If Tomorrow Comes (23 page)

Jeff was on the way to his stateroom when he encountered one of the ship’s officers.

“Good show, Mr. Stevens. The word about the match has already gone out over the wireless. I imagine the press will be meeting you both at Southampton. Are you Miss Whitney’s manager?”

“No, we’re just shipboard acquaintances,” Jeff said easily, but his mind was racing. If he and Tracy were linked together, it would look like a setup. There could even be an investigation. He decided to collect the money before any suspicions were aroused.

Jeff wrote a note to Tracy.
HAVE PICKED UP MONEY AND WILL MEET YOU FOR A CELEBRATION BREAKFAST AT THE SAVOY HOTEL. YOU WERE MAGNIFICENT. JEFF
. He sealed it in an envelope and handed it to a steward. “Please see that Miss Whitney gets this first thing in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeff headed for the purser’s office.

“Sorry to bother you,” Jeff apologized, “but we’ll be docking in a few hours, and I know how busy you’re going to be, so I wondered whether you’d mind paying me off now?”

“No trouble at all,” the purser smiled. “Your young lady is really wizard, isn’t she?”

“She certainly is.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Stevens, where in the world did she learn to play chess like that?”

Jeff leaned close and confided, “I heard she studied with Bobby Fischer.”

The purser took two large manila envelopes out of the safe. “This is a lot of cash to carry around. Would you like me to give you a check for this amount?”

“No, don’t bother. The cash will be fine,” Jeff assured him. “I wonder if you could do me a favor? The mail boat comes out to meet the ship before it docks, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. We’re expecting it at six
A.M.
”

“I’d appreciate it if you could arrange for me to leave on the mail boat. My mother is seriously ill, and I’d like to get to her before it’s”—his voice dropped—“before it’s too late.”

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Stevens. Of course I can handle that for you. I’ll make the arrangements with customs.”

At 6:15
A.M.
Jeff Stevens, with the two envelopes carefully stashed away in his suitcase, climbed down the ship’s ladder into the mail boat. He turned to take one last look at the outline of the huge ship towering above him. The passengers on the liner were sound asleep. Jeff would be on the dock long before the
QE II
landed. “It was a beautiful voyage,” Jeff said to one of the crewmen on the mail boat.

“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” a voice agreed.

Jeff turned around. Tracy was seated on a coil of rope, her hair blowing softly around her face.

“Tracy! What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

He saw the expression on her face. “Wait a minute! You didn’t think I was going to run out on you?”

“Why would I think that?” Her tone was bitter.

“Tracy, I left a note for you. I was going to meet you at the Savoy and—”

“Of course you were,” she said cuttingly. “You never give up, do you?”

He looked at her, and there was nothing more for him to say.

In Tracy’s suite at the Savoy, she watched carefully as Jeff counted out the money. “Your share comes to one hundred and one thousand dollars.”

“Thank you.” Her tone was icy.

Jeff said, “You know, you’re wrong about me, Tracy. I wish you’d give me a chance to explain. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock.”

When Jeff Stevens arrived at the hotel that evening and asked for Tracy, the room clerk said, “I’m sorry, sir. Miss Whitney checked out early this afternoon. She left no forwarding address.”

It was the handwritten invitation. Tracy decided later, that changed her life.

After collecting her share of the money from Jeff Stevens, Tracy checked out of the Savoy and moved into 47 Park Street, a quiet, semiresidential hotel with large, pleasant rooms and superb service.

On her second day in London the invitation was delivered to her suite by the hall porter. It was written in a fine, copperplate handwriting: “A mutual friend has suggested that it might be advantageous for us to become acquainted. Won’t you join me for tea at the Ritz this afternoon at 4:00? If you will forgive the cliché, I will be wearing a red carnation.” It was signed “Gunther Hartog.”

Tracy had never heard of him. Her first inclination was to ignore the note, but her curiosity got the better of her, and at 4:15 she was at the entrance of the elegant dining hall of the Ritz Hotel. She noticed him immediately. He was in his sixties, Tracy guessed, an interesting-looking man with a lean, intellectual face. His skin was smooth and clear, almost translucent.
He was dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit and wore a red carnation in his lapel.

As Tracy walked toward his table, he rose and bowed slightly. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

He seated her with an old-fashioned gallantry that Tracy found attractive. He seemed to belong to another world. Tracy could not imagine what on earth he wanted with her.

“I came because I was curious,” Tracy confessed, “but are you sure you haven’t confused me with some other Tracy Whitney?”

Gunther Hartog smiled. “From what I have heard, there is only one Tracy Whitney.”

“What exactly have you heard?”

“Shall we discuss that over tea?”

Tea consisted of finger sandwiches, filled with chopped egg, salmon, cucumber, watercress, and chicken. There were hot scones with clotted cream and jam, and freshly made pastries, accompanied by Twinings tea. As they ate, they talked.

“Your note mentioned a mutual friend,” Tracy began.

“Conrad Morgan. I do business with him from time to time.”

I did business with him once
, Tracy thought grimly.
And he tried to cheat me
.

“He’s a great admirer of yours,” Gunther Hartog was saying.

Tracy looked at her host more closely. He had the bearing of an aristocrat and the look of wealth.
What does he want with me?
Tracy wondered again. She decided to let him pursue the subject, but there was no further mention of Conrad Morgan or of what possible mutual benefit there could be between Gunther Hartog and Tracy Whitney.

Tracy found the meeting enjoyable and intriguing. Gunther told her about his background. “I was born in Munich. My father was a banker. He was wealthy, and I’m afraid I grew up rather spoiled, surrounded by beautiful paintings and antiques. My mother was Jewish, and when Hitler came to power, my father refused to desert my mother, and so he was stripped of everything. They were both killed in the bombings. Friends smuggled me out of Germany to Switzerland, and when the war was over, I decided not to return to Germany. I moved
to London and opened a small antique shop on Mount Street. I hope that you will visit it one day.”

That’s what this is all about
, Tracy thought in surprise.
He wants to sell me something
.

As it turned out, she was wrong.

As Gunther Hartog was paying the check, he said, casually, “I have a little country house in Hampshire. I’m having a few friends down for the weekend, and I’d be delighted if you would join us.”

Tracy hesitated. The man was a complete stranger, and she still had no idea what he wanted from her. She decided she had nothing to lose.

The weekend turned out to be fascinating. Gunther Hartog’s “little country house” was a beautiful seventeenth-century manor home on a thirty-acre estate. Gunther was a widower, and except for his servants, he lived alone. He took Tracy on a tour of the grounds. There was a barn stabling half a dozen horses, and a yard where he raised chickens and pigs.

“That’s so we’ll never go hungry,” he said gravely. “Now, let me show you my real hobby.”

He led Tracy to a cote full of pigeons. “These are homing pigeons.” Gunther’s voice was filled with pride. “Look at these little beauties. See that slate-gray one over there? That’s Margo.” He picked her up and held her. “You really are a dreadful girl, do you know that? She bullies the others, but she’s the brightest.” He gently smoothed the feathers over the small head and carefully set her down.

The colors of the birds were spectacular: There was a variety of blue-black, blue-gray with checked patterns, and silver.

“But no white ones,” Tracy noticed.

“Homing pigeons are never white,” Gunther explained, “because white feathers come off too easily, and when pigeons are homing, they fly at an average of forty miles an hour.”

Tracy watched Gunther as he fed the birds a special racing feed with added vitamins.

“They are an amazing species,” Gunther said. “Do you
know they can find their way home from over five hundred miles away?”

“That’s fascinating.”

The guests were equally fascinating. There was a cabinet minister, with his wife; an earl; a general and his girl friend; and the Maharani of Morvi, a very attractive, friendly young woman. “Please call me V.J.,” she said, in an almost unaccented voice. She wore a deep-red sari shot with golden threads, and the most beautiful jewels Tracy had ever seen.

“I keep most of my jewelry in a vault,” V.J. explained. “There are so many robberies these days.”

On Sunday afternoon, shortly before Tracy was to return to London, Gunther invited her into his study. They sat across from each other over a tea tray. As Tracy poured the tea into the wafer-thin Belleek cups, she said, “I don’t know why you invited me here, Gunther, but whatever the reason, I’ve had a wonderful time.”

“I’m pleased, Tracy.” Then, after a moment, he continued. “I’ve been observing you.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any plans for the future?”

She hesitated. “No. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.”

“I think we could work well together.”

“You mean in your antique shop?”

He laughed. “No, my dear. It would be a shame to waste your talents. You see, I know about your escapade with Conrad Morgan. You handled it brilliantly.”

“Gunther…all that’s behind me.”

“But what’s ahead of you? You said you have no plans. You must think about your future. Whatever money you have is surely going to run out one day. I’m suggesting a partnership. I travel in very affluent, international circles. I attend charity balls and hunting parties and yachting parties. I know the comings and goings of the rich.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me—”

“I can introduce you into that golden circle. And I do mean golden, Tracy. I can supply you with information about fabulous
jewels and paintings, and how you can safely acquire them. I can dispose of them privately. You would be balancing the ledgers of people who have become wealthy at the expense of others. Everything would be divided evenly between us. What do you say?”

“I say no.”

He studied her thoughtfully. “I see. You will call me if you change your mind?”

“I won’t change my mind, Gunther.”

Late that afternoon Tracy returned to London.

Tracy adored London. She dined at Le Gavroche and Bill Bentley’s and Coin du Feu, and went to Drones after the theater, for real American hamburgers and hot chili. She went to the National Theatre and the Royal Opera House and attended auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. She shopped at Harrods, and Fortnum and Mason’s, and browsed for books at Hatchards and Foyles, and W. H. Smith. She hired a car and driver and spent a memorable weekend at the Chewton Glen Hotel in Hampshire, on the fringe of the New Forest, where the setting was spectacular and the service impeccable.

But all these things were expensive.
Whatever money you have is sure to run out some day
. Gunther Hartog was right. Her money was not going to last forever, and Tracy realized she would have to make plans for the future.

She was invited back for more weekends at Gunther’s country home, and she thoroughly enjoyed each visit and delighted in Gunther’s company.

One Sunday evening at dinner a member of Parliament turned to Tracy and said, “I’ve never met a real Texan, Miss Whitney. What are they like?”

Tracy went into a wicked imitation of a nouveau riche Texas dowager and had the company roaring with laughter.

Later, when Tracy and Gunther were alone, he asked, “How would you like to make a small fortune doing that imitation?”

“I’m not an actress, Gunther.”

“You underestimate yourself. There’s a jewelry firm in London—Parker and Parker—that takes a delight in—as you
Americans would say—ripping off their customers. You’ve given me an idea how to make them pay for their dishonesty.” He told Tracy his idea.

“No,” Tracy said. But the more she thought about it, the more intrigued she was. She remembered the excitement of outwitting the police in Long Island, and Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco, and Jeff Stevens. It had been a thrill that was indescribable. Still, that was part of the past.

“No, Gunther,” she said again. But this time there was less certainty in her voice.

London was unseasonably warm for October, and Englishmen and tourists alike took advantage of the bright sunshine. The noon traffic was heavy with tie-ups at Trafalgar Square, Charing Cross, and Piccadilly Circus. A white Daimler turned off Oxford Street to New Bond Street and threaded its way through the traffic, passing Roland Cartier, Geigers, and the Royal Bank of Scotland. A few doors farther on, it coasted to a stop in front of a jewelry store. A discreet, polished sign at the side of the door read:
PARKER
&
PARKER
. A liveried chauffeur stepped out of the limousine and hurried around to open the rear door for his passenger. A young woman with blond Sassoon-ed hair, wearing far too much makeup and a tight-fitting Italian knit dress under a sable coat, totally inappropriate for the weather, jumped out of the car.

“Which way’s the joint, junior?” she asked. Her voice was loud, with a grating Texas accent.

The chauffeur indicated the entrance. “There, madame.”

“Okay, honey. Stick around. This ain’t gonna take long.”

“I may have to circle the block, madame. I won’t be permitted to park here.”

She clapped him on the back and said, “You do what you gotta do, sport.”

Sport!
The chauffeur winced. It was his punishment for being reduced to chauffeuring rental cars. He disliked all Americans, particularly Texans. They were savages; but savages with money. He would have been astonished to learn that his passenger had never even seen the Lone Star State.

Tracy checked her reflection in the display window, smiled
broadly, and strutted toward the door, which was opened by a uniformed attendant.

“Good afternoon, madame.”

“Afternoon, sport. You sell anythin’ besides costume jewelry in this joint?” She chuckled at her joke.

The doorman blanched. Tracy swept into the store, trailing an overpowering scent of Chloé behind her.

Arthur Chilton, a salesman in a morning coat, moved toward her. “May I help you, madame?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Old P.J. told me to buy myself a little birthday present, so here I am. Whatcha got?”

“Is there something in particular Madame is interested in?”

“Hey, pardner, you English fellows are fast workers, ain’cha?” She laughed raucously and clapped him on the shoulder. He forced himself to remain impassive. “Mebbe somethin’ in emeralds. Old P.J. loves to buy me emeralds.”

“If you’ll step this way, please…”

Chilton led her to a vitrine where several trays of emeralds were displayed.

The bleached blonde gave them one disdainful glance. “These’re the babies. Where are the mamas and papas?”

Chilton said stiffly, “These range in price up to thirty thousand dollars.”

“Hell, I tip my hairdresser that.” The woman guffawed. “Old P.J. would be insulted if I came back with one of them little pebbles.”

Chilton visualized old P.J. Fat and paunchy and as loud and obnoxious as this woman. They deserved each other.
Why did money always flow to the undeserving?
he wondered.

“What price range was Madame interested in?”

“Why don’t we start with somethin’ around a hundred G’s.”

He looked blank. “A hundred
G’s
?”

“Hell, I thought you people was supposed to speak the king’s English. A hundred grand. A hundred thou.”

He swallowed. “Oh. In that case, perhaps it would be better if you spoke with our managing director.”

The managing director, Gregory Halston, insisted on personally handling all large sales, and since the employees of Parker & Parker received no commission, it made no difference
to them. With a customer as distasteful as this one, Chilton was relieved to let Halston deal with her. Chilton pressed a button under the counter, and a moment later a pale, reedy-looking man bustled out of a back room. He took a look at the outrageously dressed blonde and prayed that none of his regular customers appeared until the woman had departed.

Chilton said, “Mr. Halston, this is Mrs…er…?” He turned to the woman.

“Benecke, honey. Mary Lou Benecke. Old P.J. Benecke’s wife. Betcha you all have heard of P.J. Benecke.”

“Of course.” Gregory Halston gave her a smile that barely touched his lips.

“Mrs. Benecke is interested in purchasing an emerald, Mr. Halston.”

Gregory Halston indicated the trays of emeralds. “We have some fine emeralds here that—”

“She wanted something for approximately a hundred thousand dollars.”

This time the smile that lit Gregory Halston’s face was genuine. What a nice way to start the day.

“You see, it’s my birthday, and old P.J. wants me to buy myself somethin’ pretty.”

“Indeed,” Halston said. “Would you follow me, please?”

“You little rascal, what you got in mind?” The blonde giggled.

Halston and Chilton exchanged a pained look.
Bloody Americans!