Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

“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.”

“Naturally.”

“If they see you come to my cabin — well, you know, some people might misunderstand. Of course, if your cabin is near mine… What number are you in?”

“E settanta — seventy.” He looked at her hopefully.

Tracy sighed. “I'm in another car. Why don't we meet in Venice?”

He beamed. “Bene! My wife, she stays in her room most of the time. She cannot stand the sun on her face. Have you ever been to Venezia?”

“No.”

“Ah. You and I shall go to Torcello, a beautiful little island with a wonderful restaurant, the Locanda Cipriani. It is also a small hotel.” His eyes gleamed. “Molto privato.”

Tracy gave him a slow, understanding smile. “It sounds exciting.” She lowered her eyes, too overcome to say more.

Fornati leaned forward, squeezed her hand, and whispered wetly, “You do not know what excitement is yet, cara.”

Half an hour later Tracy was back in her cabin.

The Orient Express sped through the lonely night, past Paris and Dijon and Vallarbe, while the passengers slept. They had turned in their passports the evening before, and the border formalities would be handled by the conductors.

At 3:30 in the morning Tracy quietly left her compartment. The timing was critical. The train would cross the Swiss border and reach Lausanne at 5:21 A.M. and was due to arrive in Milan, Italy, at 9:15 A.M.

Clad in pajamas and robe, and carrying a sponge bag, Tracy moved down the corridor, every sense alert, the familiar excitement making her pulse leap. There were no toilets in the cabins of the train, but there were some located at the end of each car. If Tracy was questioned, she was prepared to say that she was looking for the ladies' room, but she encountered no one. The conductors and porters were taking advantage of the early-morning hours to catch up on their sleep.

Tracy reached Cabin E 70 without incident. She quietly tried the doorknob. The door was locked. Tracy opened the sponge bag and took out a metallic object and a small bottle with a syringe, and went to work.

Ten minutes later she was back in her cabin, and thirty minutes after that she was asleep, with the trace of a smile on her freshly scrubbed face.

At 7:00 A.M., two hours before the Orient Express was due to arrive in Milan, a series of piercing screams rang out. They came from Cabin E 70, and they awakened the entire car. Passengers poked their heads out of their cabins to see what was happening. A conductor came hurrying along the car and entered E 70.

Silvana Luadi was in hysterics. “Aiuto! Help!” she screamed. “All my jewelry is gone! This miserable train is full of ladri — thieves!”

“Please calm down, madame,” the conductor begged. “The other —”

“Calm down!” Her voice went up an octave. “How dare you tell me to calm down, stupido maiale! Someone has stolen more than a million dollars' worth of my jewels!”

“How could this have happened?” Alberto Fornati demanded. “The door was locked — and Fornati is a light sleeper. If anyone had entered, I would have awakened instantly.”

The conductor sighed. He knew only too well how it had happened, because it had happened before. During the night someone had crept down the corridor and sprayed a syringe full of ether through the keyhole. The locks would have been child's play for someone who knew what he was doing. The thief would have closed the door behind him, looted the room, and, having taken what he wanted, quietly crept back to his compartment while his victims were still unconscious. But there was one thing about this burglary that was different from the others. In the past the thefts had not been discovered until after the train had reached its destination, so the thieves had had a chance to escape. This was a different situation. No one had disembarked since the robbery, which meant that the jewelry still had to be on board.