Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

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.