Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

Jeff had obtained the divorce in Reno. It was while he was establishing residence there that he had run into Conrad Morgan. Morgan had once worked for Uncle Willie. “How would you like to do me a small favor, Jeff?” Conrad Morgan had asked. “There's a young lady traveling on a train from New York to St. Louis with some jewelry….”

Jeff looked out of the plane window and thought about Tracy. There was a smile on his face.

When Tracy returned to New York, her first stop was at Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers. Conrad Morgan ushered Tracy into his office and closed the door. He rubbed his hands together and said, “I was getting very worried, my dear. I waited for you in St. Louis and —”

“You weren't in St. Louis.”

“What? What do you mean?” His blue eyes seemed to twinkle.

“I mean, you didn't go to St. Louis. You never intended to meet me.”

“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.”

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 —”