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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.

Chapter 22

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.”