concierge reached under the desk for a passkey and handed it to Armand Grangier. Jules watched as Armand Grangier walked toward the elevator. One never argued with a man like Grangier.
When Armand Grangier reached the door of the baroness's suite, he found it ajar. He pushed it open and entered. The living room was deserted. “Hello. Anyone here?”
A feminine voice from another room sang out, “I'm in the bath. I'll be with you in a minute. Please help yourself to a drink.”
Grangier wandered around the suite, familiar with its furnishings, tbr over the years he had arranged for many of his friends to stay in the hotel. He strolled into the bedroom. Expensive jewelry was carelessly spread out on a dressing table.
“I won't be a minute,” the voice called out from the bathroom.
“No hurry, Baroness.”
Baroness mon cul! he thought angrily. Whatever little game you're playing, chйrie, is going to backfire. He walked over to the door that connected to the adjoining room. It was locked. Grangier took out the passkey and opened the door. The room he stepped into had a musty, unused smell. The concierge had said that no one occupied it. Then why did she need —? Grangier's eye was caught by something oddly out of place. A heavy black electrical cord attached to a wall socket snaked along the length of the floor and disappeared into a closet. The door was open just enough to allow the cord to pass through. Curious, Grangier walked over to the closet door and opened it.
A row of wet hundred-dollar bills held up by clothespins on a wire was strung across the closet, hanging out to dry. On a typewriter stand was an object covered by a drape cloth. Grangier flicked up the cloth. He uncovered a small printing press with a still-wet hundred-dollar bill in it. Next to the press were sheets of blank paper the size of American currency and a paper cutter. Several one-hundred-dollar bills that had been unevenly cut were scattered on the floor.
An angry voice behind Grangier demanded, “What are you doing in here?”
Grangier spun around. Tracy Whitney, her hair damp from the bath and wrapped in a towel, had come into the room.
Armand Grangier said softly, “Counterfeit! You were going to pay us off with counterfeit money.” He watched the expressions that played across her face. Denial, outrage, and then defiance.
“All right,” Tracy admitted. “But it wouldn't have mattered. No one can tell these from the real thing.”
“Con!” It was going to be a pleasure to destroy this one.
“These bills are as good as gold.”
“Really?” There was contempt in Grangier's voice. He pulled one of the wet bills from the wire and glanced at it. He looked at one side, then the other, and then examined them more closely. They were excellent. “Who cut these dies?”
“What's the difference? Look, I can have the hundred thousand dollars ready by Friday.”
Grangier stared at her, puzzled. And when he realized what she was thinking, he laughed aloud. “Jesus,” he said. “You're really stupid. There's no treasure.”
Tracy was bewildered. “What do you mean, no treasure? Professor Zuckerman told me —”
“And you believed him? Shame, Baroness.” He studied the bill in his hand again. “I'll take this.”
Tracy shrugged. “Take as many as you like. It's only paper.”
Grangier grabbed a handful of the wet hundred-dollar bills. “How do you know one of the maids won't walk in here?” he asked.
“I pay them well to keep away. And when I'm out, I lock the closet.”
She's cool, Armand Grangier thought. But it's not going to keep her alive.
“Don't leave the hotel,” he ordered. “I have a friend I want you to meet.”
Armand Grangier had intended to turn the woman over to Bruno Vicente immediately, but some instinct held him back. He examined one of the bills again. He had handled a lot of counterfeit money, but nothing nearly as good as this. Whoever cut the dies was a genius. The paper felt authentic, and the lines were crisp and clean. The colors remained sharp and fixed, even with the bill wet, and the picture of Benjamin Franklin was perfect. The bitch was right. It was hard to tell the difference between what he held in his hand and the real thing. Grangier wondered whether it would be possible to pass it off as genuine currency. It was a tempting idea.
He decided to hold off on Bruno Vicente for a while.
Early the following morning Armand Grangier sent for Zuckerman and handed him one of the hundred-dollar bills. “Go down to the bank and exchange this for francs.”
“Sure, chief.”
Grangier watched him hurry out of the office. This was Zuckerrpan's punishment for his stupidity. If he was arrested, he would never tell where he got the counterfeit bill, not if he wanted to live. But if he managed to pass the bill successfully… I'll see, Grangier thought.
Fifteen minutes later Zuckerman returned to the office. He counted out a hundred dollars' worth of French francs. “Anything else, chief?”
Grangier stared at the francs. “Did you have any trouble?”
“Trouble? No. Why?”
“I want you to go back to the same bank,” Grangier ordered. “This is what I want you to say….”
Adolf Zuckerman walked into the lobby of the Banque de France and approached the desk where the bank manager sat. This time Zuckerman was aware of the danger he was in, but he preferred facing that than Grangier's wrath.
“May I help you?” the manager asked.
“Yes.” He tried to conceal his nervousness. “You see, I got into a poker game last night with some Americans I met at a bar.” He stopped.
The bank manager nodded wisely. “And you lost your money and perhaps wish to make a loan?”
“No,” Zuckerman said. “As — as a matter of fact, I won. The only thing is, the men didn't look quite honest to me.” He pulled out two $100 bills. “They paid me with these, and I'm afraid they — they might be counterfeit.”
Zuckerman held his breath as the bank manager leaned forward and took the bills in his pudgy hands. He examined them carefully, first one side and then the other, then held them up to the light.
He looked at Zuckerman and smiled. “You were lucky, monsieur. These bills are genuine.”
Zuckerman allowed himself to exhale. Thank God! Everything was going to be all right.
“No problem at all, chief. He said they were genuine.”
It was almost too good to be true. Armand Grangier sat there thinking, a plan already half-formed in his mind.
“Go get the baroness.”
Tracy was seated in Armand Grangier's office, facing him across his Empire desk.
“You and I are going to be partners,” Grangier informed her.
Tracy started to rise. “I don't need a partner and —”
“Sit down.”
She looked into Grangier's eyes and sat down.
“Biarritz is my town. You try to pass a single one of those bills and you'll get arrested so fast you won't know what hit you. Comprenez-vous? Bad things happen to pretty ladies in our jails. You can't make a move here without me.”
She studied him. “So what I'm buying from you is protection?”
“Wrong. What you're buying from me is your life.”
Tracy believed him.
“Now, tell me where you got your printing press.”
Tracy hesitated, and Grangier enjoyed her squirming. He watched her surrender.
She said reluctantly, “I bought it from an American living in Switzerland. He was an engraver with the U.S. Mint for twenty-five years, and when they retired him there was some technical problem about his pension and he never received it. He felt cheated and decided to get even, so he smuggled out some hundred-dollar plates that were supposed to have been destroyed and used his contacts to get the paper that the Treasury Department prints its money on.”
That explains it, Grangier thought triumphantly. That is why the bills look so good. His excitement grew. “How much money can that press turn out in a day?”
“Only one bill an hour. Each side of the paper has to be processed and —”
He interrupted. “Isn't there a larger press?”
“Yes, he has one that will turn out fifty bills every eight hours — five thousand dollars a day — but he wants half a million dollars for it.”
“Buy it,” Grangier said.
“I don't have five hundred thousand dollars.”
“I do. How soon can you get hold of the press?”
She said reluctantly, “Now, I suppose, but I don't —”
Grangier picked up the telephone and spoke into it. “Louis, I want five hundred thousand dollars' worth of French francs. Take what we have from the safe and get the rest from the banks. Bring it to my office. Vite!”
Tracy stood up nervously. “I'd better go and —”
“You're not going anywhere.”
“I really should —”
“Just sit there and keep quiet. I'm thinking.”
He had business associates who would expect to be cut in on this deal, but what they don't know won't hurt them, Grangier decided. He would buy the large press for himself and replace what he borrowed from the casino's bank account with money he would print. After that, he would tell Bruno Vicente to handle the woman. She did not like partners.
Well, neither did Armand Grangier.
Two hours later the money arrived in a large sack. Grangier said to Tracy, “You're checking out of the Palais. I have a house up in the hills that's very private. You will stay there until we set up the operation.” He pushed the phone toward her. “Now, call your friend in Switzerland and tell him you're buying the big press.”
“I have his phone number at the hotel. I'll call from there. Give me the address of your house, and I'll tell him to ship the press there and —”
“Non!” Grangier snapped. “I don't want to leave a trail. I'll have it picked up at the airport. We will talk about it at dinner tonight. I'll see you at eight o'clock.”
It was a dismissal. Tracy rose to her feet.
Grangier nodded toward the sack. “Be careful with the money. I wouldn't want anything to happen to it — or to you.”
“Nothing will,” Tracy assured him.
He smiled lazily. “I know. Professor Zuckerman is going to escort you to your hotel.”
The two of them rode in the limousine in silence, the money bag between them, each busy with his own thoughts. Zuckerman was not exactly sure what was happening, but he sensed it was going to be very good for him. The woman was the key. Grangier had ordered him to keep an eye on her, and Zuckerman intended to do that.
Armand Grangier was in a euphoric mood that evening. By now, the large printing press would have been arranged for. The Whitney woman had said it would print $5,000 a day, but Grangier had a better plan. He intended to work the press on twenty-four hour shifts. That would bring it to $15,000 a day, more than $100,000 a week, $1 million every ten weeks. And that was just the beginning. Tonight he would learn who the engraver was and make a deal with him for more machines. There was no limit to the fortune it would make him.
At precisely 8:00, Grangier's limousine pulled into the sweeping curve of the driveway of the Hфtel du Palais, and Grangier stepped out of the car. As he walked into the lobby, he noticed with satisfaction that Zuckerman was seated near the entrance, keeping a watchful eye on the doors.
Grangier walked over to the desk. “Jules, tell the Baroness de Chantilly I am here. Have her come down to the lobby.”
The concierge looked up and said, “But the baroness has checked out, Monsieur Grangier.”
“You're mistaken. Call her.”
Jules Bergerac was distressed. It was unhealthy to contradict Armand Grangier. “I checked her out myself.”
Impossible. “When?”
“Shortly after she returned to the hotel. She asked me to bring her bill to her suite so she could settle it in cash--”
Armand Grangier's mind was racing. “In cash? French francs?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, monsieur.”
Grangier asked frantically, “Did she take anything out of her suite? Any baggage or boxes?”
“No. She said she would send for her luggage later.”
So she had taken his money and gone to Switzerland to make her own deal for the large printing press.
“Take me to her suite. Quickly!”
“Oui, Monsieur Grangier.”
Jules Bergerac grabbed a key from a rack and raced with Armand Grangier toward the elevator.
As Grangier passed Zuckerman, he hissed, “Why are you sitting there, you idiot? She's gone.”
Zuckerman looked up at him uncomprehendingly. “She can't be gone. She hasn't come down to the lobby. I've been watching for her.”
“Watching for her,” Grangier mimicked. “Have you been watching for a nurse — a gray-haired old lady — a maid going out service door?”
Zuckerman was bewildered. “Why would I do that?”
“Get back to the casino,” Grangier snapped. “I'll deal with later.”
The suite looked exactly the same as when Grangier had seen it last. The connecting door to the adjoining room was open. Grangier stepped in and hurried over to the closet and yanked open the door. The printing press was still there, thank God! The Whitney woman had left in too big a hurry to take it with her. That was her mistake. And it is not her only mistake, Grangier thought. She had cheated him out of $500,000, and he was going to pay her back with a vengeance. He would let the police help him find her and put her in jail, where his men could get at her. They would make her tell who the engraver was and then shut her up for good.
Armand Grangier dialed the number of police headquarters and asked to talk to Inspector Dumont. He spoke earnestly into the phone for three minutes and then said, “I'll wait here.”
Fifteen minutes later his friend the inspector arrived, accompanied by a man with an epicene figure and one of the most unattractive faces Grangier had ever seen. His forehead looked ready to burst out of his face, and his brown eyes, almost hidden behind thick spectacles, had the piercing look of a fanatic.
“This is Monsieur Daniel Cooper,” Inspector Dumont said. “Monsieur Grangier. Mr. Cooper is also interested in the woman you telephoned me about.”
Cooper spoke up. “You mentioned to Inspector Dumont that she's involved in a counterfeiting operation.”
“Vraiment. She is on her way to Switzerland at this moment. You can pick her up at the border. I have all the evidence you need right here.”
He led them to the closet, and Daniel Cooper and Jnspector Dumont looked inside.
“There is the press she printed her money on.”
Daniel Cooper walked over to the machine and examined it carefully. “She printed the money on this press?”
“I just told you so,” Grangier snapped. He took a bill from his pocket. “Look at this. It is one of the counterfeit hundred-dollar bills she gave me.”
Cooper walked over to the window and held the bill up to the light. “This is a genuine bill.”
“It only looks like one. That is because she used stolen plates she bought from an engraver who once worked at the Mint in Philadelphia. She printed these bills on this press.”
Cooper said rudely “You're stupid. This is an ordinary printing press. The only thing you could print on this is letterheads.”
“Letterheads?” The room was beginning to spin.
“You actually believed in the fable of a machine that turns paper into genuine hundred-dollar bills?”
“I tell you I saw with my own eyes —” Grangier stopped. What had he seen? Some wet hundred-dollar bills strung up to dry, some blank paper, and a paper cutter. The enormity of the swindle began to dawn on him. There was no counterfeiting operation, no engraver waiting in Switzerland. Tracy Whitney had never fallen for the sunken-treasure story. The bitch had used his own scheme as the bait to swindle him out of half a million dollars. If the word of this got out….
The two men were watching him.
“Do you wish to press charges of some kind, Armand?” Inspector Dumont asked.
How could he? What could he say? That he had been cheated while trying to finance a counterfeiting operation? And what were his associates going to do to him when they learned he had stolen half a million dollars of their money and given it away? He was filled with sudden dread.
“No. I — I don't wish to press charges.” There was panic in his voice.
Africa, Armand Grangier thought. They'll never find me in Africa.
Daniel Cooper was thinking, Next time. I'll get her next time.
It was Tracy who suggested to Gunther Hartog that they meet in Majorca. Tracy loved the island. It was one of the truly picturesque places in the world. “Besides,” she told Gunther, “it was once the refuge of pirates. We'll feel right at home there.”
“It might be best if we are not seen together,” he suggested.
“I'll arrange it.”
It had started with Gunther's phone call from London. “I have something for you that is quite out of the ordinary, Tracy. I think you'll find it a real challenge.”
The following morning Tracy flew to Palma, Majorca's capital. Because of Interpol's red circulation on Tracy, her departure from Biarritz and her arrival in Majorca were reported to the local authorities. When Tracy checked into the Royal Suite at the Son Vida Hotel, a surveillance team was set up on a twenty-four-hour basis.
Police Commandant Ernesto Marze at Palma had spoken with Inspector Trignant at Interpol.
“I am convinced,” Trignant said, “that Tracy Whitney is a one-woman crime wave.”
“All the worse for her. If she commits a crime in Majorca, she will find that our justice is swift.”
Inspector Trignant said, “Monsieur, there is one other thing I should mention.”
“Sн?”
“You will be having an American visitor. His name is Daniel Cooper.”
It seemed to the detectives trailing Tracy that she was interested only in sightseeing. They followed her as she toured the island, visiting the cloister of San Francisco and the colorful Bellver Castle and the beach at Illetas. She attended a bullfight in Palma and dined on sobrasadas and camaiot in the Plaza de la Reine; and she was always alone.
She took trips to Formentor and Valldemosa and La Granja, and visited the pearl factories at Manacor.
“Nada,” the detectives reported to Ernesto Marze. “She is here as a tourist, Commandant.”
The commandant's secretary came into the office. “There is an American here to see you. Seсor Daniel Cooper.”
Commandant Marze had many American friends. He liked Americans, and he had the feeling that despite what Inspector Trignant had said, he was going to like this Daniel Cooper.
He was wrong.
“You're idiots. All of you,” Daniel Cooper snapped. “Of course she's not here as a tourist. She's after something.”
Commandant Marze barely managed to hold his temper in check. “Seсor, you yourself have said that Miss Whitney's targets are always something spectacular, that she enjoys doing the impossible. I have checked carefully, Seсor Cooper. There is nothing in Majorca that is worthy of attracting Seсorita Whitney's talents.”
“Has she met anyone here… talked to anyone?”
The insolent tone of the ojete! “No. No one.”
“Then she will,” Daniel Cooper said flatly.
I finally know, Commandant Marze told himself, what they mean by the Ugly American.
There are two hundred known caves in Majorca, but the most exciting is the Cuevas del Drach, the “Caves of the Dragon,” near Porto Cristo, an hour's journey from Palma. The ancient caves go deep into the ground, enormous vaulted caverns carved with stalagmites and stalactites, tomb-silent except for the occasional rush of meandering, underground streams, with the water turning green or blue or white, each color denoting the extent of the tremendous depths.
The caves are a fairyland of pale-ivory architecture, a seemingly endless series of labyrinths, dimly lit by strategically placed torches.
No one is permitted inside the caves without a guide, but from the moment the caves are opened to the public in the morning, they are filled with tourists.
Tracy chose Saturday to visit the caves, when they were most crowded, packed with hundreds of tourists from countries all over the world. She bought her ticket at the small counter and disappeared into the crowd. Daniel Cooper and two of Commandant Marze's men were close behind her. A guide led the excursionists along narrow stone paths, made slippery by the dripping water from the stalactites above, pointing downward like accusing skeletal fingers.
There were alcoves where the visitors could step off the paths to stop and admire the calcium formations that looked like huge birds and strange animals and trees. There were pools of darkness along the dimly lit paths, and it was into one of these that Tracy disappeared.
Daniel Cooper hurried forward, but she was nowhere in sight. The press of the crowd moving down the steps made it impossible to locate her. He had no way of knowing whether she was ahead of him or behind him. She is planning something here, Cooper told himself. But how? Where? What?
In an arena-sized grotto at the lowest point in the caves, facing the Great Lake, is a Roman theater. Tiers of stone benches have been built to accommodate the audiences that come to watch the spectacle staged every hour, and the sightseers take their seats in darkness, waiting for the show to begin.
Tracy counted her way up to the tenth tier and moved in twenty seats. The man in the twenty-first seat turned to her. “Any problem?”
“None, Gunther.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
He said something, and she had to lean closer to hear him above the babel of voices surrounding them.
“I thought it best that we not be seen together, in case you're being followed.”
Tracy glanced around at the huge, packed black cavern. “We're safe here.” She looked at him, curious. “It must be important.”
“It is.” He leaned closer to her. “A wealthy client is eager to acquire a certain painting. It's a Goya, called Puerto. He'll pay whoever can obtain it for him half a million dollars in cash. That's above my commission.”
Tracy was thoughtful. “Are there others trying?”
“Frankly, yes. In my opinion, the chances of success are limited.”
“Where is the painting?”
“In the Prado Museum in Madrid.”
“The Prado!” The word that flashed through Tracy's mind was impossible.
He was leaning very close, speaking into her ear, ignoring the chattering going on around them as the arena filled up. “This will take a great deal of ingenuity. That is why I thought of you, my dear Tracy.”
“I'm flattered,” Tracy said. “Half a million dollars?”
“Free and clear.”
The show began, and there was a sudden hush. Slowly, invisible bulbs began to glow and music filled the enormous cavern. The center of the stage was a large lake in front of the seated audience, and on it, from behind a stalagmite, a gondola appeared, lighted by hidden spotlights. An organist was in the boat, filling the air with a melodic serenade that echoed across the water. The spectators watched, rapt, as the colored lights rainbowed the darkness, and the boat slowly crossed the lake and finally disappeared, as the music faded.
“Fantastic,” Gunther said. “It was worth traveling here j to see this.”
“I love traveling,” Tracy said. “And do you know what i I've always wanted to see, Gunther? Madrid.”
Standing at the exit to the caves, Daniel Cooper watt Tracy Whitney come out.
She was alone.
The Ritz Hotel, on the Plaza de la Lealtad in Madrid, is considered the best hotel in Spain, and for more than a century it has housed and fed monarchs from a dozen European countries. Presidents, dictators, and billionaires have slept there. Tracy had heard so much about the Ritz that the reality was a disappointment. The lobby was faded and seedy-looking.
The assistant manager escorted her to the suite she had requested, 411-412, in the south wing of the hotel on Calle Felipe V.
“I trust this will be satisfactory, Miss Whitney.”
Tracy walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below, across the street, was the Prado Museum. “This will do nicely, thank you.”
The suite was filled with the blaring sounds of the heavy traffic from the streets below, but it had what she wanted: a bird's-eye view of the Prado.
Tracy ordered a light dinner in her room and retired early. When she got into the bed, she decided that trying to sleep in it had to be a modern form of medieval torture.
At midnight a detective stationed in the lobby was relieved by a colleague. “She hasn't left her room. I think she's settled in for the night.”
In Madrid, Direcciуn General de Seguridad, police headquarters, is located in the Puerto del Sol and takes up an entire city block. It is a gray building with red brick, boasting a large clock tower at the top. Over the main entrance the red-and-yellow Spanish flag flies, and there is always a policeman at the door, wearing a beige uniform and a dark-brown beret, and equipped with a machine gun, a billy club, a small gun, and handcuffs. It is at this headquarters that liaison with Interpol is maintained.
On the previous day an X-D Urgent cable had come in for Santiago Ramiro, the police commandant in Madrid, informing him of Tracy Whitney's impending arrival. The commandant had read the final sentence of the cable twice and then telephoned Inspector Andrй Trignant at Interpol headquarters in Paris.
“I do not comprehend your message,” Ramiro had said. “You ask me to extend my department's full cooperation to an American who is not even a policeman? For what reason?”
“Commandant, I think you will find Mr. Cooper most useful. He understands Miss Whitney.”
“What is there to understand?” the commandant retorted. “She is a criminal. Ingenious, perhaps, but Spanish prisons are full of ingenious criminals. This one will not slip through our net.”
“Bon. And you will consult with Mr. Cooper?”
The commandant said grudgingly, “If you say he can be useful, I have no objection.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
“De nada, seсor.”
Commandant Ramiro, like his counterpart in Paris, was not fond of Americans. He found them rude, materialistic, and naive. This one, he thought, may be different. I will probably like him.
He hated Daniel Cooper on sight.
“She's outsmarted half the police forces in Europe,” Daniel Cooper asserted, as he entered the commandant's office. “And she'll probably do the same to you.”
It was all the commandant could do to control himself. “Seсor, we do not need anyone to tell us our business. Seсorita Whitney has been under surveillance from the moment she arrived at Barajas Airport this morning. I assure you that if someone drops even a pin on the street and your Miss Whitney picks it up, she will be whisked to jail. She has not dealt with the Spanish police before.”
“She's not here to pick up a pin on the street.”
“Why do you think she is here?”
“I'm not sure. I can only tell you that it will be something big.”
Commandant Ramiro said smugly, “The bigger the better. We will watch her every move.”
When Tracy awakened in the morning, groggy from a torturous night's sleep in the bed designed by Tomбs de Torquemada, she ordered a light breakfast and hot, black coffee, and walked over to the window overlooking the Prado. It was an imposing fortress, built of stone and red bricks from the native soil, and was surrounded by grass and trees. Two Doric columns stood in front, and, on either side, twin staircases led up to the front entrance. At the street level were two side entrances. Schoolchildren and tourists from a dozen countries were lined up in front of the museum, and at exactly 10:00 A.M., the two large front doors were opened by guards, and the visitors began to move through the revolving door in the center and through the two side passages at ground level.
The telephone rang, startling Tracy. No one except Gunther Hartog knew she was in Madrid. She picked up the telephone. “Hello?”
“Buenos dias, seсorita.” It was a familiar voice. “I'm calling for the Madrid Chamber of Commerce, and they have instructed me to do everything I can to make sure you have an exciting time in our city.”
“How did you know I was in Madrid, Jeff?”
“Seсorita, the Chamber of Commerce knows everything. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes.”
“ЎBueno! Then I can show you a few places. How long do you plan to be here, Tracy?”
It was a leading question. “I'm not sure,” she said lightly “Just long enough to do a little shopping and sightseeing. What are you doing in Madrid?”
“The same.” His tone matched hers. “Shopping and sightseeing.”
Tracy did not believe in coincidence. Jeff Stevens was there for the same reason she was: to steal the Puerto.
He asked, “Are you free for dinner?”
It was a dare. “Yes.”
“Good. I'll make a reservation at the Jockey.”
Tracy certainly had no illusions about Jeff, but when she stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and saw him standing there waiting for her, she was unreasonably pleased to see him.
Jeff took her hand in his. “iFantбstico, querida! You look lovely.”
She had dressed carefully. She wore a Valentino navy-blue suit with a Russian sable flung around her neck, Maud Frizon pumps, and she carried a navy purse emblazoned with the Hermes H.
Daniel Cooper, seated at a small round table in a corner of the lobby with a glass of Perrier before him, watched Tracy as she greeted her escort, and he felt a sense of enormous power: Justice is mine, sayeth the Lord, and I am His sword and his instrument of vengeance. My life is a penance, and you shall help me pay. I'm going to punish you.
Cooper knew that no police force in the world was clever enough to catch Tracy Whitney. But I am, Cooper thought She belongs to me.
Tracy had become more than an assignment to Daniel Cooper: She had become an obsession. He carried her photographs and file with him everywhere, and at night before he went to sleep, he lovingly pored over them. He had arrived in Biarritz too late to catch her, and she had eluded him in Majorca, but now that Interpol had picked up her trail again, Cooper was determined not to lose it.
He dreamed about Tracy at night. She was in a giant cage, naked, pleading with him to set her free. l love you, he said, but I'll never set you free.
The Jockey was a small, elegant restaurant on Amador de los Rнos.
“The food here is superb,” Jeff promised.
He was looking particularly handsome, Tracy thought. There was an inner excitement about him that matched Tracy's, and she knew why: They were competing with each other, matching wits in a game for high stakes. But I'm going to win, Tracy thought. I'm going to find a way to steal that painting from the Prado before he does.
“There's a strange rumor around,” Jeff was saying.
She focused her attention on him. “What kind of rumor?”
“Have you ever heard of Daniel Cooper? He's an insurance investigator, very bright.”
“No. What about him?”
“Be careful. He's dangerous. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”
“Don't worry.”
“But I have been, Tracy.”
She laughed. “About me? Why?”
He put a hand over hers and said lightly, “You're very special. Life is more interesting with you around, my love.”
He's so damned convincing; Tracy thought. If I didn't know better, I'd believe him.
“Let's order,” Tracy said. “I'm starved.”
In the days that followed, Jeff and Tracy explored Madrid. They were never alone. Two of Commandant Ramiro's men followed them everywhere, accompanied by the strange American. Ramiro had given permission for Cooper to be a part of the surveillance team simply to keep the man out of his hair. The American was loco, convinced that the Whitney woman was somehow going to steal some great treasure from under the noses of the police. iQue ridнculo!
Tracy and Jeff dined at Madrid's classic restaurants — Horcher, the Prнncipe de Viana, and Casa Botнn — but Jeff also knew the places undiscovered by tourists: Casa Paco and La Chuletta and El Lacуn, where he and Tracy dined on delicious native stews like cocido madrileсo and olla podrida, and then visited a small bar where they had delicious tapas.
Wherever they went, Daniel Cooper and the two detectives were never far behind.
Watching them from a careful distance, Daniel Cooper was puzzled by Jeff Stevens's role in the drama that was being played out. Who was he? Tracy's next victim? Or were they plotting something together?
Cooper talked to Commandant Ramiro. “What information do you have on Jeff Stevens?” Cooper asked.
“Nada. He has no criminal record and is registered as a tourist. I think he is just a companion the lady picked up.”
Cooper's instincts told him differently. But it was not Jeff Stevens he was after. Tracy, he thought. I want you, Tracy.
When Tracy and Jeff returned to the Ritz at the end of a late evening, Jeff escorted Tracy to her door. “Why don't I come in for a nightcap?” he suggested.
Tracy was almost tempted. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Think of me as your sister, Jeff.”
“What's your position on incest?”
But she had closed the door.
A few minutes later he telephoned her from his room. “How would you like to spend tomorrow with me in Segovia? It's a fascinating old city just a few hours outside of Madrid.”
“It sounds wonderful. Thanks for a lovely evening,” Tracy. said. “Good night, Jeff.”
She lay awake a long time, her mind filled with thoughts she had no right to be thinking. It had been so long since she had been emotionally involved with a man. Charles had hurt her badly, and she had no wish to be hurt again. Jeff Stevens was an amusing companion, but she knew she must never allow him to become any more than that. It would be easy to fall in love with him. And foolish.
Ruinous.
Fun.
Tracy had difficulty falling asleep.
The trip to Segovia was perfect. Jeff had rented a small car, and they drove out of the city into the beautiful wine country of Spain. An unmarked Seat trailed behind them during the entire day, but it was not an ordinary car.
The Seat is the only automobile manufactured in Spain, and it is the official car of the Spanish police. The regular model has only 100 horsepower, but the ones sold to the Policнa Nacional and the Guardia Civil are souped up to 150 horsepower, so there was no danger that Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens would elude Daniel Cooper and the two detectives.
Tracy and Jeff arrived at Segovia in time for lunch and dined at a charming restaurant in the main square under the shadow of the two-thousand-year-old aqueduct built by the Romans. After lunch they wandered around the medieval city and visited the old Cathedral of Santa Maria and the Renaissance town hall, and then drove up to the Alcбzar, the old Roman fortress perched on a rocky spur high over the city. The view was breathtaking.
“I'll bet if we stayed here long enough, we'd see Don Quixote and Sancho Panza riding along the plains below,” Jeff said.
She studied him. “You enjoy tilting at windmills, don't you?”
“Depends on the shape of the windmill,” he said softly. He moved closer to her.
Tracy stepped away from the edge of the cliff. “Tell me more about Segovia.”
And the spell was broken.
Jeff was an enthusiastic guide, knowledgeable about history, archaeology, and architecture, and Tracy had to keep reminding herself that he was also a con artist. It was the most pleasant day Tracy could remember.
One of the Spanish detectives, Josй Pereira, grumbled to Cooper, “The only thing they're stealing is our time. They're just two people in love, can't you see that? Are you sure she's planning something?”
“I'm sure,” Cooper snarled. He was puzzled by his own reactions. All he wanted was to catch Tracy Whitney, to punish her, as she deserved. She was just another criminal, an assignment. Yet, every time Tracy's companion took her arm, Cooper found himself stung with fury.
When Tracy and Jeff arrived back in Madrid, Jeff said, “If you're not too exhausted, I know a special place for dinner.”
“Lovely.” Tracy did not want the day to end. I'll give myself this day, this one day to be like other women.
Madrileсos dine late, and few restaurants open for dinner before 9:00 P.M. Jeff made a reservation for 10:00 at the Zalacaнn, an elegant restaurant where the food was superb and perfectly served. Tracy ordered no dessert, but the captain brought a delicate flaky pastry that was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She sat back in her chair, sated and happy.
“It was a wonderful dinner. Thank you.”
“I'm glad you enjoyed it. This is the place to bnng people if you want to impress them.”
She studied him. “Are you trying to impress me, Jeff?”
He grinned. “You bet I am. Wait until you see what's next.”
What was next was an unprepossessing bodega, a smoky cafй filled with leather jacketed Spanish workmen drinking at the bar and at the dozen tables in the room. At one end was a tablado, a slightly elevated platform, where two men strummed guitars. Tracy and Jeff were seated at a small table near the platform.
“Do you know anything about flamenco?” Jeff asked. He had to raise his voice over the noise level in the bar.
“Only that it's a Spanish dance.”
“Gypsy, originally. You can go to fancy nightclubs in Madrid and see imitations of flamenco, but tonight you'll see the real thing.”
Tracy smiled at the enthusiasm in Jeff's voice.
“You're going to see a classic cuadro flamenco. That's a group of singers, dancers, and guitarists. First they perform together, then each one takes his turn.”
Watching Tracy and Jeff from a table in the corner near the kitchen, Daniel Cooper wondered what they were discussing intently.
“The dance is very subtle, because everything has to work together — movements, music, costumes, the building of the rhythm….”
“How do you know so much about it?” Tracy asked.
“I used to know a flamenco dancer.”
Naturally, Tracy thought.
The lights in the bodega dimmed, and the small stage was lit by spotlights. Then the magic began. It started slowly. A group of performers casually ascended to the platform. The women wore colorful skirts and blouses, and high combs with flowers banked on their beautiful Andalusian coiffures. The male dancers were dressed in the traditional tight trousers and vests and wore gleaming cordovan-leather half boots. The guitarists strummed a wistful melody, while one of the seated women sang in Spanish.
Yo querнa dejar
A mi amante,
Pero antes de que pudiera,
Hacerlo ella me abandonу
Y destrozу mi corazуn.
“Do you understand what she's saying?” Tracy whispered.
“Yes. 'I wanted to leave my lover, but before I could, he left me and he broke my heart.' ”
A dancer moved to the center of the stage. She started with a simple zapateado, a beginning stamping step, gradually pushed faster and faster by the pulsating guitars. The rhythm grew, and the dancing became a form of sensual violence, variations on steps that had been born in gypsy caves a hundred years earlier. As the music mounted in intensity and excitement, moving through the classic figures of the dance, from alegrнa to fandanguillo to zambra to seguiriya, and as the frantic pace increased, there were shouts of encouragement from the performers at the side of the stage.
Cries of “Olй tu madre,” and “Olй tus santos,” and “Ands, anda,” the traditional jaleos and piropos, or shouts of encouragement, goaded the dancers on to wilder, more frantic rhythms.
When the music and dancing ended abruptly, a silence roared through the bar, and then there was a loud burst of applause.
“She's marvelous!” Tracy exclaimed.
“Wait,” Jeff told her.
A second woman stepped to the center of the stage. She had a dark, classical Castilian beauty and seemed deeply aloof, completely unaware of the audience. The guitars began to play a bolero, plaintive and low key, an Oriental-sounding canto. A male dancer joined her, and the castanets began to click in a steady, driving beat.
The seated performers joined in with the jaleo, and the handclaps that accompany the flamenco dance, and the rhythmic beat of the palms enhanced the music and dancing, lifting it, building it, until the room began to rock with the echo of the zapateado, the hypnotic beat of the half toe, the heel, and the full sole clacking out an endless variation of tone and rhythmic sensations.
Their bodies moved apart and came together in a growing frenzy of desire, until they were making mad, violent, animal love without ever touching, moving to a wild, passionate climax that had the audience screaming. As the lights blacked out and came on again, the crowd roared, and Tracy found herself screaming with the others. To her embarrassment, she was sexually aroused. She was afraid to meet Jeff's eyes. The air between them vibrated with tension. Tracy looked down at the table, at his strong, tanned hands, and she could feel them caressing her body, slowly, swiftly, urgently, and she quickly put her hands in her lap to hide their trembling.
They said very little during the ride back to the hotel. At the door to Tracy's room, she turned and said, “It's been —”
Jeff's lips were on hers, and her arms went around him, and she held him tightly to her.
“Tracy-?”
The word on her lips was yes, and it took the last ounce of her willpower to say, “It's been a long day, Jeff. I'm a sleepy lady.”
“Oh.”
“I think I'll just stay in my room tomorrow and rest.”
His voice was level when he answered. “Good idea. I'll probably do the same.”
Neither of them believed the other.
At 10:40 the following morning Tracy was standing in the long line at the entrance to the Prado Museum. As the doors opened, a uniformed guard operated a turnstile that admitted one visitor at a time.
Tracy purchased a ticket and moved with the crowd going into the large rotunda. Daniel Cooper and Detective Pereira stayed well behind her, and Cooper began to feel a growing excitement. He was certain that Tracy Whitney was not there as a visitor. Whatever her plan was, it was beginning.
Tracy moved from room to room, walking slowly through the salons filled with Rubens paintings and Titians, Tintorettos, Bosches, and paintings by Domenikos Theotokopoulos, who became famous as El Greco. The Goyas were exhibited in a special gallery below, on the ground floor.
Tracy noted that a uniformed guard was stationed at the entrance to each room, and at his elbow was a red alarm button. She knew that the moment the alarm sounded, all entrances and exits to the museum would be sealed off, and there would be no chance of escape.
She sat on the bench in the center of the Muses room, filled with eighteenth-century Flemish masters, and let her gaze wander toward the floor. She could see a round access fixture on each side of the doorway. That would be the infrared beams that were turned on at night. In other museums Tracy had visited, the guards had been sleepy and bored, paying little attention to the stream of chattering tourists, but here the guards were alert. Works of art were being defaced by fanatics in museums around the world, and the Prado was taking no chance that it could happen there.
In a dozen different rooms artists had set up their easels and were assiduously at work copying paintings of the masters. The museum permitted it, but Tracy noticed that the guards kept a close eye even on the copiers.
When Tracy had finished with the rooms on the main floor, she took the stairs to the ground floor, to the Francisco de Goya exhibition.
Detective Pereira said to Cooper, “See, she's not doing anything but looking. She —”
“You're wrong.” Cooper started down the stairs in a run.
It seemed to Tracy that the Goya exhibition was more heavily guarded than the others, and it well deserved to be. Wall after wall was filled with an incredible display of timeless beauty, and Tracy moved from canvas to canvas, caught up in the genius of the man. Goya's Self-Portrait, making him look like a middle-aged Pan… the exquisitely colored portrait of The Family of Charles IV… The Clothed Maja and the famed Nude Maja.
And there, next to The Witches' Sabbath, was the Puerto. Tracy stopped and stared at it, her heart beginning to pound. In the foreground of the painting were a dozen beautifully dressed men and women standing in front of a stone wall, while in the background, seen through a luminous mist, were fishing boats in a harbor and a distant lighthouse. In the lower left-hand corner of the picture was Goya's signature.
This was the target. Half a million dollars.
Tracy glanced around. A guard stood at the entrance. Beyond him, through the long corridor leading to other rooms, Tracy could see more guards. She stood there a long time, studying the Puerto. As she started to move away, a group of tourists was coming down the stairs. In the middle of them was Jeff Stevens. Tracy averted her head and hurried out the side entrance before he could see her.
It's going to be a race, Mr. Stevens, and I'm going to win it.
“She's planning to steal a painting from the Prado.”
Commandant Ramiro looked at Daniel Cooper incredulously. “Cagajуn! No one can steal a painting from the Prado.”
Cooper said stubbornly, “She was there all morning.”
“There has never been a theft at the Prado, and there never will be. And do you know why? Because it is impossible.”
“She's not going to try any of the usual ways. You must have the museum vents protected, in case of a gas attack. If the guards drink coffee on the job, find out where they get it and if it can be drugged. Check the drinking water —”
The limits of Commandant Ramiro's patience were exhausted. It was bad enough that he had had to put up with this rude, unattractive American for the past week, and that he had wasted valuable manpower having Tracy Whitney follow around the clock, when his Policнa Nacional was already working under an austerity budget; but now, confronted by pito, telling him how to run his police department, he could stand no more.
“In my opinion, the lady is in Madrid on a holiday. I calling off the surveillance.”
Cooper was stunned. “No! You can't do that. Tracy Whitney is —”
Commandant Ramiro rose to his full height. “You will kindly refrain from telling me what I can do, seсor. And now, if you have nothing further to say, I am a very busy man.”
Cooper stood there, filled with frustration. “I'd like to continue alone, then.”
The commandant smiled. “To keep the Prado Museum safe from the terrible threat of this woman? Of course, Seсor Cooper. Now I can sleep nights.”
The chances of success are extremely limited, Gunther Hartog had told Tracy. It will take a great deal of ingenuity.
That is the understatement of the century, Tracy thought.
She was staring out the window of her suite, down at the skylight roof of the Prado, mentally reviewing everything she had learned about the museum. It was open from 10:00 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening, and during that time the alarms were off, but guards were stationed at each entrance and in every room.
Even if one could manage to take a painting off the wall, Tracy thought, there's no way to smuggle it out. All packages had to be checked at the door.
She studied the roof of the Prado and considered a night foray. There were several drawbacks: The first one was the high visibility. Tracy had watched as the spotlights came on at night, flooding the roof, making it visible for miles around. Even if it were possible to get into the building unseen, there were still the infrared beams inside the building and the night watchmen.
The Prado seemed to be impregnable.
What was Jeff planning? Tracy was certain he was going to make a try for the Goya. I'd give anything to know what he has in his crafty little mind. Of one thing Tracy was sure: She was not going to let him get there ahead of her. She had to find a way.
She returned to the Prado the next morning.
Nothing had changed except the faces of the visitors. Tracy kept a careful lookout for Jeff, but he did not appear.
Tracy thought, He's already figured out how he's going to steal it. The bastard. All this charm he's been using was just to try to distract me, and keep me from getting the painting first.
She suppressed her anger and replaced it with clear, cold logic.
Tracy walked over to the Puerto again, and her eyes wandered over the nearby canvases, the alert guards, the amateur painters sitting on stools in front of their easels, the crowds, flowing in and out of the room, and as she looked around, Tracy's heart suddenly began to beat faster.
I know how I'm going to do it!
She made a telephone call from a public booth on the Gran Vнa, and Daniel Cooper, who stood in a coffee shop doorway watching, would have given a year's pay to know whom Tracy was calling. He was sure it was an overseas call and that she was phoning collect, so that there would be no record of it. He was aware of the lime-green linen dress that he had not seen before and that her legs were bare. So that men can stare at them, he thought. Whore.
He was filled with rage.
In the telephone booth, Tracy was ending her conversation. “Just make sure he's fast, Gunther. He'll have only about two minutes. Everything will depend on speed.”
To: J. J. Reynolds
File No. Y-72-830-412
FROM: Daniel Cooper
CONFIDENTIAL
SUBJECT: Tracy Whitney
It is my opinion that the subject is in Madrid to carry out a major criminal endeavor. The likely target is the Prado Museum. The Spanish police are being uncooperative, but I will personally keep the subject under surveillance and apprehend her at the appropriate time.
Two days later, at 9:00 A.M., Tracy was seated on a bench in the gardens of the Retiro, the beautiful park running through the center of Madrid, feeding the pigeons. The Retiro, with its lake and graceful trees and well-kept grass, and miniature stages with shows for children, was a magnet for the Madrileсos.
Cesar Porretta, an elderly, gay-haired man with a slight hunchback, walked along the park path, and when he reached the bench, he sat down beside Tracy, opened a paper sack, and began throwing out bread crumbs to the birds. “Buenos dнas, seсorita.”
“Buenos dнas. Do you see any problems?”
“None, seсorita. All I need is the time and the date.”
“I don't have it yet,” Tracy told him. “Soon.”
He smiled, a toothless smile. “The police will go crazy. No one has ever tried anything like this before.”
“That's why it's going to work,” Tracy said. “You'll hear from ma.” She tossed out a last crumb to the pigeons and rose. She walked away, her silk dress swaying provocatively around her knees.
While Tracy was in the park meeting with Cesar Porretta, Daniel Cooper was searching her hotel room. He had watched from the lobby as Tracy left the hotel and headed for the park. She had not ordered anything from room service, and Cooper had decided that she was going out to breakfast. He had given himself thirty minutes. Entering her suite had been a simple matter of avoiding the floor maids and using a lock pick. He knew what he was looking for: a copy of a painting. He had no idea how Tracy planned to substitute it, but he was sure it had to be her scheme.
He searched the suite with swift, silent efficiency, missing nothing and saving the bedroom for last. He looked through her closet, examining her dresses, and then the bureau. He opened the drawers, one by one. They were filled with panties and bras and pantyhose. He picked up a pair of pink underpants and rubbed them against his cheek and imagined her sweet-smelling flesh in them. The scent of her was suddenly everywhere. He replaced the garment and quickly looked through the other drawers. No painting.
Cooper walked into the bathroom. There were drops of water in the tub. Her body had lain there, covered with water as warm as the womb, and Cooper could visualize Tracy lying in it, naked, the water caressing her breasts as her hips undulated up and down. He felt an erection begin. He picked up the damp washcloth from the tub and brought it to his lips. The odor of her body swirled around him as he unzipped his trousers. He rubbed a cake of damp soap onto the washcloth and began stroking himself with it, facing the mirror, looking into his blazing eyes.
A few minutes later he left, as quietly as he had arrived, and headed directly for a nearby church.
The following morning when Tracy left the Ritz Hotel, Daniel Cooper followed her. There was an intimacy between them that had not existed before. He knew her smell; he had seen her in her bath, had watched her naked body writhing in the warm water. She belonged completely to him; she was his to destroy. He watched her as she wandered along the Gran Vнa, examining the merchandise in the shops, and he followed her into a large department store, careful to remain out of sight. He saw her speak to a clerk, then head for the ladies' room. Cooper stood near the door, frustrated. It was the one place he could not follow her.
If Cooper had been able to go inside, he would have seen Tracy talking to a grossly overweight, middle-aged woman.
“Maсana,” Tracy said, as she applied fresh lipstick before the mirror. “Tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock.”
The woman shook her head. “No, seсorita. He will not like that. You could not choose a worse day. Tomorrow the Prince, of Luxembourg arrives on a state visit, and the newspapers say he will be taken on a tour of the Prado. There will be extra security guards and police all over the museum.”
“The more the better. Tomorrow.”
Tracy walked out the door, and the woman looked after her muttering, “La cucha es loca….”
The royal party was scheduled to appear at the Prado at exactly 11:00 A.M., and the streets around the Prado had been roped off by the Guardia Civil. Because of a delay in the ceremony at the presidential palace, the entourage did not arrive until close to noon. There were the screams of sirens as police motorcycles came into view, escorting a procession of half a dozen black limousines to the front steps of the Prado.
At the entrance, the director of the museum, Christian Machada, nervously awaited the arrival of His Highness.
Machada had made a careful morning inspection to be sure everything was in order, and the guards had been forewarned to be especially alert. The director was proud of his museum, and he wanted to make a good impression on the prince.
It never hurts to have friends in high places, Machada thought. їQuiйn sabe? I might even be invited to dine with His Highness this evening at the presidential palace.
Christian Machada's only regret was that there was no way to stop the hordes of tourists that wandered about. But the prince's bodyguards and the museum's security guards would ensure that the prince was protected. Everything was in readiness for him.
The royal tour began upstairs, on the main floor. The director greeted His Highness with an effusive welcome and escorted him, followed by the armed guards, through the rotunda and into the rooms where the sixteenth-century Spanish painters were on exhibit: Juan de Juanes, Pedro Machuca, Fernando Yбсez.
The prince moved slowly, enjoying the visual feast spread before him. He was a patron of the arts and genuinely loved the painters who could make the past come alive and remain eternal. Having no talent for painting himself, the prince, as he looked around the rooms, nonetheless envied the painters who stood before their easels trying to snatch sparks of genius from the masters.
When the official party had visited the upstairs salons, Christian Machado said proudly, “And now, if Your Highness will permit me, I will take you downstairs to our Goya exhibit.”
Tracy had spent a nerve-racking morning. When the prince had not arrived at the Prado at 11:00 as scheduled, she had begun to panic. All her arrangements had been made and timed to the second, but she needed the prince in order to make them work.
She moved from room to room, mixing with the crowds, trying to avoid attracting attention. He's not coming, Tracy thought finally. I'm going to have to call it off. And at that moment, she had heard the sound of approaching sirens from the street.
Watching Tracy from a vantage point in the next room, Daniel Cooper, too, was aware of the sirens. His reason told him it was impossible for anyone to steal a painting from the museum, but his instinct told him that Tracy was going to try it, and Cooper trusted his instinct. He moved closer to her, letting the crowds conceal him from view. He intended to keep her in sight every moment.
Tracy was in the room next to the salon where the Puerto was being exhibited. Through the open doorway she could see the hunchback, Cesar Porreta, seated before an easel, copying Goya's Clothed Maja, which hung next to the Puerto. A guard stood three feet away. In the room with Tracy, a woman painter stood at her easel, studiously copying The Milkmaid of Bordeaux, trying to capture the brilliant browns and greens of Goya's canvas.
A group of Japanese tourists fluttered into the salon, chattering like a flock of exotic birds. Now! Tracy told herself. This was the moment she had been waiting for, and her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid the guard could hear it. She moved out of the path of the approaching Japanese tour group, backing toward the woman painter. As a Japanese man brushed in front of Tracy, Tracy fell backward, as if pushed, bumping the artist and sending her, the easel, canvas, and paints flying to the ground.
“Oh, I'm terribly sorry!” Tracy exclaimed. “Let me help you.”
As she moved to assist the startled artist, Tracy's heels stamped into the scattered paints, smearing them into the floor. Daniel Cooper, who had seen everything, hurried closer, every sense alert. He was sure Tracy Whitney had made her first move.
The guard rushed over, calling out, “їQuй pasa? їQuй pasa?”
The accident had attracted the attention of the tourists, and they milled around the fallen woman, smearing the paints from the crushed tubes into grotesque images on the hardwood floor. It was an unholy mess, and the prince was due to appear at any moment. The guard was in a panic. He yelled out, “ЎSergio! iVen acб! iPronto!”
Tracy watched as the guard from the next room came running in to help. Cesar Porretta was alone in the salon with the Puerto.
Tracy was in the middle of the uproar. The two guards were dying vainly to push the tourists away from the area of the paint-smeared floor.
“Get the director,” Sergio yelled. “ЎEn seguida!”
The other guard hurried off toward the stairs. ЎQuй4 birria! What a mess!
Two minutes later Christian Machada was at the scene of the disaster. The director took one horrified look ad screamed, “Get some cleaning women down here — Quickly! Mops and cloths and turpentine. ЎPronto!”
A young aide rushed to do his bidding.
Machada turned to Sergio, “Get back to your post,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
Tracy watched the guard push his way through the crowd to the room where Cesar Porretta was working.
Cooper had not taken his eyes off Tracy for an instant. He had waited for her next move. But it had not come. She had not gone near any of the paintings, nor had she made contact with an accomplice. All she had done was knock over an easel and spill some paints on the floor, but he was certain it had been done deliberately. But to what purpose? Somehow, Cooper felt that whatever had been planned had already happened. He looked around the walls of the salon. None of the paintings was missing.
Cooper hurried into the adjoining room. There was no one there but the guard and an elderly hunchback seated at his easel, copying the Clothed Maja. All the paintings were in place. But something was wrong. Cooper knew it.
He hurried back to the harassed director, whom he had met earlier. “I have reason to believe,” Cooper blurted out, “that a painting has been stolen from here in the past few minutes.”
Christian Machada stared at the wild-eyed American. “What are you talking about? If that were so, the guards would have sounded the alarm.”
“I think that somehow a fake painting was substituted for real one.”
The director gave him a tolerant smile. “There is one small thing wrong with your theory, seсor. It is not known to the general public, but there are sensors hidden behind each painting. If anyone tried to lift a painting from the wall — which they would certainly have to do to substitute another painting — the alarm would instantly sound.”
Daniel Cooper was still not satisfied. “Could your alarm be disconnected?”
“No. If someone cut the wire to the power, that also would cause the alarm to go off. Seсor, it is impossible for anyone to steal a painting from this museum. Our security is what you call proof from fools.”
Cooper stood there shaking with frustration. Everything the director said was convincing. It did seem impossible. But then why had Tracy Whitney deliberately spilled those paints?
Cooper would not give up. “Humor me. Would you ask your staff to go through the museum and check to make sure nothing is missing? I'll be at my hotel.”
There was nothing more Daniel Cooper could do.
At 7:00 that evening Christian Machada telephoned Cooper. “I have personally made an inspection, seсor. Every painting is in its proper place. Nothing is missing from the museum.”
So that was that. Seemingly, it had been an accident. But Daniel Cooper, with the instincts of a hunter, sensed that his quarry had escaped.
Jeff had invited Tracy to dinner in the main dining room of the Ritz Hotel.
“You're looking especially radiant this evening,” Jeff complimented her.
“Thank you. I feel absolutely wonderful.”
“It's the company. Come with me to Barcelona next week, Tracy. It's a fascinating city. You'd love —”
“I'm sorry, Jeff. I can't. I'm leaving Spain.”
“Really?” His voice was filled with regret. “When?”
“In a few days.”
“Ah. I'm disappointed.”
You're going to be more disappointed, Tracy thought, when you learn I've stolen the Puerto. She wondered how he had planned to steal the painting. Not that it mattered any longer. I've outwitted clever Jeff Stevens. Yet, for some inexplicable reason Tracy felt a faint trace of regret.
Christian Machada was seated in his office enjoying his morning cup of strong black coffee and congratulating himself on what a success the prince's visit had been. Except for the regrettable incident of the spilled paints, everything had gone off precisely as planned. He was grateful that the prince and his retinue had been diverted until the mess could be cleaned up. The director smiled when he thought about the idiot American investigator who had tried to convince him that someone had stolen a painting from the Prado. Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow, he thought smugly.
His secretary walked into the office. “Excuse me, sir. There is a gentleman to see you. He asked me to give you this.”
She handed the director a letter. It was on the letterhead of the Kunsthaus Museum in Zurich:
My Esteemed Colleague:
This letter will serve to introduce Monsieur Henri Rendell, our senior art expert. Monsieur Rendell is making a tour of world museums and is particularly eager to see your incomparable collection. I would greatly appreciate any courtesies you extend him.
The letter was signed by the curator of the museum.
Sooner or later, the director thought happily, everyone comes to me.
“Send him in.”
Henri Rendell was a tall, distinguished-looking, balding man with a heavy Swiss accent. When they shook hands, Machada noticed that the index finger on the right hand of his visitor was missing.
Henri Rendell said, “I appreciate this. It is the first opportunity I have had to visit Madrid, and I am looking forward to seeing your renowned works of art.”
Christian Machada said modestly, “I do not think you will be disappointed, Monsieur Rendell. Please come with me. I shall personally escort you.”
They moved slowly, walking through the rotunda with its Flemish masters, and Rubens and his followers, and they visited the central gallery, filled with Spanish masters, and Henri Rendell studied each painting carefully. The two men spoke as one expert to another, evaluating the various artists' style and perspective and color sense.
“Now,” the director declared, “for the pride of Spain.” He led his visitor downstairs, into the gallery filled with Goyas.
“It is a feast for the eyes!” Rendell exclaimed, overwhelmed. “Please! Let me just stand and look.”
Christian Machada waited, enjoying the man's awe.
“Never have I seen anything so magnificent,” Rendell declared. He walked slowly through the salon, studying each painting in turn. “The Witches' Sabbath,” Rendell said. “Brilliant!”
They moved on.
“Goya's Self-Portrait — fantastic!”
Christian Machada beamed.
Rendell paused in front of the Puerto. “A nice fake.” He started to move on.
The director grabbed his arm. “What? What was it you said, seсor?”
“I said it is a nice fake.”
“You are very much mistaken.” He was filled with indignation.
“I do not think so.”
“You most certainly are,” Machada said stiffly. “I assure you, it is genuine. I have its provenance.”
Henri Rendell stepped up to the picture and examined it more closely. “Then its provenance has also been faked. This was done by Goya's disciple, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla. You must be aware, of course, that Lucas painted hundreds of fake Goyas.”
“Certainly I am aware of that,” Machada snapped. “But this is not one of them.”
Rendell shrugged. “I bow to your judgment.” He started to move on.
“I personally purchased this painting. It has passed the spectrograph test, the pigment test —”
“I do not doubt it. Lucas painted in the same period as Goya, and used the same materials.” Henri Rendell bent down to examine the signature at the bottom of the painting. “You can reassure yourself very simply, if you wish. Take the painting back to your restoration room and test the signature.” He chuckled with amusement. “Lucas's ego made him sign his own paintings, but his pocketbook forced him to forge Goya's name over his own, increasing the price enormously.” Rendell glanced at his watch. “You must forgive me. I'm afraid I am late for an engagement. Thank you so much for sharing your treasures with me.”
“Not at all,” the director said coldly. The man is obviously a fool, he thought.
“I am at the Villa Magna, if I can be of service. And thank you again, seсor.” Henri Rendell departed.
Christian Machada watched him leave. How dare that Swiss idiot imply that the precious Goya was a fake!
He turned to look at the painting again. It was beautiful, a masterpiece. He leaned down to examine Goya's signature. Perfectly normal. But still, was it possible? The tiny seed of doubt would not go away. Everyone knew that Goya's contemporary, Eugenio Lucas y Padilla, had painted hundreds of fake Goyas, making a career out of forging the master. Machada had paid $3.5 million for the Goya Puerto. If he had been deceived, it would be a terrible black mark against him, something he could not bear to think about.
Henri Rendell had said one thing that made sense: There was, indeed, a simple way to ascertain its authenticity. He would test the signature and then telephone Rendell and suggest most politely that perhaps he should seek a more suitable vocation.
The director summoned his assistant and ordered the Puerto moved to the restoration room.
The testing of a masterpiece is a very delicate operation, for if it is done carelessly, it can destroy something both priceless and irreplaceable. The restorers at the Prado were experts. Most of them were unsuccessful painters who had taken up restoration work so they could remain close to their beloved art. They started as apprentices, studying under master restorers, and worked for years before they became assistants and were allowed to handle masterpieces, always under the supervision of senior craftsmen.
Juan Delgado, the man in charge of art restoration at the Prado, placed the Puerto on a special wooden rack, as Christian Machada watched.
“I want you to test the signature,” the director informed him.
Delgado kept his surprise to himself. “Sн, Senor Director.”
He poured isopropyl alcohol onto a small cotton ball and set it on the table next to the painting. On a second cotton ball he poured petroleum distillate, the neutralizing agent.
“I am ready, seсor.”
“Go ahead then. But be careful!”
Machada found that it was suddenly difficult for him to breathe. He watched Delgado. lift the first cotton ball and gently touch it to the G in Goya's signature. Instantly, Delgado picked up the second cotton ball and neutralized the area, so that the alcohol could not penetrate too deeply. The two men examined the canvas.
Delgado was frowning. “I'm sorry, but I cannot tell yet,” he said. “I must use a stronger solvent.”
“Do it,” the director commanded.
Delgado opened another bottle. He carefully poured dimenthyl petone onto a fresh cotton ball and with it touched the first letter of the signature again, instantly applying the second cotton ball. The room was filled with a sharp, pungent odor from the chemicals. Christian Machada stood there staring at the painting, unable to believe what he was seeing. The G in Goya's name was fading, and in its place was a clearly visible L.
Delgado turned to him, his face pale. “Shall — shall I go on?”
“Yes,” Machada said hoarsely. “Go on.”
Slowly, letter by letter, Goya's signature faded under the application of the solvent, and the signature of Lucas materialized. Each letter was a blow to Machada's stomach. He, the head of one of the most important museums in the world, had been deceived. The board of directors would hear of it; the King of Spain would hear of it; the world would hear of it. He was ruined.
He stumbled back to his office and telephoned Henri Rendell.
The two men were seated in Machada's office.
“You were right,” the director said heavily. “It is a Lucas. When word of this gets out, I shall be a laughing stock.”
“Lucas has deceived many experts,” Rendell said comfortingly. “His forgeries happen to be a hobby of mine.”
“I paid three and a half million dollars for that painting.”
Rendell shrugged. “Can you get your money back?”
The director shook his head in despair. “I purchased it directly from a widow who claimed it had been in her husband's family for three generations. If I sued her, the case would drag on through the courts and it would be bad publicity. Everything in this museum would become suspect.”
Henri Rendell was thinking hard. “There is really no reason for the publicity at all. Why don't you explain to your superiors what has happened, and quietly get rid of the Lucas? You could send the painting to Sotheby's or Christie's and let them auction it off.”
Machada shook his head. “No. Then the whole world would learn the story.”
Rendell's face brightened. “You may be in luck. I might have a client who would be willing to purchase the Lucas. He collects them. He is a man of discretion.”
“I would be glad to get rid of it. I never want to see it again. A fake among my beautiful treasures. I'd like to give it away,” he added bitterly.
“That will not be necessary. My client would probably be willing to pay you, say, fifty thousand dollars for it. Shall I make a telephone call?”
“That would be most kind of you, Seсor Rendell.”
At a hastily held meeting the stunned board of directors decided that the exposure of one of the Prado's prize paintings as a forgery had to be avoided at any cost. It was agreed that the prudent course of action would be to get rid of the painting as quietly and as quickly as possible. The dark-suited men filed out of the room silently. No one spoke a word to Machada, who stood there, sweltering in his misery.
That afternoon a deal was struck. Henri Rendell went to the Bank of Spain and returned with a certified check for $50,000, and the Eugenio Lucas y Padilla was handed over to him, wrapped in an inconspicuous piece of burlap.
“The board of directors would be very upset if this incident were to become public,” Machada said delicately, “but I assured them that your client is a man of discretion.”
“You can count on it,” Rendell promised.
When Henri Rendell left the museum, he took a taxi to a residential area in the northern end of Madrid, carried the canvas up some stairs to a third-floor apartment, and knocked on the door. It was opened by Tracy. In back of her stood Cesar Porretta. Tracy looked at Rendell questioningly, and he grinned:
“They couldn't wait to get this off their handsl” Henri Rendell gloated.
Tracy hugged him. “Come in.”
Porretta took the painting and placed it on a table.
“Now,” the hunchback said, “you are going to see a miracle — a Goya brought back to life.”
He reached for a bottle of mentholated spirits and opened it. The pungent odor instantly filled the room. As Tracy and Rendell looked on, Porretta poured some of the spirits onto a piece of cotton and very gently touched the cotton to Lucas's signature, one letter at a time. Gradually the signature of Lucas began to fade. Under it was the signature of Goya.
Rendell stared at it in awe. “Brilliant!”
“It was Miss Whitney's idea,” the hunchback admitted. “She asked whether it would be possible to cover up the original artist's signature with a fake signature and then cover that with the original name.”
“He figured out how it could be done,” Tracy smiled.
Porretta said modestly, “It was ridiculously simple. Took fewer than two minutes. The trick was in the paints I used. First, I covered Goya's signature with a layer of super-refined white French polish, to protect it. Then, over that I painted Lucas's name with a quick-drying acrylic-based paint. On top of that I painted in Goya's name with an oil-based paint with a light picture varnish. When the top signature was removed, Lucas's name appeared. If they had gone further, they would have discovered that Goya's original signature was hidden underneath. But of course, they didn't.”
Tracy handed each man a fat envelope and said, “I want to thank you both.”
“Anytime you need an art expert,” Henri Rendell winked.
Porretta asked, “How do you plan to carry the painting out of the country?”
“I'm having a messenger collect it here. Wait for him.” She shook the hands of both men and walked out.
On her way back to the Ritz, Tracy was filled with a sense of exhilaration. Everything is a matter of psychology, she thought. From the beginning she had seen that it would be impossible to steal the painting from the Prado, so she had had to trick them, to put them in a frame of mind where they wanted to get rid of it. Tracy visualized Jeff Stevens's face when he learned how he had been outwitted, and she laughed aloud.
She waited in her hotel suite for the messenger, and when he arrived, Tracy telephoned Cesar Porretta.
“The messenger is here now,” Tracy said. “I'm sending him over to pick up the painting. See that he —”
“What? What are you talking about?” Porretta screamed. “Your messenger picked up the painting half an hour ago.”
Paris
WEDNESDAY, JULY 9 — NOON
In a private office off the Rue Matignon, Gunther Hartog said, “I understand how you feel about what happened in Madrid, Tracy, but Jeff Stevens got there first.”
“No,” Tracy corrected him bitterly. “I got there first. He got there last.”
“But Jeff delivered it. The Puerto is already on its way to my client.”
After all her planning and scheming, Jeff Stevens had outwitted her. He had sat back and let her do the work and take all the risks, and at the last moment he had calmly walked off with the prize. How he must have been laughing at her all the time! You're a very special lady, Tracy. She could not bear the waves of humiliation that washed over her when she thought of the night of the flamenco dancing. My God, what a fool I almost made of myself.
“I never thought I could kill anyone,” Tracy told Gunther, “but I could happily slaughter Jeff Stevens.”
Gunther said mildly, “Oh, dear. Not in this room, I hope. He's on his way here.”
“He's what?” Tracy jumped to her feet.
“I told you I have a proposition for you. It will require a partner. In my opinion, he is the only one who —”
“I'd rather starve first!” Tracy snapped. “Jeff Stevens is the most contemptible —”
“Ah, did I hear my name mentioned?” He stood in the doorway, beaming. “Tracy, darling, you look even more stunning than usual. Gunther, my friend, how are you?”
The two men shook hands. Tracy stood there, filled with a cold fury.
Jeff looked at her and sighed. “You're probably upset with me.”
“Upset! I — ” She could not find the words.
“Tracy, if I may say so, I thought your plan was brilliant. I mean it. Really brilliant. You made only one little mistake. Never trust a Swiss with a missing index finger.”
She took deep breaths, trying to control herself. She turned to Gunther. “I'll talk to you later, Gunther.”
“Tracy —”
“No. Whatever it is, I want no part of it. Not if he's involved.”
Gunther said, “Would you at least listen to it?”
“There's no point. I —”
“In three days De Beers is shipping a four-million-dollar packet of diamonds from Paris to Amsterdam on an Air France cargo plane. I have a client who's eager to acquire those stones.”
“Why don't you hijack them on the way to the airport? Your friend here is an expert on hijacking.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice.
By God, she's magnificent when she's angry, Jeff thought.
Gunther said, “The diamonds are too well guarded. We're going to hijack the diamonds during the flight.”
Tracy looked at him in surprise. “During the flight? In a cargo plane?”
“We need someone small enough to hide inside one of the containers. When the plane is in the air, all that person has to do is step out of the crate, open the De Beers container, remove the package of diamonds, replace the package with a duplicate, which will have been prepared, and get back in the other crate.”
“And I'm small enough to fit in a crate.”
Gunther said, “It's much more than that, Tracy. We need someone who's bright and has nerve.”
Tracy stood there, thinking. “I tike the plan, Gunther. What I don't like is the idea of working with him. This person is a crook.”
Jeff grinned. “Aren't we all, dear heart? Gunther is offering us a million dollars if we can pull this off.”
Tracy stared at Gunther. “A million dollars?”
He nodded. “Half a million for each of you.”
“The reason it can work,” Jeff explained, “is that I have a contact at the loading dock at the airport. He'll help us set it up. He can be trusted.”
“Unlike you,” Tracy retorted. “Good-bye, Gunther.”
She sailed out of the room.
Gunther looked after her. “She's really upset with you about Madrid, Jeff. I'm afraid she's not going to do this.”
“You're wrong,” Jeff said cheerfully. “I know Tracy. She won't be able to resist it.”
“The pallets are sealed before they are loaded onto the plane,” Ramon Vauban was explaining. The speaker was a young Frenchman, with an old face that had nothing to do with his years and black, dead eyes. He was a dispatcher with Air France Cargo, and the key to the success of the plan.
Vauban, Tracy, Jeff, and Gunther were seated at a rail-side table on the Bateau Mouche, the sightseeing boat that cruises the Seine, circling Paris.
“If the pallet is sealed,” Tracy asked, her voice crisp, “how do I get into it?”
“For last-minute shipments,” Vauban replied, “the company uses what we call soft pallets, large wooden crates with canvas on one side, fastened down only with rope. For security reasons, valuable cargo like diamonds always arrives at the last minute so it is the last to go on and the first to come off.”
Tracy said, “So the diamonds would be in a soft pallet?”
“That is correct, mademoiselle. As would you. I would arrange for the container with you in it to be placed next to the pallet with the diamonds. All you have to do when the plane is in flight is cut the ropes, open the pallet with the diamonds, exchange a box identical to theirs, get back in your container, and close it up again.”
Gunther added, “When the plane lands in Amsterdam, the guards will pick up the substitute box of diamonds and deliver it to the diamond cutters. By the time they discover the substitution, we'll have you on an airplane out of the country. Believe me, nothing can go wrong.”
A sentence that chilled Tracy's heart. “Wouldn't I freeze to death up there?” she asked.
Vauban smiled. “Mademoiselle, these days, cargo planes are heated. They often carry livestock and pets. No, you will be quite comfortable. A little cramped, perhaps, but otherwise fine.”
Tracy had finally agreed to listen to their idea. A half million dollars for a few hours' discomfort. She had examined the scheme from every angle. It can work, Tracy thought. If only Jeff Stevens were not involved!
Her feelings about him were such a roiling mixture of emotions that she was confused and angry with herself. He had done what he did in Madrid for the fun of outwitting her. He had betrayed her, cheated her, and now he was secretly laughing at her.
The three men were watching her, waiting for her answer. The boat was passing under the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, which the contrary French insisted on calling the New Bridge. Across the river, two lovers embraced on the edge of the embankment, and Tracy could see the blissful look on the face of the girl. She's a fool, Tracy thought. She made her decision. She looked straight into Jeff's eyes as she said, “All right. I'll go along with it,” and she could feel the tension at the table dissipate.
“We don't have much time,” Vauban was saying. His dead eyes turned to Tracy. “My brother works for a shipping agent, and he will let us load the soft container with you in it at his warehouse. I hope mademoiselle does not have claustrophobia.”
“Don't worry about me…. How long will the trip take?”
“You will spend a few minutes in the loading area and one hour flying to Amsterdam.”
“How large is the container?”
“Large enough for you to sit down. There will be other things in it to conceal you — just in case.”
Nothing can go wrong, they had promised. But just in case….
“I have a list of the things you'll need,” Jeff told her. “I've already arranged for them.”
The smug bastard. He had been so sure she would say yes.
“Vauban, here, will see to it that your passport has the proper exit and entrance stamps, so you can leave Holland without any problem.”
The boat began docking at its quay.
“We can go over the final plans in the morning,” Ramon Vauban said. “Now I have to get back to work. Au revoir.” he left.
Jeff asked, “Why don't we all have dinner together to celebrate?”
“I'm sorry,” Gunther apologized, “but I have a previous engagement.”
Jeff turned to Tracy. “Would —”
“No, thanks. I'm tired,” she said quickly.
It was an excuse to avoid being with Jeff, but even as Tracy said it, she realized she really was exhausted. It was probably the strain of the excitement she had been going through for so long. She was feeling lightheaded. When this is over, she promised herself, I'm going back to London for a long rest. Her head was beginning to throb. I really must.
“I brought you a little present,” Jeff told her. He handed her a gaily wrapped box. In it was an exquisite silk scarf with the initials TW stitched in one corner.
“Thank you.” He can afford it, Tracy thought angrily. He bought it with my half million dollars.
“Sure you won't change your mind about dinner?”
“I'm positive.”
In Paris, Tracy stayed at the classic Plaza Athйnйe, in a lovely old suite that overlooked the garden restaurant. There was an elegant restaurant inside the hotel, with soft piano music, but on this evening Tracy was too tired to change into a more formal dress. She went into the Relais, the hotel's small cafй, and ordered a bowl of soup. She pushed the plate away, half-finished, and left for her suite.
Daniel Cooper, seated at the other end of the room, noted the time.
Daniel Cooper had a problem. Upon his return to Paris, he had asked for a meeting with Inspector Trignant. The head of Interpol had been less than cordial. He had just spent an hour on the telephone listening to Commandant Ramiro's complaints about the American.
“He is loco!” the commandant had exploded. “I wasted men and money and time following this Tracy Whitney, who he insisted was going to rob the Prado, and she turned out to be a harmless tourist just as I said she was.”
The conversation had led Inspector Trignant to believe that Daniel Cooper could have been wrong about Tracy in the first place. There was not one shred of evidence against the woman. The fact that she had been in various cities at the times the crimes were committed was not evidence.
And so, when Daniel Cooper had gone to see the inspector and said, “Tracy Whitney is in Paris. I would like her placed on twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the inspector had replied, “Unless you can present me with some proof that this woman is planning to commit a specific crime, there is nothing I can do.”
Cooper had fixed him with his blazing brown eyes and said, “You're a fool,” and had found himself being unceremoniously ushered out of the office.
That was when Cooper had begun his one-man surveillance. He trailed Tracy everywhere: to shops and restaurants, through the streets of Paris. He went without sleep and often without food. Daniel Cooper could not permit Tracy Whitney to defeat him. His assignment would not be finished until he had put her in prison.
Tracy lay in bed that night, reviewing the next day's plan. She wished her head felt better. She had taken aspirin, but the throbbing was worse. She was perspiring, and the room seemed unbearably hot. Tomorrow it will be over. Switzerland. That's where I'll go. To the cool mountains of Switzerland. To the chвteau.
She set the alarm for 5:00 A.M., and when the bell rang she was in her prison cell and Old Iron Pants was yelling, “Time to get dressed. Move it,” and the corridor echoed with the clanging of the bell. Tracy awakened. Her chest felt tight, and the light hurt her eyes. She forced herself into the bathroom. Her face looked blotchy and flushed in the mirror. I can't get sick now, Tracy thought. Not today. There's too much to do.
She dressed slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head. She put on black overalls with deep pockets, rubber-soled shoes, and a Basque beret. Her heart seemed to beat erratically, but she was not sure whether it was from excitement or the malaise that gripped her. She was dizzy and weak. Her throat felt sore and scratchy. bn her table she saw the scarf Jeff had given her. She picked it up and wrapped it around her neck.
The main entrance to the Hфtel Plaza Athйnйe is on Avenue Montaigne, but the service entrance is on Rue du Boccador, around the corner. A discreet sign reads ENTREE DE SERVICE, and the passageway goes from a back hallway of the lobby through a narrow corridor lined with garbage cans leading to the street. Daniel Cooper, who had taken up an observation post near the main entrance, did not see Tracy leave through the service door, but inexplicably, the moment she was gone, he sensed it. He hurried out to the avenue and looked up and down the street. Tracy was nowhere in sight.
The gray Renault that picked up Tracy at the side entrance to the hotel headed for the Йtoile. There was little traffic at that hour, and the driver, a pimply-faced youth who apparently spoke no English, raced into one of the twelve avenues that form the spokes of the Йtoile. I wish he would slow down, Tracy thought. The motion was making her carsick.
Thirty minutes later the car slammed to a stop in front of a warehouse. The sign over the door read BRUCERE ET CIE. Tracy remembered that this was where Ramon Vauban's brother worked.
The youth opened the car door and murmured, “Vite!”
A middle-aged man with a quick, furtive manner appeared as Tracy stepped out of the car. “Follow me,” he said. “Hurry.”
Tracy stumbled after him to the back of the warehouse, where there were half a dozen containers, most of them filled and sealed, ready to be taken to the airport. There was one soft container with a canvas side, half-filled with furniture.
“Get in. Quick! We have no time.”
Tracy felt faint. She looked at the box and thought, I can't get in there. I'll die.
The man was looking at her strangely. “Avez-vous mal?”
Now was the time to back out, to put a stop to this. “I'm all right,” Tracy mumbled. It would be over soon. In a few hours she would be on her way to Switzerland.
“Bon. Take this.” He handed her a double-edged knife, a long coil of heavy rope, a flashlight, and a small blue jewel box with a red ribbon around it.
“This is the duplicate of the jewel box you will exchange.”
Tracy took a deep breath, stepped into the container, and sat down. Seconds later a large piece of canvas dropped down over the opening. She could hear ropes being tied around the canvas to hold it in place.
She barely heard his voice through the canvas. “From now on, no talking, no moving, no smoking.”
“I don't smoke,” Tracy tried to say, but she did not have the energy.
“Bonne chance. I've cut some holes in the side of the box so you can breathe. Don't forget to breathe.” He laughed at his joke, and she heard his footsteps fading away. She was alone in the dark.
The box was narrow and cramped, and a set of dining-room chairs took up most of the space. Tracy felt as though she were on fire. Her skin was hot to the touch, and she had difficulty breathing. I've caught some kind of virus, she thought, but it's going to have to wait. l have work to do. Think about something else.
Gunther's voice: You've nothing to worry about, Tracy. When they unload the cargo in Amsterdam, your pallet will be taken to a private garage near the airport. Jeff will meet you there. Give him the jewels.and return to the airport. There will be a plane ticket for Geneva waiting for you at the Swissair counter. Get out of Amsterdam as fast as you can. As soon as the police learn of the robbery, they'll close up the city tight. Nothing wilt go wrong, but just in case, here is the address and the key to a safe house in Amsterdam. It is unoccupied.
She must have dozed, for she awakened with a start as the container as jerked into the air. Tracy felt herself swinging through space, and she clung to the sides for support. The container settled down on something hard. There was a slam of a car door, an engine roared into life, and a moment later the truck was moving.
They were on their way to the airport.
The scheme had been worked out on a split-second schedule. The container with Tracy inside was due to reach the cargo shipping area within a few minutes of the time the De Beers pallet was to arrive. The driver of the truck carrying Tracy had his instructions: Keep it at a steady fifty miles an hour.
Traffic on the road to the airport seemed heavier than usual that morning, but the driver was not worried. The pallet would make the plane in time, and he would be in possession of a bonus of 50,000 francs, enough to take his wife and two children on a vacation. America, he thought. We'll go to Disney World.
He looked at the dashboard clock and grinned to himself. No problem. The airport was only three miles away, and he had ten minutes to get there.
Exactly on schedule, he reached the turnoff for Air France Cargo headquarters at the Fertnord sign and drove past the low gray building at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport, away from the passenger entrance, where barbed-wire fences separated the roadway from the cargo area. As he headed toward the enclosure holding the enormous warehouse, which occupied three blocks and was filled with boxes and packages and containers piled on doilies, there was a sudden explosive sound as the wheel jerked in his hand and the truck began to vibrate. Foutre! he thought. A fucking blowout.
The giant 747 Air France cargo plane was in the process of being loaded. The nose had been raised, revealing rows of tracks. The cargo containers were on a platform level with the opening, ready to slide across a bridge into the hold of the plane. There were thirty-eight pallets, twenty-eight of them on the main deck and ten of them in the belly holds. On the ceiling an exposed heating pipe ran from one end of the huge cabin to the other, and the wires and cables that controlled the transport were visible on the ceiling. There were no frills on this plane.
The loading had almost been completed. Ramon Vauban looked at his watch again and cursed. The truck was late. The De Beers consignment had already been loaded into its pallet, and the canvas sides fastened down with a crisscross of ropes. Vauban had daubed the side of it with red paint so the woman would have no trouble identifying it. He watched now as the pallet moved along the tracks into the plane and was locked into place. There was room next to it for one more pallet, before the plane took off. There were three more containers on the dock waiting to be loaded. Where in God's name was the woman?
The loadmaster inside the plane called, “Let's go, Ramon. What's holding us up?”
“A minute,” Vauban answered. He hurried toward the entrance to the loading area. No sign of the truck.
“Vauban! What's the problem?” He turned. A senior supervisor was approaching. “Finish loading and get this cargo in the air.”
“Yes, sir. I was just waiting for —”
At that moment the truck from Brucиre et Cie raced into the warehouse and came to a screaming halt in front of Vauban.
“Here's the last of the cargo,” Vauban announced.
“Well, get it aboard,” the supervisor snapped.
Vauban supervised the unloading of the container from the truck and sent it onto the bridge leading to the plane.
He waved to the loadmaster. “It's all yours.”
Moments later the cargo was aboard, and the nose of the plane was lowered into place. Vauban watched as the jets were fired up and the giant plane started rolling toward the runway, and he thought, Now it's up to the woman.
There was a fierce storm. A giant wave had struck the ship and it was sinking. I'm drowning, Tracy thought. I've got to get out of here.
She flung out her arms and hit something. It was the side of a lifeboat, rocking and swaying. She tried to stand up and cracked her head on the leg of a table. In a moment of clarity she remembered where she was. Her face and hair dripped with perspiration. She felt giddy, and her body was burning up. How long had she been unconscious? It was only an hour's flight. Was the plane about to land? No, she thought. It's all right. I'm having a nightmare. I'm in my bed in London, asleep. I'll call for a doctor. She could not breathe. She struggled upward to reach for a telephone, then immediately sank down, her body leaden. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and Tracy was thrown against the side of the box. She lay there, dazed, desperately trying to concentrate. How much time do I have? She wavered between a hellish dream and painful reality. The diamonds. Somehow she had to get the diamonds. But first… first, she had to cut herself out of the pallet.
She touched the knife in her coveralls and found that it was at terrible effort to lift it. Not enough air, Tracy thought. l must have air. She reached around the edge of the canvas, fumbled for one of the outside ropes, found it, and cut it. It seemed to take an eternity. The canvas opened wider. She cut another rope, and there was room enough to slip outside of the container into the belly of the cargo plane. The air outside the box was cold. She was freezing. Her whole body began to shake, and the constant jolting of the plane increased her nausea. I've got to hold on, Tracy thought. She forced herself to concentrate. What am I doing here? Something important… Yes… Diamonds.
Tracy's vision was blurred, and everything was moving in and out of focus. I'm not going to make it.
The plane dipped suddenly, and Tracy was hurled to the floor, scraping her hands on the sharp metal tracks. She held on while the plane bucked, and when it had settled down, she forced herself to her feet again. The roaring of the jet engines was mixed with the roaring in her head. The diamonds. I must find the diamonds.
She stumbled among the containers, squinting at each one, looking for the red paint. Thank God! There it was, on the third container. She stood there, trying to remember what to do next. It was such an effort to concentrate. If I could just lie down and sleep for a few minutes, I'd be fine. All I need is some sleep. But there was no time. They could be landing in Amsterdam at any moment. Tracy took the knife and slashed at the ropes of the container. “One good cut will do it,” they had told her.
She barely had the strength to hold the knife in her grasp. l can't fail now, Tracy thought. She began shivering again, and shook so hard that she dropped the knife. It's not going to work. They're going to catch me and put me back in prison.
She hesitated indecisively, clinging to the rope, wanting desperately to crawl back into her box where she could sleep, safely hidden until it was all over. It would be so easy. Then, slowly, moving carefully against the fierce pounding in her head, Tracy reached for the knife and picked it up. She began to slash at the heavy rope.
It finally gave way. Tracy pulled back the canvas and stared into the gloomy interior of the container. She could see nothing. She pulled out the flashlight and, at that moment, she felt a sudden change of pressure in her ears.
The plane was coming down for a landing.
Tracy thought, I've got to hurry. But her body refused to respond. She stood there, dazed. Move, her mind said.
She shone the flashlight into the interior of the box. It was crammed with packages and envelopes and small cases, and on top of a crate were two little blue boxes with red ribbons around them. Two of them! There was only supposed to be — She blinked, and the two boxes merged into one. Everything seemed to have 'a bright aura around it.
She reached for the box and took the duplicate out of her pocket. Holding the two of them in her hand, an overwhelming nausea swept over her, racking her body. She squeezed her eyes together, fighting against it. She started to place the substitute box on top of the case and suddenly realized that she was no longer sure which box was which. She stared at the two identical boxes. Was it the one in her left hand or her right hand?
The plane began a steeper angle of descent. It would touch down at any moment. She had to make a decision. She set down one of the boxes, prayed that it was the right one, and moved away from the container. She fumbled an uncut coil of rope out of her coveralls. There's something I must do with the rope. The roaring in her head made it impossible to think. She remembered: After you cut the rope, put it in your pocket, replace it with the new rope. Don't leave anything around that wilt make them suspicious.
It had sounded so easy then, sitting in the warm sun on the deck of the Bateau Mouche. Now it was impossible. She had no more strength left. The guards would find the cut rope and the cargo would be searched, and she would be caught. Something deep inside her screamed, No! No! No!
With a herculean effort, Tracy began to wind the uncut rope around the container. She felt a jolt beneath her feet as the plane touched the ground, and then another, and she was slammed backward as the jets were thrust into reverse. Her head smashed against the floor and she blacked out.
The 747 was picking up speed now, taxiing along the runway toward the terminal. Tracy lay crumpled on the floor of the plane with her hair fanning over her white, white face. It was the silence of the engines that brought her back to consciousness. The plane had stopped. She propped herself up on an elbow and slowly forced herself to her knees. She stood up, reeling, hanging on to the container to keep from falling. The new rope was in place. She clasped the jewel box to her chest and began to weave her way back to her pallet. She pushed her body through the canvas opening and flopped down, panting, her body beaded with perspiration. I've done it. But there was something more she had to do. Something important. What? Tape up the rope on your pallet.
She reached into the pocket of her coveralls for the roll of masking tape. It was gone. Her breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and the sound deafened her. She thought she heard voices and forced herself to stop breathing and listen. Yes. There they were again. Someone laughed. Any second now the cargo door would open, and the men would begin unloading. They would see the cut rope, look inside the pallet, and discover her. She had to find a way to hold the rope together. She got to her knees, and as she did she felt the hard roll of masking tape, which had fallen from her pocket sometime during the turbulence of the flight. She lifted the canvas and fumbled around to find the two ends of cut rope, and held them together while she clumsily tried to wrap the tape around them.
She could not see. The perspiration pouring down her face was blinding her. She pulled the scarf from her throat and wiped her face. Better. She finished taping the rope and dropped the canvas back in place; there was nothing to do now but wait. She felt her forehead again, and it seemed hotter than before.
l must get out of the sun, Tracy thought. Tropical suns can be dangerous.
She was on holiday somewhere in the Caribbean. Jeff had come here to bring her some diamonds, but he had jumped into the sea and disappeared. She reached out to save him, but he slipped from her grasp. The water was over her head. She was choking, drowning.
She heard the sound of workmen entering the plane.
“Help!” she screamed. “Please help me.”
But her scream was a whisper, and no one heard.
The giant containers began rolling out of the plane.
Tracy was unconscious when they loaded her container onto a Brucиre et Cie truck. Left behind, on the floor of the cargo plane, was the scarf Jeff had given her.
Tracy was awakened by the slash of light hitting the inside of the truck as someone raised the canvas. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The truck was in a warehouse.
Jeff was standing there, grinning at her. “You made it!” he said. “You're a marvel. Let's have the box.”
She watched, dully, as he picked up the box from her side. “See you in Lisbon.” He turned to leave, then stopped and looked down at her. “You look terrible, Tracy. You all right?”
She could hardly speak. “Jeff, I —”
But he was gone.
Tracy had only the haziest recollection of what happened next. There was a change of clothes for her in back of the warehouse, and some woman said, “You look ill, mademoiselle. Do you wish me to call a doctor?”
“No doctors,” Tracy whispered.
There will be a plane ticket for Geneva waiting for you at the Swissair counter. Get out of Amsterdam as fast as you can. As soon as the police learn of the robbery, they'll close up the city tight. Nothing will go wrong, but just in case, here is the address and the key to a safe house in Amsterdam. It is unoccupied.
The airport. She had to get to the airport. “Taxi,” she mumbled. “Taxi.”
The woman hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “All right. I will call one. Wait here.”
She was floating higher and higher now, ever closer to the sun.
“Your taxi is here,” a man was saying.
She wished people would stop bothering her. She wanted only to sleep.
The driver said, “Where do you wish to go, mademoiselle?”
There will be a plane ticket for Geneva waiting for you at the Swissair counter.
She was too ill to board a plane. They would stop her, summon a doctor. She would be questioned. All she needed was to sleep for a few minutes, then she would be fine.
The voice was getting impatient. “Where to, please?”
She had no place to go. She gave the taxi driver the address of the safe house.
The police were cross-examining her about the diamonds, and when she refused to answer them, they became very angry and put her in a room by herself and turned up the heat until the room was boiling hot. When it became unbearable, they dropped the temperature down, until icicles began to form on the walls.
Tracy pushed her way up through the cold and opened her eyes. She was on a bed, shivering uncontrollably. There was a blanket beneath her, but she did not have the strength to get under it. Her dress was soaked through, and her face and neck were wet.
I'm going to die here. Where was here?
The safe house. I'm in the safe house. And the phrase struck her as so funny that she started to laugh, and the laughter turned into a paroxysm of coughing. It had all gone wrong. She had not gotten away after all. By now the police would be combing Amsterdam for her: Mademoiselle Whitney had a ticket on Swissair and did not use it? Then she still must be in Amsterdam.
She wondered how long she had been in this bed. She lifted her wrist to look at her watch, but the numbers were blurred. She was seeing everything double. There were two beds in the small room and two dressers and four chairs. The shivering stopped, and her body was burning up. She needed to open a window, but she was too weak to move. The room was freezing again.
She was back on the airplane, locked in the crate, screaming for help.
You've made it! You're a marvel. Let's have the box.
Jeff had taken the diamonds, and he was probably on his way to Brazil with her share of the money. He would be enjoying himself with one of his women, laughing at her. He had beaten her once more. She hated him. No. She didn't. Yes, she did. She despised him.
She was in and out of delirium. The hard pelota ball was hurtling toward her, and Jeff grabbed her in his arms and pushed her to the ground, and his lips were very close to hers, and then they were having dinner at Zalacaнn. Do you know how special you are, Tracy?
I offer you a draw, Boris Melnikov said.
Her body was trembling again, out of control, and she was on an express train whirling through a dark tunnel, and at the end of the tunnel she knew she was going to die. All the other passengers had gotten off except Alberto Fornati. He was angry with her, shaking her and screaming at her.
“For Christ's sake!” he yelled. “Open your eyes! Look at me!”
With a superhuman effort, Tracy opened her eyes, and Jeff was standing over her. His face was white, and there was fury in his voice. Of course, it was all a part of her dream.
“How long have you been like this?”
“You're in Brazil,” Tracy mumbled.
After that, she remembered nothing more.
When Inspector Trignant was given the scarf with the initials TW on it, found on the floor of the Air France cargo plane, he stared at it for a long time.
Then he said, “Get me Daniel Cooper.”
The picturesque village of Alkmaar, on the northwest coast of Holland facing the North Sea, is a popular tourist attraction, but there is a quarter in the eastern section that tourists seldom visit. Jeff Stevens had vacationed there several times with a stewardess from KLM who had taught him the language. He remembered the area well, a place where the residents minded their own business and were not unduly curious about visitors. It was a perfect place to hide out.
Jeff's first impulse had been to rush Tracy to a hospital, but that was too dangerous. It was also risky for her to remain in Amsterdam a minute longer. He had wrapped her in blankets and carried her out to the car, where she had remained unconscious during the drive to Alkmaar. Her pulse was erratic and her breathing shallow.
In Alkmaar, Jeff checked into a small inn. The innkeeper watched curiously as Jeff carried Tracy upstairs to her room.
“We're honeymooners,” Jeff explained. “My wife became ill — a slight respiratory disturbance. She needs rest.”
“Would you like a doctor?”
Jeff was not certain of the answer himself. “I'll let you know.”
The first thing he had to do was try to bring down Tracy's fever. Jeff lowered her onto the large double bed in the room and began to strip off her clothes, sodden with perspiration. He held her up in a sitting position and lifted her dress over her head. Shoes next, then pantyhose. Her body was hot to the touch. Jeff wet a towel with cool water and gently bathed her from head to foot. He covered her with a blanket and sat at the bedside listening to her uneven breathing.
If she's not better by morning, Jeff decided, I'll have to bring in a doctor.
In the morning the bedclothes were soaked again. Tracy was still unconscious, but it seemed to Jeff that her breathing was a little easier. He was afraid to let the maid see Tracy; it would lead to too many questions. Instead, he asked the housekeeper for a change of linens and took them inside the room. He washed Tracy's body with a moist towel, changed the sheets on the bed the way he had seen nurses do in hospitals, without disturbing the patient, and covered her up again.
Jeff put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and went looking for the nearest pharmacy. He bought aspirin, a thermometer, a sponge, and rubbing alcohol. When he returned to the room, Tracy was still not awake. Jeff took her temperature: 104 degrees. He sponged her body with the cool alcohol, and her fever dropped.
An hour later her temperature was up again. He was going to have to call a doctor. The problem was that the doctor would insist Tracy be taken to a hospital. Questions would be asked. Jeff had no idea whether the police were looking for them, but if they were, they would both be taken into custody. He had to do something. He mashed up four aspirins, placed the powder between Tracy's lips, and gently spooned water into her mouth until she finally swallowed. Once again he bathed her body. After he had finished drying her, it seemed to him that her skin was not as hot as it had been. He checked her pulse once more. It seemed steadier. He put his head to her chest and listened. Was her breathing less congested? He could not be certain. He was sure of only one thing, and he repeated it over and over until it became a litany: “You're going to get well.” He kissed her gently on the forehead.
Jeff had not slept in forty-eight hours, and he was exhausted and hollow-eyed. I'll sleep later, he promised himself. I'll close my eyes to rest them a moment.
He slept.
When Tracy opened her eyes and watched the ceiling slowly come into focus, she had no idea where she was. It took long minutes for awareness to seep into her consciousness. Her body felt battered and sore, and she had the feeling that she had returned from a long, wearying journey. Drowsily, she looked around the unfamiliar room, and her heart suddenly skipped a beat. Jeff was slumped in an armchair near the window, asleep. It was impossible. The last time she had seen him, he had taken the diamonds and left. What was he doing here? And with a sudden, sinking sensation, Tracy knew the answer: She had given him the wrong box — the box with the fake diamonds — and Jeff thought she had cheated him. He must have picked her up at the safe house and taken her to wherever this place was.
As she sat up, Jeff stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw Tracy looking at him, a slow, happy grin lit his face.
“Welcome back.” There was a note of such intense relief in his voice that Tracy was confused.
“I'm sorry,” Tracy said. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “I gave you the wrong box.”
“What?”'
“I mixed up the boxes.”
He walked over to her and said gently, “No, Tracy. You gave me the real diamonds. They're on their way to Gunther.”
She looked at him in bewilderment. “Then — why — why are you here?”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “When you handed me the diamonds, you looked like death. I decided I'd better wait at the airport to make sure you caught your flight. You didn't show up, and I knew you were in trouble. I went to the safe house and found you. I couldn't just let you die there,” he said lightly. “It would have been a clue for the police.”
She was watching him, puzzled. “Tell me the real reason you came back for me.”
“Time to take your temperature,” he said briskly.
“Not bad,” he told her a few minutes later. “Little over a hundred. You're a wonderful patient.”
“Jeff —”
“Trust me,” he said. “Hungry?”
Tracy was suddenly ravenous. “Starved.”
“Good. I'll bring something in.”
He returned from shopping with a bag full of orange juice, milk, and fresh fruit, and large Dutch broodjes, rolls filled with different kinds of cheese, meat, and fish.
“This seems to be the Dutch version of chicken soup, but it should do the trick. Now, eat slowly.”
He helped her sit up, and fed her. He was careful and tender, and Tracy thought, warily, He's after something.
As they were eating, Jeff said, “While I was out, I telephoned Gunther. He received the diamonds. He deposited your share of the money in your Swiss bank account.”
She could not keep herself from asking, “Why didn't you keep it all?”
When Jeff answered, his tone was serious. “Because it's time we stopped playing games with each other, Tracy. Okay?”
It was another one of his tricks, of course, but she was too tired to worry about it. “Okay.”
“If you'll tell me your sizes,” Jeff said, “I'll go out and buy some clothes for you. The Dutch are liberal, but I think if you walked around like that they might be shocked.”
Tracy pulled the covers up closer around her, suddenly aware of her nakedness. She had a vague impression of Jeff's undressing her and bathing her. He had risked his own safety to nurse her. Why? She had believed she understood him. I don't understand him at all, Tracy thought. Not at all.
She slept.
In the afternoon Jeff brought back two suitcases filled with robes and nightgowns, underwear, dresses, and shoes, and a makeup kit and a comb and brush and hair dryer, toothbrushes and toothpaste. He also had purchased several changes of clothes for himself and brought back the International Herald Tribune. On the front page was a story about the diamond hijacking; the police had figured out how it had been committed, but according to the newspaper, the thieves had left no clues.
Jeff said cheerfully, “We're home free! Now all we have to do is get you well.”
It was Daniel Cooper who had suggested that the scarf with the initials TW be kept from the press. “We know,” he had told Inspector Trignant, “who it belongs to, but it's not enough evidence for an indictment. Her lawyers would produce every woman in Europe with the same initials and make fools of you.”
In Cooper's opinion, the police had already made fools of themselves. God will give her to me.
He sat in the darkness of the small church, on a hard wooden bench, and he prayed: Oh, make her mine, Father. Give her to me to punish so that I may wash myself of my sins. The evil in her spirit shall be exorcised, and her naked body shall bef fagellated…. And he thought about Tracy's naked body in his power and felt himself getting an erection. He hurried from the church in terror that God would see and inflict further punishment on him.
When Tracy awoke, it was dark. She sat up and turned on the lamp on the bedside table. She was alone. He had gone. A feeling of panic washed over her. She had allowed herself to grow dependent on Jeff, and that had been a stupid mistake. It serves me right, Tracy thought bitterly. “Trust me,” Jeff had said, and she had. He had taken care of her only to protect himself, not for any other reason. She had come to believe that he felt something for her. She had wanted to trust him, wanted to feel that she meant something to him. She lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes, thinking, I'm going to miss him. Heaven help me, I'm going to miss him.
God had played a cosmic joke on her. Why did it have to be him? she wondered, but the reason did not matter. She would have to make plans to leave this place as soon as possible, find someplace where she could get well, where she could feel safe. Oh, you bloody fool, she thought. You —
There was the sound of the door opening, and Jeff's voice called out, “Tracy, are you awake? I brought you some books and magazines. I thought you might —” He stopped as he saw the expression on her face. “Hey! Is something wrong?”
“Not now,” Tracy whispered. “Not now.”
The following morning Tracy's fever was gone.
“I'd like to get out,” she said. “Do you think we could go for a walk, Jeff?”
They were a curiosity in the lobby. The couple who owned the hotel were delighted by Tracy's recovery. “Your husband was so wonderful. He insisted on doing everything for you himself. He was so worried. A woman is lucky to have a man who loves her so much.”
Tracy looked at Jeff, and she could have sworn he was blushing.
Outside, Tracy said, “They're very sweet.”
“Sentimentalists,” Jeff retorted.
Jeff had arranged for a cot to sleep on, placed next to Tracy's bed. As Tracy lay in bed that night, she remembered again how Jeff had taken care of her, tended to her needs, and nursed her and bathed her naked body. She was powerfully aware of his presence. It made her feel protected.
It made her feel nervous.
Slowly, as Tracy grew stronger, she and Jeff spent more time exploring the quaint little town. They walked to the Alkmaarder Meer, along winding, cobblestone streets that dated from the Middle Ages, and spent hours at the tulip fields on the outskirts of the city. They visited the cheese market and the old weighing house, and went through the municipal museum. To Tracy's surprise, Jeff spoke to the townspeople in Dutch.
“Where did you learn that?” Tracy asked.
“I used to know a Dutch girl.”
She was sorry she had asked.
As the days passed Tracy's healthy young body gradually healed itself. When Jeff felt that Tracy was strong enough, he rented bicycles, and they visited the windmills that dotted the countryside. Each day was a lovely holiday, and Tracy wanted it never to end.
Jeff was a constant surprise. He treated Tracy with a concern and tenderness that melted her defenses against him, yet he made no sexual advances. He was an enigma to Tracy. She thought of the beautiful women with whom she had seen him, and she was sure he could have had any of them. Why was he staying by her side in this tiny backwater of the world?
Tracy found herself talking about things she had thought she would never discuss with anyone. She told Jeff about Joe Romano and Tony Orsatti, and about Ernestine Littlechap and Big Bertha and little Amy Brannigan. Jeff was by turns outraged and distressed and sympathetic. Jeff told her about his stepmother and his Uncle Willie and about his carnival days and his marriage to Louise. Tracy had never felt so close to anyone.
Suddenly it was time to leave.
One morning Jeff said, “The police aren't looking for us, Tracy. I think we should be moving on.”
Tracy felt a stab of disappointment. “All right. When?”
“Tomorrow.”
She nodded. “I'll pack in the morning.”
That night Tracy lay awake, unable to sleep. Jeff's presence seemed to fill the room as never before. This had been an unforgettable period in her life, and it was coming to an end. She looked over at the cot where Jeff lay.
“Are you asleep?” Tracy whispered.
“No…”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Tomorrow. Leaving this place. I'll miss it.”
“I'm going to miss you, Jeff.” The words were out before she could stop herself.
Jeff sat up slowly and looked at her. “How much?” he asked softly.
“Terribly.”
A moment later he was at her bedside. “Tracy —”
“Shhh. Don't talk. Just put your arms around me. Hold me.”
It started slowly, a velvet touching and stroking and feeling, a caressing and gentle exploring of the senses. And it began to build and swell in a frenzied, frantic rhythm, until it became a bacchanal, an orgy of pleasure, wild and savage. His hard organ stroked her and pounded her and filled her until she wanted to scream with the unbearable joy. She was at the center of a rainbow. She felt herself being swept up on a tidal wave that lifted her higher and higher, and there was a sudden molten explosion within her, and her whole body began to shudder. Gradually, the tempest subsided. She closed her eyes. She felt Jeff's lips move down her body, down, down to the center of her being, and she was caught up in another fierce wave of blissful sensation.
She pulled Jeff to her and held him close, feeling his heart beat against hers. She strained against him, but still she could not get close enough. She crept to the foot of the bed and touched her lips to his body with soft, tender kisses, moving upward until she felt his hard maleness in her hand. She stroked it softly and slid it into her mouth, and listened to his moans of pleasure. Then Jeff rolled on top of her and was inside her and it began again, more exciting than before, a fountain spilling over with unbearable pleasure, and Tracy thought, Now I know. For the first time, I know. But I must remember that this is just for tonight, a lovely farewell present.
All through the night they made love and talked about everything and nothing, and it was as though some long-locked floodgates had opened for both of them. At dawn, as the canals began to sparkle with the beginning day, Jeff said, “Marry me, Tracy.”
She was sure she had misunderstood him, but the words came again, and Tracy knew that it was crazy and impossible, and it could never work, and it was deliriously wonderful, and of course it would work. And she whispered, “Yes. Oh, yes!”
She began to cry, gripped tightly in the safety of his arms. I'll never be lonely again, Tracy thought. We belong to each other. Jeff is a part of all my tomorrows.
Tomorrow had come.
A long time later Tracy asked, “When did you know, Jeff?”
“When I saw you in that house and I thought you were dying. I was half out of my mind.”
“I thought you had run away with the diamonds,” Tracy confessed.
He took her in his arms again. “Tracy, what I did in Madrid wasn't for the money. It was for the game — the challenge. That's why we're both in the business we're in, isn't it? You're given a puzzle that can't possibly be solved, and then you begin to wonder if there isn't some way.”
Tracy nodded. “I know. At first it was because I needed the money. And then it became something else; I've given away quite a bit of money. I love matching wits against people who are successful and bright and unscrupulous. I love living on the cutting edge of danger.”
After a long silence, Jeff said, “Tracy… how would you feel about giving it up?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “Giving it up? Whys”
“We were each on our own before. Now, everything has changed. I couldn't bear it if anything happened. Why take any more risks? We have all the money we'll ever need. Why don't we consider ourselves retired?”
“What would we do, Jeff?”
He grinned. “We'll think of something.”
“Seriously, darling, how would we spend our lives?”
“Doing anything we like, my love. We'll travel, indulge ourselves in hobbies. I've always been fascinated by archaeology. I'd like to go on a dig in Tunisia. I made a promise once to an old friend. We can finance our own digs. We'll travel all over the world.”
“It sounds exciting.”
“Then what do you say?”
She looked at him for along moment. “If that's what you want,” Tracy said softly.
He hugged her and began laughing. “I wonder if we should send a formal announcement to the police?”
Tracy joined in his laughter.
The churches were older than any Cooper had ever known before. Some dated back to the pagan days, and at times he was not certain whether he was praying to the devil or to God. He sat with bowed head in the ancient Beguine Court Church and in St. Bavokerk and Pieterskerk and the Nieuwekerk at Delft, and each time his prayer was the same: Let me make her suffer as I suffer.
The telephone call from Gunther Hartog came the next day, while Jeff was out.
“How are you feeling?” Gunther asked.
“I feel wonderful,” Tracy assured him.
Gunther had telephoned every day after he had heard what had happened to her. Tracy decided not to tell him the news about Jeff and herself, not yet. She wanted to hug it to herself for a while, take it out and examine it, cherish it.
“Are you and Jeff getting along all right together?”
She smiled. “We're getting along splendidly.”
“Would you consider working together again?”
Now she had to tell him. “Gunther… we're… quitting.”
There was a momentary silence. “I don't understand.”
“Jeff and I are — as they used to say in the old James Cagney movies — going straight.”
“What? But… why?”
“It was Jeff's idea, and I agreed to it. No more risks.”
“Supposing I told you that the jab I have in mind is worth two million dollars to you and there are no risks?”
“I'd laugh a lot, Gunther.”
“I'm serious, my dear. You would travel to Amsterdam, which is only an hour from where you are now, and —”
“You'll have to find someone else.”
He sighed. “I'm afraid there is no one else who could handle this. Will you at least discuss the possibility with Jeff?”
“All right, but it won't do any good.”
“I will call back this evening.”
When Jeff returned, Tracy reported the conversation.
“Didn't you tell him we've become law-abiding citizens?”
“Of course, darling, I told him to find someone else.”
“But he doesn't want to,” Jeff guessed.
“He insisted he needed us. He said there's no risk and that we could pick up two million dollars for a little bit of effort.”
“Which means that whatever he has in mind must be guarded like Fort Knox.”
“Or the Prado,” Tracy said mischievously.
Jeff grinned. “That was really a neat plan, sweetheart. You know, I think that's when I started to fall in love with you.”
“I think when you stole my Goya is when I began to hate you.”
“Be fair,” Jeff admonished. “You started to hate me before that.”
“True. What do we tell Gunther?”
“You've already told him. We're not in that line of work anymore.”
“Shouldn't we at least find out what he's thinking?”
“Tracy, we agreed that —”
“We're going to Amsterdam anyway, aren't we?”
“Yes, but —”
“Well, while we're there, darling, why don't we just listen to what he has to say?”
Jeff studied her suspiciously. “You want to do it, don't you?”
“Certainly not! But it can't hurt to hear what he has to say….”
They drove to Amsterdam the following day and checked into the Amstel Hotel. Gunther Hartog flew in from London to meet them.
They managed to sit together, as casual tourists, on a Plas Motor launch cruising the Amstel River.
“I'm delighted that you two are getting married,” Gunther said. “My warmest congratulations.”
“Thank you, Gunther.” Tracy knew that he was sincere.
“I respect your wishes about retiring, but I have come across a situation so unique that I felt I had to call it to your attention. It could be a very rewarding swan song.”
“We're listening,” Tracy said.
Gunther leaned forward and began talking, his voice low. When he had finished, he said, “Two million dollars if you can pull it off.”
“It's impossible,” Jeff declared flatly. “Tracy —”
But Tracy was not listening. She was busily figuring out how it could be done.
Amsterdam's police headquarters, at the corner of Marnix Straat and Elandsgracht, is a gracious old five-story, brownbrick building with a long white-stucco corridor on the ground floor and a marble staircase leading to the upper floors. In a meeting room upstairs, the Gemeentepolitie were in conference. There were six Dutch detectives in the room. The lone foreigner was Daniel Cooper.
Inspector Joop van Duren was a giant of a man, larger than life, with a beefy face adorned by a flowing mustache, and a roaring basso voice. He was addressing Toon Willems, the neat, crisp, efficient chief commissioner, head of the city's police force.
“Tracy Whitney arrived in Amsterdam this morning, Chief Commissioner. Interpol is certain she was responsible for the De Beers hijacking. Mr. Cooper, here, feels she has come to Holland to cgmmit another felony.”
Chief Commissioner Willems turned to Cooper. “Do you have any proof of this, Mr. Cooper?”
Daniel Cooper did not need proof. He knew Tracy Whitney, body and soul. Of course she was here to carry out a crime, something outrageous,. something beyond the scope of their tiny imaginations. He forced himself to remain calm.
“No proof. That's why she must be caught red-handed.”
“And just how do you propose that we do that?”
“By not letting the woman out of our sight.”
The use of the pronoun our disturbed the chief commissioner. He had spoken with Inspector Trignant in Paris about Cooper. He's obnoxious, but he knows what he's about. If we had listened to him, we would have caught the Whitney woman red-handed. It was the same phrase Cooper had just used.
Toon Willems made his decision, and it was based partly on the well-publicized failure of the French police to apprehend the hijackers of the De Beers diamonds. Where the French police had failed, the Dutch police would succeed.
“Very well,” the chief commissioner said. “If the lady has come to Holland to test the efficiency of our police force, we shall accommodate her.” He turned to Inspector van Duren. “Take whatever measures you think necessary.”
The city of Amsterdam is divided into six police districts, with each district responsible for its own territory. On orders from Inspector Joop van Duren, the boundaries were ignored, and detectives from different districts were assigned to surveillance teams. “I want her watched twenty-four hours a day. Don't let her out of your sight.”
Inspector van Duren turned to Daniel Cooper. “Well, Mr. Cooper, are you satisfied?”
“Not until we have her.”
“We will,” the inspector assured him. “You see, Mr. Cooper, we pride ourselves on having the best police force in the world.”
Amsterdam is a tourist's paradise, a city of windmills and dams and row upon row of gabled houses leaning crazily against one another along a network of tree-lined canals filled with houseboats decorated by boxes of geraniums and plants, and laundry flying in the breeze. The Dutch were the friendliest people Tracy had ever met.
“They all seem so happy,” Tracy said.
“Remember, they're the original flower people. Tulips.”
Tracy laughed and took Jeff's arm. She felt such joy in being with him. He's so wonderful. And Jeff was looking at her and thinking, I'm the luckiest fellow in the world.
Tracy and Jeff did all the usual sightseeing things tourists do. They strolled along Albert Cuyp Straat, the open-air market that stretches block after block and is filled with stands of antiques, fruits and vegetables, flowers, and clothing, and wandered through Dam Square, where young people gathered to listen to itinerant singers and punk bands. They visited Volendam, the old picturesque fishing village on the Zuider Zee, and Madurodam, Holland in miniature. As they drove past the bustling Schiphol Airport, Jeff said, “Not long ago, all that land the airport stands on was the North Sea. Schiphol means 'cemetery of ships.' ”
Tracy nestled closer to him. “I'm impressed. It's nice to be in love with such a smart fellow.”
“You ain't heard nothin' yet. Twenty-five percent of the Netherlands is reclaimed land. The whole country is sixteen feet below sea level.”
“Sounds scary.”
“Not to worry. We're perfectly safe as long as that little kid keeps his finger in the dyke.”
Everywhere Tracy and Jeff went, they were followed by the Gemeetepolitie, and each evening Daniel Cooper studied the written reports submitted to Inspector van Duren. There was nothing unusual in them, but Cooper's suspicions were not allayed. She's up to something, he told himself, something big. I wonder if she knows she's being followed? I wonder if she knows I'm going to destroy her?
As far as the detectives could see, Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens were merely tourists.
Inspector van Duren said to Cooper, “Isn't it possible you're wrong? They could be in Holland just to have a good time.”
“No,” Cooper said stubbornly. “I'm not wrong. Stay with her.” He had an ominous feeling that time was running out, that if Tracy Whitney did not make a move soon, the police surveillance would be called off again. That could not be allowed to happen. He joined the detectives who were keeping Tracy under observation.
Tracy and Jeff had connecting rooms at the Amstel. “For the sake of respectability,” Jeff had told Tracy, “but I won't let you get far from me.”
“Promise?”
Each night Jeff stayed with her until early dawn, and they made love far into the night. He was a protean lover, by turns tender and considerate, wild and feral.
“It's the first time,” Tracy whispered, “that I've really known what my body was for. Thank you, my love.”
“The pleasure's all mine.”
“Only half.”
They roamed the city in an apparently aimless manner. They had lunch at the Excelsior in the Hфtel de l'Europe and dinner at the Bowedery, and ate all twenty-two courses served at the Indonesian Bali. They had erwtensoep, Holland's famous pea soup; sampled kutspot, potatoes, carrots, and onions; and boerenkool met worst, made from thirteen vegetables and smoked sausage. They walked through the walletjes, the redlight district of Amsterdam, where fat, kimono-clad whores sat on the street windows displaying their ample wares; each evening the written report submitted to Inspector Joop van Duren ended with the same note: Nothing suspicious.
Patience, Daniel Cooper told himself. Patience.
At the urging of Cooper, Inspector van Duren went to Chief Commissioner Willems to ask permission to place electronic eavesdropping devices in the hotel rooms of the two suspects. Permission was denied.
“When you have more substantial grounds for your suspicions,” the chief commissioner said, “come back to me. Until then, I cannot permit you to eavesdrop on people who are so far guilty only of touring Holland.”
That conversation had taken place on Friday. On Monday morning Tracy and Jeff went to Paulus Potter Straat in Coster, the diamond center of Amsterdam, to visit the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory. Daniel Cooper was a part of the surveillance team. The factory was crowded with tourists. An English-speaking guide conducted them around the factory, explaining each operation in the cutting process, and at the end of the tour led the group to a large display room, where showcases filled with a variety of diamonds for sale lined the walls. This of course was the ultimate reason visitors were given a tour of the factory. In the center of the room stood a glass case dramatically mounted on a tall, black pedestal, and inside the case was the most exquisite diamond Tracy had ever seen.
The guide announced proudly, “And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the famous Lucullan diamond you have all read about. It was once purchased by a stage actor for his movie star wife and is valued at ten million dollars. It is a perfect stone, one of the finest diamonds in the world.”
“That must be quite a target for jewel thieves,” Jeff said aloud.
Daniel Cooper moved forward so he could hear better.
The guide smiled indulgently. “Nee, mijnheer.” He nodded toward the armed guard standing near the exhibit. “This stone is more closely guarded than the jewels in the Tower of London. There is no danger. If anyone touches that glass case, an alarm rings — en onmiddellijk! — and every window and door in this room is instantly sealed off. At night electronic beams are on, and if someone enters the room, an alarm sounds at police headquarters.”
Jeff looked at Tracy and said, “I guess no one's ever going to steal that diamond.”
Cooper exchanged a look with one of the detectives. That afternoon Inspector van Duren was given a report of the conversation.
The following day Tracy and Jeff visited the Rijksmuseum. At the entrance, Jeff purchased a directory plan of the museum, and he and Tracy passed through the main hall to the Gallery of Honor, filled with Fra Angelicos, Murillos, Rubenses, Van Dycks, and Tiepolos. They moved slowly, pausing in front of each painting, and then walked into the Night Watch Room, where Rembrandt's most famous painting hung. There they stayed. And the attractive Constable First-Class Fien Hauer, who was following them, thought to herself, Oh, my God!
The official title of the painting is The Company of Captain Franc Banning Cocq and Lieutenant Willem van Ruytenburch, and it portrays, with extraordinary clarity and composition, a group of soldiers preparing to go on their watch, under the command of their colorfully uniformed captain. The area around the portrait was roped off with velvet cords, and a guard stood nearby.
“It's hard to believe,” Jeff told Tracy, “but Rembrandt caught hell for this painting.”
“But why? It's fantastic.”
“His patron — the captain in the painting — didn't like the attention Rembrandt paid to the other figures.” Jeff turned to the guard. “I hope this is well protected.”
“Ja, mijnheer. Anyone who tries to steal anything from this museum would have to get by electronic beams, security cameras, and, at night, two guards with patrol dogs.”
Jeff smiled easily. “I guess this painting is going to stay here forever.”
Late that afternoon the exchange was reported to Van Duren. “The Night Watch!” he exclaimed. “Alstublieft, impossible!”
Daniel Cooper merely blinked at him with his wild, myopic eyes.
At the Amsterdam Convention Center, there was a meeting of philatelists, and Tracy and Jeff were among the first to arrive. The hall was heavily guarded, for many of the stamps were priceless. Cooper and a Dutch detective watched as the two visitors wandered through the rare-stamp collection. Tracy and Jeff paused in front of the British Guiana, an unattractive magenta, six-sided stamp.
“What an ugly stamp,” Tracy observed.
“Don't knock it, darling. It's the only stamp of its kind in the world.”
“What's it worth?”
“One million dollars.”
The attendant nodded. “That is correct, sir. Most people would have no idea, just looking at it. But I see that you, sir, love these stamps, as I do. The history of the world is in them.”
Tracy and Jeff moved on to the next case and looked at an Inverted Jenny stamp that portrayed an airplane flying upside down.
“That's an interesting one,” Tracy said.
The attendant guarding the stamp case said, “It's worth —”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars,” Jeff remarked.
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
They moved on to a Hawaiian Missionary two-cent blue.
“That's worth a quarter of a million dollars,” Jeff told Tracy.
Cooper was following closely behind them now, mingling with the crowd.
Jeff pointed to another stamp. “Here's a rare one. The one-pence Mauritius post office. Instead of 'postpaid,' some daydreaming engraver printed 'post office.' It's worth a lot of pence today.”
“They all seem so small and vulnerable,” Tracy said, “and so easy to walk away with.”
The guard at the counter smiled. “A thief wouldn't get very far, miss. The cases are all electronically wired, and armed guards patrol the convention center day and night.”
“That's a great relief,” Jeff said earnestly. “One can't be too careful these days, can one?”
That afternoon Daniel Cooper and Inspector Joop van Duren called on Chief Commissioner Willems together. Van Duren placed the surveillance reports on the commissioner's desk and waited.
“There's nothing definite here,” the chief commissioner finally said, “but I'll admit that your suspects seem to be sniffing around some very lucrative targets. All right, Inspector. Go ahead. You have official permission to place listening devices in their hotel rooms.”
Daniel Cooper was elated. There would be no more privacy for Tracy Whitney. From this point on, he would know everything she was thinking, saying, and doing. He thought about Tracy and Jeff together in bed, and remembered the feel of Tracy's underwear against his cheek. So soft, so sweet-smelling.
That afternoon he went to church.
When Tracy and Jeff left the hotel for dinner that evening, a team of police technicians went to work, planting tiny wireless transmitters in Tracy's and Jeff's suites, concealing them behind pictures, in lamps, and under bedside tables.
Inspector Joop van Duren had commandeered the suite on the floor directly above, and there a technician installed a radio receiver with an antenna and plugged in a recorder.
“It's voice activated,” the technician explained. “No one has to be here to monitor it. When someone speaks, it wi automatically begin to record.”
But Daniel Cooper wanted to be there. He had to be then It was God's will.
Early the following morning Daniel Cooper, Inspector Joop van Duren, and his young assistant, Detective Constable Witkamp, were in the upstairs suite listening to the conversation below.
“More coffee?” Jeff's voice.
“No, thank you, darling.” Tracy's voice. “Try this cheese that room service sent up. It's really wonderful.”
A short silence. “Mmmm. Delicious. What would you like to do today, Tracy? We could take a drive to Rotterdam.”
“Why don't we just stay in and relax?”
“Sounds good.”
Daniel Cooper knew what they meant by “relax,” and his mouth tightened.
“The queen is dedicating a new home for orphans.”
“Nice. I think the Dutch are the most hospitable, generous people in the world. They're iconoclasts. They hate rules and regulations.”
A laugh. “Of course. That's why we both like them so much.”
Ordinary morning conversation between lovers. They're so free and easy with each other, Cooper thought. But how she would pay!
“Speaking of generous” — Jeff's voice — “guess who's staying at this hotel? The elusive Maximilian Pierpont. I missed him on the QE Two.”
“And I missed him on the Orient Express.”
“He's probably here to rape another company. Now that we've found him again, Tracy, we really should do something about him. I mean, as long as he's in the neighborhood…”
Tracy's laughter. “I couldn't agree more, darling.”
“I understand our friend is in the habit of carrying priceless artifacts with him. I have an idea that —”
Another voice, female. “Dag, mijnheer, dag, mevrouw. Would you care for your room to be made up now?”
Van Duren turned to Detective Constable Witkamp. “I want a surveillance team on Maximilian Pierpont. The moment Whitney or Stevens makes any kind of contact with him, I want to know it.”
Inspector van Duren was reporting to Chief Commissioner Toon Willems.
“They could be after any number of targets, Chief Commissioner. They're showing a great deal of interest in a wealthy American here named Maximilian Pierpont, they attended the philatelist convention, they visited the Lucullan diamond at the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory, and spent two hours at The Night Watch —”
“Een diefstal van de Nachtwacht? Nee! Impossible!”
The chief commissioner sat back in his chair and wondered whether he was recklessly wasting valuable time and manpower. There was too much speculation and not enough facts. “So at the moment you have no idea what their target is.”
“No, Chief Commissioner. I'm not certain they themselves have decided. But the moment they do, they will inform us.”
Willems frowned. “Inform you?”
“The bugs,” Van Duren explained. “They have no idea they are being bugged.”
The breakthrough for the police came at 9:00 A.M. the following morning. Tracy and Jeff were finishing breakfast in Tracy's suite. At the listening post upstairs were Daniel Cooper, Inspector Joop van Duren, and Detective Constable Witkamp. They heard the sound of coffee being poured.
“Here's an interesting item, Tracy. Our friend was right. Listen to this: 'Amro Bank is shipping five million dollars in gold bullion to the Dutch West Indies.' ”
In the suite on the floor above, Detective Constable Witkamp said, “There's no way —”
“Shh!”
They listened.
“I wonder how much five million dollars in gold would weigh?” Tracy's voice.
“I can tell you exactly, my darling. One thousand six hundred seventy-two pounds, about sixty-seven gold bars. The wonderful thing about gold is that it's so beautifully anonymous. You melt it down and it could belong to anybody. Of course, it wouldn't be easy to get those bars out of Holland.”
“Even if we could, how would we get hold of them in the first place? Just walk into the bank and pick them up?”
“Something like that.”
“You're joking.”
“I never joke about that kind of money. Why don't we just stroll by the Amro Bank, Tracy, and have a little look?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I'll tell you all about it on the way.”
There was the sound of a door closing, and the voices ended.
Inspector van Duren was fiercely twisting his mustache. “Nee! There is no way they could get their hands on that gold. I, myself, approved those security arrangements.”
Daniel Cooper announced flatly, “If there's a flaw in the bank's security system, Tracy Whitney will find it.”
It was all Inspector van Duren could do to control his hair-trigger temper. The odd-looking American had been an abomination ever since his arrival. It was his God-given sense of superiority that was so difficult to tolerate. But Inspector van Duren was a policeman first and last; and he had been ordered to cooperate with the weird little man.
The inspector turned to Witkamp. “I want you to increase the surveillance unit. Immediately. I want every contact photographed and questioned. Clear?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“And very discreetly, mind you. They must not know they are being watched.”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Van Duren looked at Cooper. “There. Does that make you feel better?”
Cooper did not bother to reply.
During the next five days Tracy and Jeff kept Inspector van Duren's men busy, and Daniel Cooper carefully examined all the daily reports. At night, when the other detectives left the listening post, Cooper lingered. He listened for the sounds of lovemaking that he knew was going on below. He could hear nothing, but in his mind Tracy was moaning, “Oh, yes, darling, yes, yes. Oh, God, I can't stand it… it's so wonderful…. Now, oh, now..”
Then the long, shuddering sigh and the soft, velvety silence. And it was all for him.
Soon you'll belong to me, Cooper thought. No one else will have you.
During the day, Tracy and Jeff went their separate ways, and wherever they went they were followed. Jeff visited a printing shop near Leidseplein, and two detectives watched from the street as he held an earnest conversation with the printer. When Jeff left, one of the detectives followed him. The other went into the shop and showed the printer his plastic-coated police identity card with the official stamp, photograph, and the diagonal red, white, and blue stripes.
“The man who just left here. What did he want?”
“He's run out of business cards. He wants me to print some more for him.”
“Let me see.”
The printer showed him a handwritten form:
Amsterdam Security Services
Cornelius Wilson, Chief Investigator
The following day Constable First-Class Fien Hauer waited outside a pet shop on Leidseplein as Tracy went in. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, Fien Hauer entered the shop and showed her identification.
“That lady who just left, what did she want?”
“She purchased a bowl of goldfish, two lovebirds, a canary, and a pigeon.”
A strange combination. “A pigeon, you said? You mean an ordinary pigeon?”
“Yes, but no pet store stocks them. I told her we would have to locate one for her.”
“Where are you sending these pets?”
“To her hotel, the Amstel.”
On the other side of town, Jeff was speaking to the vice-president of the Amro Bank. They were closeted together for thirty minutes, and when Jeff left the bank, a detective went into the manager's office.
“The man who just walked out. Please tell me why he was here.”
“Mr. Wilson? He's chief investigator for the security company our bank uses. They're revising the security system.”
“Did he ask you to discuss the present security arrangements with him?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”
“And you told him?”
“Of course. But naturally I first took the precaution of telephoning to make sure his credentials were in order.”
“Whom did you telephone?”
“The security service — the number was printed on his identification card.”
At 3:00 that afternoon an armored truck pulled up outside the Amro Bank. From across the street, Jeff snapped a picture of the truck, while in a doorway a few yards away a detective photographed Jeff.
At police headquarters at Elandsgracht Inspector van Duren was spreading out the rapidly accumulating evidence on the desk of Chief Commissioner Toon Willems.
“What does all this signify?” the chief commissioner asked in his dry, thin voice.
Daniel Cooper spoke. “I'll tell you what she's planning.” His voice was heavy with conviction. “She's planning to hijack the gold shipment.”
They were all staring at him.
Commissioner Willems said, “And I suppose you know how she intends to accomplish this miracle?”
“Yes.” He knew something they did not know. He knew Tracy Whitney's heart and soul and mind. He had put himself inside her, so that he could think like her, plan like her… and anticipate her every move.
“By using a fake security truck and getting to the bank before the real truck, and driving off with the bullion.”
“That sounds rather farfetched, Mr. Cooper.”
Inspector van Duren broke in. “I don't know what their scheme is, but they are planning something, Chief Commissioner. We have their voices on tape.”
Daniel Cooper remembered the other sounds he had imagined: the night whispers, the cries and moans. She was behaving like a bitch in heat. Well, where he would put her, no man would ever touch her again.
The inspector was saying, “They learned the security routine of the bank. They know what time the armored truck makes its pickup and —”
The chief commissioner was studying the report in front of him. “Lovebirds, a pigeon, goldfish, a canary — do you think any of this nonsense has something to do with the robbery?”
“No,” Van Duren said.
“Yes,” Cooper said.
Constable First-Class Fien Hauer, dressed in an aqua polyester slack suit, trailed Tracy Whitney down Prinsengracht, across the Magere Bridge, and when Tracy reached the other side of the canal, Fien Hauer looked on in frustration as Tracy stepped into a public telephone booth and spoke into the phone for five minutes. The constable would have been just as unenlightened if she could have heard the conversation.
Gunther Hartog, in London, was saying, “We can depend on Margo, but she'll need time — at least two more weeks.” He listened a moment. “I understand. When everything is ready, I will get in touch with you. Be careful. And give my regards to Jeff.”
Tracy replaced the receiver and stepped out of the booth. She gave a friendly nod to the woman in the aqua pantsuit who stood waiting to use the telephone.
At 11:00 the following morning a detective reported to Inspector van Duren, “I'm at the Wolters Truck Rental Company, Inspector. Jeff Stevens has just rented a truck from them.”
“What kind of truck?”
“A service truck, Inspector.”
“Get the dimensions. I'll hold on.”
A few minutes later the detective was back on the phone. “I have them. The truck is —”
Inspector van Duren said, “A step van, twenty feet long, seven feet wide, six feet high, dual axles.”
There was an astonished pause. “Yes, Inspector. How did you know?”
“Never mind. What color is it?”
“Blue.”
“Who's following Stevens?”
“Jacobs.”
“Goed. Report back here.”
Joop van Duren replaced the receiver. He looked up at Daniel Cooper. “You were right. Except that the van is blue.”
“He'll take it to an auto paint shop.”
The paint shop was located in a garage on the Damrak. Two men sprayed the truck a gun-metal gray, while Jeff stood by. On the roof of the garage a detective shot photographs through the skylight.
The pictures were on Inspector van Duren's desk one hour later.
He shoved them toward Daniel Cooper. “It's being painted the identical color of the real security truck. We could pick them up now, you know.”
“On what charges? Having some false business cards printed and painting a truck? The only way to make the charges stick is to catch them when they pick up the bullion.”
The little prick acts like he's running the department. “What do you think he'll do next?”
Cooper was carefully studying the photograph. “This truck won't take the weight of the gold. They'll have to reinforce the floorboards.”
It was a small, out-of-the-way garage on Muider Straat.
“Goede morgen, mijnheer. How may I serve you?”
“I'm going to be carrying some scrap iron in this truck,” Jeff explained, “and I'm not sure the floorboards are strong enough to take the weight. I'd like them reinforced with metal braces. Can you do that?”
The mechanic walked over to the truck and examined it. “Ja. No problem.”
“Good.”
“I can have it ready vrijdag — Friday.”
“I was hoping to have it tomorrow.”
“Morgen? Nee. Ik —”
“I'll pay you double.”
“Donderdag — Thursday.”
“Tomorrow. I'll pay you triple.”
The mechanic scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What time tomorrow?”
“Noon.”
“Ja. Okay.”
“Dank je wel.”
“Tot uw dienst.”
Moments after Jeff left the garage a detective was interrogating the mechanic.
On the same morning the team of surveillance experts assigned to Tracy followed her to the Oude Schans Canal, where she spent half an hour in conversation with the owner of a barge. When Tracy left, one of the detectives stepped aboard the barge. He identified himself to the owner, who was sipping a large bessenjenever, the potent red-currant gin. “What did the young lady want?”
“She and her husband are going to take a tour of the canals. She's rented my barge for a week.”
“Beginning when?”
“Friday. It's a beautiful vacation, mijnheer. If you and your wife would be interested in —”
The detective was gone.
The pigeon Tracy had ordered from the pet shop was delivered to her hotel in a birdcage. Daniel Cooper returned to the pet shop and questioned the owner.
“What kind of pigeon did you send her?”
“Oh, you know, an ordinary pigeon.”
“Are you sure it's not a homing pigeon?”
“No.” The man giggled. “The reason I know it's not a homing pigeon is because I caught it last night in Vondelpark.”
A thousand pounds of gold and an ordinary pigeon? Why? Daniel Cooper wondered.
Five days before the transfer of bullion from the Amro Bank was to take place, a large pile of photographs had accumulated on Inspector Joop van Duren's desk.
Each picture is a link in the chain that is going to trap her, Daniel Cooper thought. The Amsterdam police had no imagination. but Cooper had to give them credit for being thorough. Every step leading to the forthcoming crime was photographed and documented. There was no way Tracy Whitney could escape justice.
Her punishment will be my redemption.
On the day Jeff picked up the newly painted truck he drove it to a small garage he had rented near the Oude Zijds Kolk, the oldest part of Amsterdam. Six empty wooden boxes stamped MACHINERY were also delivered to the garage.
A photograph of the boxes lay on Inspector van Duren's desk as he listened to the latest tape.
Jeff's voice: “When you drive the truck from the bank to the barge, stay within the speed limit. I want to know exactly how long the trip takes. Here's a stopwatch.”
“Aren't you coming with me, darling?”
“No. I'm going to be busy.”
“What about Monty?”
“He'll arrive Thursday night.”
“Who is this Monty?” Inspector van Duren asked.
“He's probably the man who's going to pose as the second security guard,” Cooper said. “They're going to need uniforms.”
The costume store was on Pieter Cornelisz Hooft Straat, in a shopping center.
“I need two uniforms for a costume party,” Jeff explained to the clerk. “Similar to the one you have in the window.”
One hour later Inspector van Duren was looking at a photograph of a guard's uniform.
“He ordered two of these. He told the clerk he would pick them up Thursday.”
The size of the second uniform indicated that it was for a man much larger than Jeff Stevens. The inspector said, “Our friend Monty would be about six-three and weigh around two hundred twenty pounds. We'll have Interpol put that through their computers,” he assured Daniel Cooper, “and we'll get an identification on him.”
In the private garage Jeff had rented, he was perched on top of the truck, and Tracy was in the driver's seat.
“Are you ready?” Jeff called. “Now.”
Tracy pressed a button on the dashboard. A large piece of canvas rolled down each side of the truck, spelling out HEINEKEN HOLLAND BEER.
“It works!” Jeff cheered.
“Heineken beer? Alstublieft!” Inspector van Duren looked around at the detectives gathered in his office. A series of blown-up photographs and memos were tacked all around the walls.
Daniel Cooper sat in the back of the room, silent. As far as Cooper was concerned, this meeting was a waste of time. He had long since anticipated every move Tracy Whitney and her lover would make. They had walked into a trap, and the trap was closing in on them. While the detectives in the office were filled with a growing excitement, Cooper felt an odd sense of anticlimax.
“All the pieces have fallen into place,” Inspector van Duren was saying. “The suspects know what time the real armored truck is due at the bank. They plan to arrive about half an hour earlier, posing as security guards. By the time the real truck arrives, they'll be gone.” Van Duren pointed to the photograph of an armored car. “They will drive away from the bank looking like this, but a block away, on some side street” — he indicated the Heineken beer truck photograph — “the truck will suddenly look like this.”
A detective from the back of the room spoke up. “Do you know how they plan to get the gold out of the country, Inspector?”
Van Duren pointed to a picture of Tracy stepping onto the barge. “First, by barge. Holland is so crisscrossed with canals and waterways that they could lose themselves indefinitely.” He indicated an aerial photograph of the truck speeding along the edge of the canal. “They've timed the run to see how long if takes to get from the bank to their barge. Plenty of time to load the gold onto the barge and be on their way before anyone suspects anything is wrong.” Van Duren walked over to the last photograph on the wall, an enlarged picture of a freighter. “Two days ago Jeff Stevens reserved cargo space on the Oresta, sailing from Rotterdam next week. The cargo was listed as machinery, destination Hong Kong.”
He turned to face the men in the room. “Well, gentlemen, we're making a slight change in their plans. We're going to let them remove the gold bullion from the bank and load it into the truck.” He looked at Daniel Cooper and smiled. “Red-handed. We're going to catch these clever people red-handed.”
A detective followed Tracy into the American Express office, where she picked up a medium-sized package; she returned immediately to her hotel.
“No way of knowing what was in the package,” Inspector van Duren told Cooper. “We searched both their suites when they left, and there was nothing new in either of them.”
Interpol's computers were unable to furnish any information on the 220-pound Monty.
At the Amstel late Thursday evening, Daniel Cooper, Inspector van Duren, and Detective Constable Witkamp were in the room above Tracy's, listening to the voices from below.
Jeff's voice: “If we get to the bank exactly thirty minutes before the guards are due, that will give us plenty of time to load the gold and move out. By the time the real truck arrives, we'll be stowing the gold onto the barge.”
Tracy's voice: “I've had the mechanic check the truck and fill it with gas. It's ready.”
Detective Constable Witkamp said, “One must almost admire them. They don't leave a thing to chance.”
“They all slip up sooner or later,” Inspector van Duren said curtly.
Daniel Cooper was silent, listening.
“Tracy, when this is over, how would you like to go on that dig we talked about?”
“Tunisia? Sounds like heaven, darling.”
“Good. I'll arrange it. From now on we'll do nothing but relax and enjoy life.”
Inspector van Duren murmured, “I'd say their next twenty years are pretty well taken care of.” He rose and stretched. “Well, I think we can go to bed. Everything is set for tomorrow morning, and we can all use a good night's sleep.”
Daniel Cooper was unable to sleep. He visualized Tracy being grabbed and manhandled by the police, and he could see the terror on her face. It excited him. He went into the bathroom and ran a very hot bath. He removed his glasses, took off his pajamas, and lay back in the steaming water. It was almost over, and she would pay, as he had made other whores pay. By this time tomorrow he would be on his way home. No, not home, Daniel Cooper corrected himself. To my apartment. Home was a warm, safe place where his mother loved him more than she loved anyone else in the world.
“You're my little man,” she said. “I don't know what I would do without you.”
Daniel's father disappeared when Daniel was four years old, and at first he blamed himself, but his mother explained that it was because of another woman. He hated that other woman, because she made his mother cry. He had never seen her, but he knew she was a whore because he had heard his mother call her that. Later, he was happy that the woman had taken his father away, for now he had his mother all to himself. The Minnesota winters were cold, and Daniel's mother allowed him to crawl into bed with her and snuggle under the warm blankets.
“I'm going to marry you one day,” Daniel promised, and his mother laughed and stroked his hair.
Daniel was always at the head of his class in school. He wanted his mother to be proud of him.
What a brilliant little boy you have, Mrs. Cooper.
I know. No one is as clever as my little man.
When Daniel was seven years old, his mother started inviting their neighbor, a huge, hairy man, over to their house for dinner, and Daniel became ill. He was in bed for a week with a dangerously high fever, and his mother promised she would never do that again. I don't need anyone in the world but you, Daniel.
No one could have been as happy as Daniel. His mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. When she was out of the house, Daniel would go into her bedroom and open the drawers of her dresser. He would take out her lingerie and rub the soft material against his cheek. They smelled oh, so wonderful.
He lay back in the warm tub in the Amsterdam hotel, his eyes closed, remembering the terrible day of his mother's murder. It was on his twelfth birthday. He was sent home from school early because he had an earache. He pretended it was worse than it was, because he wanted to be home where his mother would soothe him and put him into her bed and fuss over him. Daniel walked into the house and went to his mother's bedroom, and she was lying naked in their bed, but she was not alone. She was doing unspeakable things to the man who lived next door. Daniel watched as she began to kiss the matted chest and the bloated stomach, and her kisses trailed downward toward the huge red weapon between the man's legs. Before she took it into her mouth, Daniel heard his mother moan, “Oh, I love you!”
And that was the most unspeakable thing of all. Daniel ran to his bathroom and vomited all over himself. He carefully undressed and cleaned himself up because his mother had taught him to be neat. His earache was really bad now. He heard voices from the hallway and listened.
His mother was saying, “You'd better go now, darling. I've got to bathe and get dressed. Daniel will be home from school soon. I'm giving him a birthday party. I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
There was the noise of the front door closing, and then the sound of running water from his mother's bathroom. Except that she was no longer his mother She was a whore who did dirty things in bed with men, things she had never done with him.
He walked into her bathroom, naked, and she was in the tub, her whore's face smiling. She turned her head and saw him and said, “Daniel, darling! What are you —?”
He carried a pair of heavy dressmaker's shears in his hand.
“Daniel —” Her mouth was opened into a pink-lined O, but there was no sound until he made the first stab into the breast of the stranger in the tub. He accompanied her screams with his own. “Whore! Whore! Whore!”
They sang a deadly duet together, until finally there was his voice alone. “Whore… whore…”
He was spattered all over with her blood. He stepped into her shower and scrubbed himself until his skin felt raw.
That man next door had killed his mother, and that man would have to pay.
After that, everything seemed to happen with a supernal clarity, in a curious kind of slow motion. Daniel wiped the fingerprints off the shears with a washcloth and threw them into the bathtub. They clanked dully against the enamel. He dressed and telephoned the police. Two police cars arrived, with sirens screaming, and then another car filled with detectives, and they asked Daniel questions, and he told them how he had been sent home from school early and about seeing their next-door neighbor, Fred Zimmer, leaving through the side door. When they questioned the man, he admitted being the lover of Daniel's mother, but denied killing her. It was Daniel's testimony in court that convicted Zimmer.
“When you arrived home from school, you saw your neighbor, Fred Zimmer, running out the side door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you see him clearly?”
“Yes, sir. There was blood all over his hands.”
“What did you do then, Daniel?”
“I — I was so scared. I knew something awful had happened to my mother.”
“Then did you go into the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what happened?”
“I called out, 'Mother!' And she didn't answer, so I went into her bathroom and —”
At this point the young boy broke into hysterical sobs and had to be led from the stand.
Fred Zimmer was executed thirteen months later.
In the meantime young Daniel had been sent to live with a distant relative in Texas, Aunt Mattie, whom he had never met. She was a stern woman, a hard-shelled Baptist filled with a vehement righteousness and the conviction that hell's fire awaited all sinners. It was a house without love or joy or pity, and Daniel grew up in that atmosphere, terrified by the secret knowledge of his guilt and the damnation that awaited him. Shortly after his mother's murder Daniel began to have trouble with his vision. The doctors called the problem psychosomatic.
“He's blocking out something he doesn't want to see,” the doctors said.
The lenses on his glasses grew thicker.
At seventeen Daniel ran away from Aunt Mattie and Texas forever. He hitchhiked to New York, where he was hired a messenger boy by the International Insurance Protection Association. Within three years he was promoted to an investigator. He became the best they had. He never demanded raise in salary or better working conditions. He was oblivious to those things. He was the Lord's right arm, his scourge, punishing the wicked.
Daniel Cooper rose from his bath and prepared for bed. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow will be the whore's day of retribution.
He wished his mother could be there to see it.
Amsterdam
FRIDAY, AUGUST 22 — 8:OO A.M.
Daniel Cooper and the two detectives assigned to the listening post heard Tracy and Jeff at breakfast.
“Sweet roll, Jeff? Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Daniel Cooper thought, It's the last breakfast they'll ever have together.
“Do you know what I'm excited about? Our barge trip.”
“This is the big day, and you're excited about a trip on a barge? Why?”
“Because it will be just the two of us. Do you think I'm crazy?”
“Absolutely. But you're my crazy.”
“Kiss.”
The sound of a kiss.
She should be more nervous, Cooper thought. I want her to be nervous.
“In a way, I'll be sorry to leave here, Jeff.”
“Look at it this way, darling. We won't be any the poorer for the experience.”
Tracy's laughter. “You're right.”
At 9:00 A.M. the conversation was still going on, and Cooper thought, They should be getting ready. They should be making their last-minute plans. What about Monty? Where are they meeting him?
Jeff was saying, “Darling, would you take care of the concierge before you check us out? I'm going to be rather busy.”
“Of course. He's been wonderful. Why don't they have concierges in the States?”
“I guess it's just a European custom. Do you know how it started?”
“No.”
“In France, in 1627, King Hugh built a prison in Paris and put a nobleman in charge of it. He gave him the title of comte des cierges, or concierge, meaning 'count of the candles.' His pay was two pounds and the ashes from the king's fireplace. Later, anyone in charge of a prison or a castle became known as a concierge, and finally, this included those working in hotels.”
What the hell are they talking about? Cooper wondered. It's nine-thirty. Time for them to be leaving.
Tracy's voice: “Don't tell me where you learned that — you used to go with a beautiful concierge.”
A strange female voice: “Goede morgen, mevrouw, mijnheer.”
Jeff's voice: “There are no beautiful concierges.”
The female voice, puzzled: “Ik begrijp het niet.”
Tracy's voice: “I'll bet if there were, you'd find them.”
“What the hell is going on down there?” Cooper demanded.
The detectives looked baffled. “I don't know. The maid's on the phone calling the housekeeper. She came in to clean, but she says she doesn't understand — she hears voices, but she doesn' see anybody.”
“What?” Cooper was on his feet, racing toward the door, flying down the stairs. Moments later he and the other detectives burst into Tracy's suite. Except for the confused maid, it was empty. On a coffee table in front of a couch a tape recorder was playing.
Jeff's voice: “I think I'll change my mind about that coffee. Is it still hot?”
Tracy's voice: “Uh-huh.”
Cooper and the detectives were staring in disbelief.
“I — I don't understand,” one of the detectives stammered.
Cooper snapped, “What's the police emergency number?”
“Twenty-two-twenty-two-twenty-two.”
Cooper hurried over to the phone and dialed.
Jeff's voice on the tape recorder was saying, “You know, I really think their coffee is better than ours. I wonder how they do it.”
Cooper screamed into the phone, “This is Daniel Cooper. Get hold of Inspector van Duren. Tell him Whitney and Stevens have disappeared. Have him check the garage and see if their truck is gone. I'm on my way to the bank!” He slammed down the receiver.
Tracy's voice was saying, “Have you ever had coffee brewed with eggshells in it? It's really quite —”
Cooper was out the door.
Inspector van Duren said, “It's all right. The truck has left their garage. They're on their way here.”
Van Duren, Cooper, and two detectives were at a police command post on the roof of a building across from the Amro Bank.
The inspector said, “They probably decided to move up their plans when they learned they were being bugged, but relax, my friend. Look.” He pushed Cooper toward the wide-angle telescope on the roof. On the street below, a man dressed in janitor's clothes was meticulously polishing the brass nameplate of the bank… a street cleaner was sweeping the streets… a newspaper vendor stood on a corner… three repairmen were at work. All were equipped with miniature walkie-talkies.
Van Duren spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Point A?”
The janitor said, “I read you, Inspector.”
“Point B?”
“You're coming in, sir.” This from the street cleaner.
“Point C?”
The news vendor looked up and nodded.
“Point D?”
The repairmen stopped their work, and one of them spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Everything's ready here, sir.”
The inspector turned to Cooper. “Don't worry. The gold is still safely in the bank. The only way they can get their hands on it is to come for it. The moment they enter the bank, both ends of the street will be barricaded. There's-no way they can escape.” He consulted his watch. “The truck should be in sight any moment now.”
Inside the bank, the tension was growing. The employees had been briefed, and the guards ordered to help load the gold into the armored truck when it arrived. Everyone was to cooperate fully.
The disguised detectives outside the bank kept working, surreptitiously watching the street for a sign of the truck.
On the roof, Inspector van Duren asked, for the tenth time, “Any sign of the damned truck yet?”
“Nee.”
Detective Constable Witkamp looked at his watch. “They're thirteen goddamn minutes overdue. If they —”
The walkie-talkie crackled into life. “Inspector! The truck just came into sight! It's crossing Rozengracht, heading for the bank. You should be able to see it from the roof in a minute.”
The air was suddenly charged with electricity.
Inspector van Duren spoke rapidly into the walkie-talkie. “Attention, all units. The fish are in the net. Let them swim in.”
A gray armored truck moved to the entrance of the bank and stopped. As Cooper and Van Duren watched, two men wearing the uniforms of security guards got out of the truck and walked into the bank.
“Where is she? Where's Tracy Whitney?” Daniel Cooper spoke aloud.
“It doesn't matter,” Inspector van Duren assured him. “She won't be far from the gold.”
And even if she is, Daniel Cooper thought, it's not important. The tapes are going to convict her.
Nervous employees helped the two uniformed men load the gold bullion from the vault onto dollies and wheel them out to the armored truck. Cooper and Van Duren watched the distant figures from the roof across the street.
The loading took eight minutes. When the back of the truck was locked, and the two men started to climb into the front seat, Inspector van Duren yelled into his walkie-talkie, “Vlug! Pas op! All units close in! Close in!”
Pandemonium erupted. The janitor, the news vendor, the workers in overalls, and a swarm of other detectives raced to the armored truck and surrounded it, guns drawn. The street was cordoned off from all traffic in either direction.
Inspector van Duren turned to Daniel Cooper and grinned. “Is this red-handed enough for you? Let's wrap it up.”
It's over at last, Cooper thought.
They hurried down to the street. The two uniformed men were facing the wall, hands raised, surrounded by a circle of armed detectives. Daniel Cooper and Inspector van Duren pushed their way through.
Van Duren said, “You can turn around now. You're under arrest.”
The two men, ashen-faced, turned to face the group. Daniel Cooper and Inspector van Duren stared at them in shock. They were total strangers.
“Who — who are you?” Inspector van Duren demanded.
“We — we're the guards for the security company,” one of them stammered. “Don't shoot. Please don't shoot.”
Inspector van Duren turned to Cooper. “Their plan went wrong.” His voice held a note of hysteria. “They called it off.”
There was a green bile in the pit of Daniel Cooper's stomach, and it slowly began to rise up into his chest and throat, so that when he could finally speak, his voice was choked. “No. Nothing went wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They were never after the gold. This whole setup was a decoy.”
“That's impossible! I mean, the truck, the barge, the uniforms — we have photographs….”
“Don't you understand? They knew it. They knew we were on to them all the time!”
Inspector van Duren's face went white. “Oh my God! Zijn ze? — where are they?”
On Paulus Potter Straat in Coster, Tracy and Jeff were approaching the Nederlands Diamond-Cutting Factory. Jeff wore a beard and mustache, and had altered the shape of his cheeks and nose with foam sponges. He was dressed in a sport outfit and carried a rucksack. Tracy wore a black wig, a maternity dress and padding, heavy makeup, and dark sunglasses. She carried a large briefcase and a round package wrapped in brown paper. The two of them entered the reception room and joined a busload of tourists listening to a guide. “…and now, if you will follow me, ladies and gentlemen, you will see our diamond cutters at work and have an opportunity to purchase some of our fine diamonds.”
With the guide leading the way, the crowd entered the doors that led inside the factory. Tracy moved along with them, while Jeff lingered behind. When the others had gone, Jeff turned and hurried down a flight of stairs that led to a basement. He opened his rucksack and took out a pair of oil-stained coveralls and a small box of tools. He donned the coveralls, walked over to the fuse box, and looked at his watch.
Upstairs, Tracy stayed with the group as it moved from room to room while the guide showed them the various processes that went into making polished gems out of raw diamonds. From time to time Tracy glanced at her watch. The tour was five minutes behind schedule. She wished the guide would move faster.
At last, as the tour ended, they reached the display room. The guide walked over to the roped-off pedestal.
“In this glass case,” he announced proudly, “is the Lucullan diamond, one of the most valuable diamonds in the world. It was once purchased by a famous stage actor for his movie-star wife. It is valued at ten million dollars and is protected by the most modern —”
The lights went out. Instantly, an alarm sounded and steel shutters slammed down in front of the windows and doors, sealing all the exits. Some of the tourists began to scream.
“Please!” the guide shouted above the noise. “There is no need for concern. It is a simple electrical failure. In a moment the emergency generator will —” The lights came on again.
“You see?” the guide reassured them. “There is nothing to worry about.”
A German tourist in lederhosen pointed to the steel shutters. “What are those?”
“A safety precaution,” the guide explained. He took out an odd-shaped key, inserted it in a slot in the wall, and turned it. The steel shutters over the doors and windows retracted. The telephone on the desk rang, and the guide picked it up.
“Hendrik, here. Thank you, Captain. No, everything is fine. It was a false alarm. Probably an electrical short. I will have it checked out at once. Yes, sir.” He replaced the receiver and turned to the group. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. With something as valuable as this stone, one can't be too careful. Now, for those of you who would like to purchase some of our very fine diamonds —”
The lights went out again. The alarm bell rang, and the steel shutters slammed down once more.
A woman in the crowd cried, “Let's get out of here, Harry.”
“Will you just shut up, Diane?” her husband growled.
In the basement downstairs, Jeff stood in front of the fuse box, listening to the cries of the tourists upstairs. He waited a few moments, then reconnected the switch. The lights upstairs flickered on.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the guide yelled over the uproar. “It is just a technical difficulty.” He took out the key again and inserted it into the wall slot. The steel shutters rose.
The telephone rang. The guide hurried over and picked it up. “Hendrik, here. No, Captain. Yes. We will have it fixed as quickly as possible. Thank you.”
A door to the room opened and Jeff came in, carrying the tool case, his worker's cap pushed back on his head.
He singled out the guide.
“What's the problem? Someone reported trouble with the electrical circuits.”
“The lights keep flashing off and on,” the guide explained. “See if you can fix it quickly, please.” He turned to the tourists, a forced smile on his lips. “Why don't we step over here where you can select some fine diamonds at very reasonable prices?”
The group of tourists began to move toward the showcases. Jeff, unobserved in the press of the crowd, slipped a small cylindrical object from his overalls, pulled the pin, and tossed the device behind the pedestal that held the Lucullan diamond. The contrivance began to emit smoke and sparks.
Jeff called out to the guide, “Hey! There's your problem. There's a short in the wire under the floor.”
A woman tourist screamed, “Fire!”
“Please, everybody!” the guide yelled. “No need to panic. Just keep calm.” He turned to Jeff and hissed, .“Fix it! Fix it!”
“No problem,” Jeff said easily. He moved toward the velvet ropes around the pedestal.
“Nee!” the guard called. “You can't go near that!”
Jeff snrugged. “Fine with me. You fix it.” He turned to leave.
Smoke was pouring out faster now. The people were beginning to panic again.
“Wait!” the guide pleaded. “Just a minute.” He hurried over to the telephone and dialed a number. “Captain? Hendrik, here. I'll have to ask you to shut off all the alarms; we're having a little problem. Yes, sir.” He looked over at Jeff. “How long will you need them off?”
“Five minutes,” Jeff said.
“Five minutes,” the guide repeated into the phone. “Dank je wel.” He replaced the receiver. “The alarms will be off in ten seconds. For God's sake, hurry! We never shut off the alarm!”
“I've only got two hands, friend.” Jeff waited ten seconds, then moved inside the ropes and walked up to the pedestal. Hendrik signaled to the armed guard, and the guard nodded and fixed his eyes on Jeff.
Jeff was working in back of the pedestal. The frustrated guide turned to the group. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying, over here we have a selection of fine diamonds at bargain prices. We accept credit cards, traveler's checks” — he gave a little chuckle — “and even cash.”
Tracy was standing in front of the counter. “Do you buy diamonds?” she asked in a loud voice.
The guide stared at her. “What?”
“My husband is a prospector. He just returned from South Africa, and he wants me to sell these.”
As she spoke, she opened the briefcase she carried, but she was holding it upside down, and a torrent of flashing diamonds cascaded down and danced all over the floor.
“My diamonds!” Tracy cried. “Help me!”
There was one frozen moment of silence, and then all hell broke loose. The polite crowd became a mob. They scrambled for the diamonds on their hands and knees, knocking one another out of the way.
“I've got some…”
“Grab a handful, John….”
“Let go of that, it's mine….”
The guide and the guard were beyond speech. They were hurled aside in a sea of scrambling, greedy human beings, filling their pockets and purses with the diamonds.
The guard screamed, “Stand back! Stop that!” and was knocked to the floor.
A busload of Italian tourists entered, and when they saw what was happening, they joined in the frantic scramble.
The guard tried to get to his feet to sound the alarm, but the human tide made it impossible. They were trampling over him. The world had suddenly gone mad. It was a nightmare that seemed to have no end.
When the dazed guard finally managed to stagger to his feet, he pushed his way through the bedlam, reached the pedestal, and stood there, staring in disbelief.
The Lucullan diamond had disappeared.
So had the pregnant lady and the electrician.
Tracy removed her disguise in a stall in the public washroom in Oosterpark, blocks away from the factory. Carrying the package wrapped in brown paper, she headed for a park bench. Everything was moving perfectly. She thought about the mob of people scrambling for the worthless zircons and laughed aloud. She saw Jeff approaching, wearing a dark gray suit; the beard and mustache had vanished. Tracy leapt to her feet. Jeff walked up to her and grinned. “I love you,” he said. He slipped the Lucullan diamond out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Tracy. “Feed this to your friend, darling. See you later.”
Tracy watched him as he strolled away. Her eyes were shining. They belonged to each other. They would take separate planes and meet in Brazil, and after that, they would be together for the rest of their lives.
Tracy looked around to make sure no one was observing, then she unwrapped the package she held. Inside was a small cage holding a slate-gray pigeon. When it had arrived at the American Express office three days earlier, Tracy had taken it to her suite and released the other pigeon out the window and watched it clumsily flutter away. Now, Tracy took a small chamois sack from her purse and placed the diamond in it. She removed the pigeon from its cage and held it while she care fully tied the sack to the bird's leg.
“Good girl, Margo. Take it home.”
A uniformed policeman appeared from nowhere. “Hold it! What do you think you're doing?”
Tracy's heart skipped a beat. “What's — what's the trouble, officer?”
His eyes were on the cage, and he was angry. “You know what the trouble is. It's one thing to feed these pigeons, but it's against the law to trap them and put them in cages. Now, you just let it go before i place you under arrest.”
Tracy swallowed and took a deep breath. “If you say so, Officer.” She lifted her arms and tossed the pigeon into the air. A lovely smile lit her face as she watched the pigeon soar, higher and higher. It circled once, then headed in the direction of London, 230 miles to the west. A homing pigeon averaged forty miles an hour, Gunther had told her, so Margo would reach him within six hours.
“Don't ever try that again,” the officer warned Tracy.
“I won't,” Tracy promised solemnly. “Never again.”
Late that afternoon, Tracy was at Schiphol Airport, moving toward the gate from which she would board a plane bound for Brazil. Daniel Cooper stood off in a corner, watching her, his eyes bitter. Tracy Whitney had stolen the Lucullan diamond. Cooper had known it the moment he heard the report., It was her style, daring and imaginative. Yet, there was nothing that could be done about it. Inspector van Duren had shown photographs of Tracy and Jeff to the museum guard. “Nee. Never seen either of them. The thief had a beard and a mustache and his cheeks and nose were much fatter, and the lady with the diamonds was dark-haired and pregnant.”
Nor was there any trace of the diamond. Jeff's and Tracy's persons and baggage had been thoroughly searched.
“The diamond is still in Amsterdam,” Inspector van Duren swore to Cooper. “We'll find it.”
No, you won't, Cooper thought angrily. She had switched pigeons. The diamond had been carried out of the country by a homing pigeon.
Cooper watched helplessly as Tracy Whitney made her way across the concourse. She was the first person who had ever defeated him. He would go to hell because of her.
As Tracy reached the boarding gate, she hesitated a moment, then turned and looked straight into Cooper's eyes. She had been aware that he had been following her all over Europe, like some kind of nemesis. There was something bizarre about him, frightening and at the same time pathetic. Inexplicably, Tracy felt sorry for him. She gave him a small farewell wave, then turned and boarded her plane.
Daniel Cooper touched the letter of resignation in his pocket.
It was a luxurious Pan American 747, and Tracy was seated in Seat 4B on the aisle in first class. She was excited. In a few hours she would be with Jeff. They would be married in Brazil. No more capers, Tracy thought, but I won't miss them. I know I won't. Life will be thrilling enough just being Mrs. Jeff Stevens.
“Excuse me.”
Tracy looked up. A puffy, dissipated-looking middle-aged man was standing over her. He indicated the window seat. “That's my seat, honey.”
Tracy twisted aside so he could get past her. As her skirt slid up, he eyed her legs appreciatively.
“Great day for a flight, huh?” There was a leer in his voice.
Tracy turned away. She had no interest in getting into a conversation with a fellow passenger. She had too much to think about. A whole new life. They would settle down somewhere and be model citizens. The ullrarespectable Mr. and Mrs. Jeff Stevens.
Her companion nudged her. “Since we're gonna be seat mates on this flight, little lady, why don't you and I get acquainted? My name is Maximilian Pierpont.”