If Tomorrow Comes (29 page)

Tracy found herself saying yes.

They dined at a little restaurant in the town square, where they had a local wine and
confit de canard à I’ail
—roast duck simmered in its own juices with roasted potatoes and garlic. It was delicious.

“The specialty of the house,” Jeff informed Tracy.

They discussed politics and books and travel, and Tracy found Jeff surprisingly knowledgeable.

“When you’re on your own at fourteen,” Jeff told her, “you pick up things fast. First you learn what motivates you, then you learn what motivates other people. A con game is similar to ju jitsu. In ju jitsu you use your opponent’s strength to win.
In a con game, you use his greed. You make the first move, and he does the rest of your work for you.”

Tracy smiled, wondering if Jeff had any idea how much alike they were. She enjoyed being with him, but she was sure that given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to double-cross her. He was a man to be careful of, and that she intended to be.

The fronton where pelota was played was a large outdoor arena the size of a football field, high in the hills of Biarritz. There were huge green concrete backboards at either end of the court, and a playing area in the center, with four tiers of stone benches on both sides of the field. At dusk, floodlights were turned on. When Tracy and Jeff arrived, the stands were almost full, crowded with fans, as the two teams went into action.

Members of each team took turns slamming the ball into the concrete wall and catching it on the rebound in their cestas, the long, narrow baskets strapped to their arms. Pelota was a fast, dangerous game.

When one of the players missed the ball, the crowd screamed.

“They really take this very seriously,” Tracy commented.

“A lot of money is bet on these games. The Basques are a gambling race.”

As spectators kept filing in, the benches became more crowded, and Tracy found herself being pressed against Jeff. If he was aware of her body against his, he gave no sign of it.

The pace and ferocity of the game seemed to intensify as the minutes passed, and the screams of the fans kept echoing through the night.

“Is it as dangerous as it looks?” Tracy asked.

“Baroness, that ball travels through the air at almost a hundred miles an hour. If you get hit in the head, you’re dead. But it’s rare for a player to miss.” He patted her hand absently, his eyes glued to the action.

The players were experts, moving gracefully, in perfect control. But in the middle of the game, without warning, one
of the players hurled the ball at the backboard at the wrong angle, and the lethal ball came hurtling straight toward the bench where Tracy and Jeff sat. The spectators scrambled for cover. Jeff grabbed Tracy and shoved her to the ground, his body covering hers. They heard the sound of the ball sailing directly over their heads and smashing into the side wall. Tracy lay on the ground, feeling the hardness of Jeff’s body. His face was very close to hers.

He held her a moment, then lifted himself up and pulled her to her feet. There was a sudden awkwardness between them.

“I—I think I’ve had enough excitement for one evening,” Tracy said. “I’d like to go back to the hotel, please.”

They said good-night in the lobby.

“I enjoyed this evening,” Tracy told Jeff. She meant it.

“Tracy, you’re not really going ahead with Zuckerman’s crazy sunken-treasure scheme, are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

He studied her for a long moment “You still think I’m after that gold, don’t you?”

She looked him in the eye. “Aren’t you?”

His expression hardened. “Good luck ”

“Good night, Jeff.”

Tracy watched him turn and walk out of the hotel. She supposed he was on his way to see Suzanne.
Poor woman
.

The concierge said, “Ah, good evening, Baroness. There is a message for you.”

It was from Professor Zuckerman.

Adolf Zuckerman had a problem. A very large problem. He was seated in the office of Armand Grangier, and Zuckerman was so terrified of what was happening that he discovered he had wet his pants. Grangier was the owner of an illegal private casino located in an elegant private villa at 123 Rue de Frias. It made no difference to Grangier whether the Casino Municipal was closed or not, for the club at Rue de Frias was always filled with wealthy patrons. Unlike the government-supervised casinos, bets there were unlimited, and that was where the high rollers came to play roulette, chemin de fer, and craps. Grangier’s customers included Arab princes, English nobility,
Oriental businessmen, African heads of state. Scantily clad young ladies circulated around the room taking orders for complimentary champagne and whiskey, for Armand Grangier had learned long before that, more than any other class of people, the rich appreciated getting something for nothing. Grangier could afford to give drinks away. His roulette wheels and his card games were rigged.

The club was usually filled with beautiful young women escorted by older gentlemen with money, and sooner or later the women were drawn to Grangier. He was a miniature of a man, with perfect features, liquid brown eyes, and a soft, sensual mouth. He stood five feet four inches, and the combination of his looks and his small stature drew women like a magnet. Grangier treated each one with feigned admiration.

“I find you irresistible,
chérie
, but unfortunately for both of us, I am madly in love with someone.”

And it was true. Of course, that
someone
changed from week to week, for in Biarritz there was an endless supply of beautiful young men, and Armand Grangier gave each one his brief place in the sun.

Grangier’s connections with the underworld and the police were powerful enough for him to maintain his casino. He had worked his way up from being a ticket runner for the mob to running drugs, and finally, to ruling his own little fiefdom in Biarritz; those who opposed him found out too late how deadly the little man could be.

Now Adolf Zuckerman was being cross-examined by Armand Grangier.

“Tell me more about this baroness you talked into the sunken-treasure scheme.”

From the furious tone of his voice, Zuckerman knew that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

He swallowed and said, “Well, she’s a widow whose husband left her a lot of money, and she said she’s going to come up with a hundred thousand dollars.” The sound of his own voice gave him confidence to go on: “Once we get the money, of course, we’ll tell her that the salvage ship had an accident and that we need another fifty thousand. Then it’ll be another hundred thousand, and—you know—just like always.”

He saw the look of contempt on Armand Grangier’s face. “What’s—what’s the problem, chief?”

“The problem,” said Grangier in a steely tone, “is that I just received a call from one of my boys in Paris. He forged a passport for your baroness. Her name is Tracy Whitney, and she’s an American.”

Zuckerman’s mouth was suddenly dry. He licked his lips. “She—she really seemed interested, chief.”

“
Balle! Conneau!
She’s a con artist. You tried to pull a swindle on a swindler!”

“Then w-why did she say yes? Why didn’t she just turn it down?”

Armand Grangier’s voice was icy. “I don’t know, Professor, but I intend to find out. And when I do, I’m sending the lady for a swim in the bay. Nobody can make a fool out of Armand Grangier. Now, pick up that phone. Tell her a friend of yours has offered to put up half the money, and that I’m on my way over to see her. Do you think you can handle that?”

Zuckerman said eagerly, “Sure, chief. Not to worry.”

“I do worry,” Armand Grangier said slowly. “I worry a lot about you, Professor.”

Armand Grangier did not like mysteries. The sunken-treasure game had been worked for centuries, but the victims had to be gullible. There was simply no way a con artist would ever fall for it. That was the mystery that bothered Grangier, and he intended to solve it; and when he had the answer, the woman would be turned over to Bruno Vicente. Vicente enjoyed playing games with his victims before disposing of them.

Armand Grangier stepped out of the limousine as it stopped in front of the Hôtel du Palais, walked into the lobby, and approached Jules Bergerac, the white-haired Basque who had worked at the hotel from the age of thirteen.

“What’s the number of the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly’s suite?”

There was a strict rule that desk clerks not divulge the room numbers of guests, but rules did not apply to Armand Grangier.

“Suite three-twelve, Monsieur Grangier.”

“
Merci.
”

“And Room three-eleven.”

Grangier stopped. “What?”

“The countess also has a room adjoining her suite.”

“Oh? Who occupies it?”

“No one.”

“No one? Are you sure?”

“
Oui, monsieur
. She keeps it locked. The maids have been ordered to keep out.”

A puzzled frown appeared on Grangier’s face. “You have a passkey?”

“Of course.” Without an instant’s hesitation, the concierge reached under the desk for a passkey and handed it to Armand Grangier. Jules watched as Armand Grangier walked to-ward the elevator. One never argued with a man like Grangier.

When Armand Grangier reached the door of the baroness’s suite, he found it ajar. He pushed it open and entered. The living room was deserted. “Hello. Anyone here?”

A feminine voice from another room sang out, “I’m in the bath. I’ll be with you in a minute. Please help yourself to a drink.”

Grangier wandered around the suite, familiar with its furnishings, for over the years he had arranged for many of his friends to stay in the hotel. He strolled into the bedroom. Expensive jewelry was carelessly spread out on a dressing table.

“I won’t be a minute,” the voice called out from the bathroom.

“No hurry, Baroness.”

Baroness mon cul!
he thought angrily.
Whatever little game you’re playing, chérie, is going to backfire
. He walked over to the door that connected to the adjoining room. It was locked. Grangier took out the passkey and opened the door. The room he stepped into had a musty, unused smell. The concierge had said that no one occupied it. Then why did she need—? Grangier’s eye was caught by something oddly out of place. A heavy black electrical cord attached to a wall socket snaked along the length of the floor and disappeared into a closet. The door was open just enough to allow the cord to pass through. Curious, Grangier walked over to the closet door and opened it.

A row of wet hundred-dollar bills held up by clothespins on a wire was strung across the closet, hanging out to dry. On a typewriter stand was an object covered by a drape cloth. Grangier flicked up the cloth. He uncovered a small printing press with a still-wet hundred-dollar bill in it. Next to the press were sheets of blank paper the size of American currency and a paper cutter. Several one-hundred-dollar bills that had been unevenly cut were scattered on the floor.

An angry voice behind Grangier demanded, “What are you doing in here?”

Grangier spun around. Tracy Whitney, her hair damp from the bath and wrapped in a towel, had come into the room.

Armand Grangier said softly, “
Counterfeit!
You were going to pay us off with counterfeit money.” He watched the expressions that played across her face. Denial, outrage, and then defiance.

“All right,” Tracy admitted. “But it wouldn’t have mattered. No one can tell these from the real thing.”

“
Con!
” It was going to be a pleasure to destroy this one.

“These bills are as good as gold.”

“Really?” There was contempt in Grangier’s voice. He pulled one of the wet bills from the wire and glanced at it. He looked at one side, then the other, and then examined them more closely. They were excellent. “Who cut these dies?”

“What’s the difference? Look, I can have the hundred thousand dollars ready by Friday.”

Grangier stared at her, puzzled. And when he realized what she was thinking, he laughed aloud. “Jesus,” he said. “You’re really stupid. There’s no treasure.”

Tracy was bewildered. “What do you mean, no treasure? Professor Zuckerman told me—”

“And you believed him? Shame,
Baroness.
” He studied the bill in his hand again. “I’ll take this.”

Tracy shrugged. “Take as many as you like. It’s only paper.”

Grangier grabbed a handful of the wet hundred-dollar bills. “How do you know one of the maids won’t walk in here?” he asked.

“I pay them well to keep away. And when I’m out, I lock the closet.”

She’s cool
, Armand Grangier thought.
But it’s not going to keep her alive
.

“Don’t leave the hotel,” he ordered. “I have a friend I want you to meet.”

Armand Grangier had intended to turn the woman over to Bruno Vicente immediately, but some instinct held him back. He examined one of the bills again. He had handled a lot of counterfeit money, but nothing nearly as good as this. Whoever cut the dies was a genius. The paper felt authentic, and the lines were crisp and clean. The colors remained sharp and fixed, even with the bill wet, and the picture of Benjamin Franklin was perfect. The bitch was right. It
was
hard to tell the difference between what he held in his hand and the real thing. Grangier wondered whether it would be possible to pass it off as genuine currency. It was a tempting idea.

He decided to hold off on Bruno Vicente for a while.

Early the following morning Armand Grangier sent for Zuckerman and handed him one of the hundred-dollar bills. “Go down to the bank and exchange this for francs.”

“Sure, chief.”

Grangier watched him hurry out of the office. This was Zuckerman’s punishment for his stupidity. If he was arrested, he would never tell where he got the counterfeit bill, not if he wanted to live. But if he managed to pass the bill successfully…
I’ll see
, Grangier thought.

Fifteen minutes later Zuckerman returned to the office. He counted out a hundred dollars’ worth of French francs. “Anything else, chief?”

Grangier stared at the francs. “Did you have any trouble?”