If Tomorrow Comes

  "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 hands!" 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."

  31

  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 like 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 arran
ge 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 Athenee, 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 cafe, 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 chateau.

  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. On 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 Hotel Plaza Athenee 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 Etoile. 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 Etoile. 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. I 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 will go wrong, but just in case, here is the address and the key to a safe house in Amsterdam. It is unoccupied.