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“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.”

Chapter 19

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.

Chapter 20

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.