When she spoke, her voice was soft, with the familiar melodic Italian accent. "Si?"
"I'm G-Gregory Halston. You t-telephoned me." In his nervousness he was stuttering.
"Ah, si. 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, si. 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, si. 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?"
"Si. 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 Cote 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 l
ine, 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.
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 Faberge 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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 maitre 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, Silvana Luadi."
"Tracy Whitney." She was using her own passport.
"Ah! E 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.