If Tomorrow Comes (27 page)

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,” Daniel 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 Ma-tigny 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 Château de Matigny, at Cap d’Antibes, was one of the showplaces of France. The carefully manicured grounds were superb, and the château 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 gives 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.”

“Enchanté!”
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 château.”

“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 consommé 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 petits 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 a Guercino and a Titian, and there was almost a full wall of Cé-zannes. 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 château 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 Deau-ville 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 château 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 château 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 château 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.
I 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 ça.
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.
“Voilà. 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.