Sidney Sheldon - If Tomorrow Comes

“I'll start checking these names against the Berlin swindle,” Inspector Trignant said, “and —”

Daniel Cooper looked up. “Don't bother.”

The name at the top of the list was Tracy Whitney.

With something concrete finally to go on, Interpol went into action. Red circulations, which meant top priority, were sent to each member nation, advising them to be on the lookout for Tracy Whitney.

“We're also Teletyping green notices,” Inspector Trignant told Cooper.

“Green notices?”

“We use a color-code 'system. A red circulation is top priority, blue is an inquiry for information about a suspect, a green notice puts police departments on warning that an individual is under suspicion and should be watched, black is an inquiry into unidentified bodies. X-D signals that a message is very urgent, while D is urgent. No matter what country Miss Whitney goes to, from the moment she checks through customs, she will be under observation.”

The following day Telephoto pictures of Tracy Whitney from the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women were in the hands of Interpol.

Daniel Cooper put in a call to J. J. Reynolds's home. The phone rang a dozen times before it was answered.

“Hello…”

“I need some information.”

“Is that you, Cooper? For Christ's sake, it's four o'clock in the morning here. I was sound —”

“I want you to send me everything you can find on Tracy Whitney. Press clippings, videotapes — everything.”

“What's happening over —?”

Cooper had hung up.

One day I'll kill the son of a bitch, Reynolds swore.

Before, Daniel Cooper had been only casually interested in Tracy Whitney. Now she was his assignment. He taped her photographs on the walls of his small Paris hotel room and read all the newspaper accounts about her. He rented a video cassette player and ran and reran the television news shots of Tracy after her sentencing, and after her release from prison. Cooper sat in his darkened room hour after hour, looking at the film, and the first glimmering of suspicion became a certainty. “You're the gang of women, Miss Whitney,” Danie Cooper said aloud. Then he flicked the rewind button of the cassette player once more.

Every year, on the first Saturday in June, the Count de Matigny sponsored a charity ball for the benefit of the Children's Hospital in Paris. Tickets for the white-tie affair were a thousand dollars apiece, and society's elite flew in from all over the world to attend.

The Chвteau de Matigny, at Cap d'Antibes, was one of the showplaces of France. The carefully manicured grounds were superb, and the chвteau itself dated back to the fifteenth century. On the evening of the fete, the grand ballroom and the petit ballroom were filled with beautifully dressed guests and smartly liveried servants offering endless glasses of champagne. Huge buffet tables were set up, displaying an astonishing array of hors d'oeuvres on Georgian silver platters.

Tracy, looking ravishing in a white lace gown, her hair dressed high and held in place by a diamond tiara, was dancing with her host, Count de Matigny, a widower in his late sixties, small and trim, with pale, delicate features. The benefit ball the count dives each year for the Children's Hospital is a racket. Gunther Hartog had told Tracy. Ten percent of the money goes to the children — ninety percent goes into his pocket.

“You are a superb dancer, Duchess,” the count said.

Tracy smiled. “That's because of my partner.”

“How is it that you and I have not met before?”

“I've been living in South America,” Tracy explained. “In the jungles, I'm afraid.”

“Why on earth!”

“My husband owns a few mines in Brazil.”

“Ah. And is your husband here this evening?”

“No. Unfortunately, he had to stay in Brazil and take care of business.”

“Unlucky for him. Lucky for me.” His arm tightened around her waist. “I look forward to our becoming very good friends.”

“And I, too,” Tracy murmured.

Over the count's shoulder Tracy suddenly caught sight of Jeff Stevens, looking suntanned and ridiculously fit. He was dancing with a beautiful, willowy brunet in crimson taffeta, who was clinging to him possessively. Jeff saw Tracy at the same moment and smiled.

The bastard has every reason to smile, Tracy thought grimly. During the previous two weeks Tracy had meticulously planned two burglaries. She had broken into the first house and opened the safe, only to find it empty. Jeff Stevens had been there first. On the second occasion Tracy was moving through the grounds toward the targeted house when she heard the sudden acceleration of a car and caught a glimpse of Jeff as he sped away. He had beaten her to it again. He was infuriating. Now he's here at the house I'm planning to burgle next, Tracy thought.

Jeff and his partner danced nearer. Jeff smiled and said, “Good evening, Count.”

The Count de Matigny smiled. “Ah, Jeffrey. Good evening. I'm so pleased that you could come.”

“I wouldn't have missed it.” Jeff indicated the voluptuous-looking woman in his arms. “This is Miss Wallace. The Count de Matigny.”

“Enchantй!” The count indicated Tracy. “Duchess, may I present Miss Wallace and Mr. Jeffrey Stevens? The Duchess de Larosa.”

Jeff's eyebrows raised questioningly. “Sorry. I didn't hear the name.”

“De Larosa,” Tracy said evenly.

“De Larosa… De Larosa.” Jeff was studying Tracy. “That name seems so familiar. Of course! I know your husband. Is the dear fellow here with you?”

“He's in Brazil.” Tracy found that she was gritting her teeth.

Jeff smiled. “Ah, too bad. We used to go hunting together. Before he had his accident, of course.”

“Accident?” the count asked.

“Yes.” Jeff's tone was rueful. “His gun went off and shot him in a very sensitive area. It was one of those stupid things.” He turned to Tracy. “Is there any hope that he'll ever be normal again?”

Tracy said tonelessly, “I'm sure that one day he'll be as normal as you are, Mr. Stevens.”

“Oh, good. You will give him my best regards when you talk to him, won't you, Duchess?”

The music stopped. The Count de Matigny apologized to Tracy. “If you'll excuse me, my dear, I have a few hostly duties to attend to.” He squeezed her hand. “Don't forget you're seated at my table.”

As the count moved away, Jeff said to his companion, “Angel, you put some aspirin in your bag, didn't you? Could you get one for me? I'm afraid I'm getting a terrible headache.”

“Oh, my poor darling.” There was an adoring look in her eyes. “I'll be right back, sweetheart.”

Tracy watched her slink across the floor. “Aren't you afraid she'll give you diabetes?”

“She is sweet, isn't she? And how have you been lately, Duchess?”

Tracy smiled for the benefit of those around them. “That's really none of your concern, is it?”

“Ah, but it is. In fact, I'm concerned enough to give you some friendly advice. Don't try to rob this chвteau.”

“Why? Are you planning to do it first?”

Jeff took Tracy's arm and walked her over to a deserted spot near the piano, where a dark-eyed young man was soulfully massacring American show tunes.

Only Tracy could hear Jeff's voice over the music. “As a matter of fact, I was planning a little something, but it's too dangerous.”

“Really?” Tracy was beginning to enjoy the conversation.

It was a relief to be herself, to stop playacting. The Greeks had the right word for it, Tracy thought. Hypocrite was from the Greek word for “actor.”

“Listen to me, Tracy.” Jeff's tone was serious. “Don't try this. First of all, you'd never get through the grounds alive. A killer guard dog is let loose at night.”