If Tomorrow Comes (30 page)

“Trouble? No. Why?”

“I want you to go back to the same bank,” Grangier ordered. “This is what I want you to say…”

Adolf Zuckerman walked into the lobby of the Banque de France and approached the desk where the bank manager sat.
This time Zuckerman was aware of the danger he was in, but he preferred facing that than Grangier’s wrath.

“May I help you?” the manager asked.

“Yes.” He tried to conceal his nervousness. “You see, I got into a poker game last night with some Americans I met at a bar.” He stopped.

The bank manager nodded wisely. “And you lost your money and perhaps wish to make a loan?”

“No,” Zuckerman said. “As—as a matter of fact, I won. The only thing is, the men didn’t look quite honest to me.” He pulled out two $100 bills. “They paid me with these, and I’m afraid they—they might be counterfeit.”

Zuckerman held his breath as the bank manager leaned forward and took the bills in his pudgy hands. He examined them carefully, first one side and then the other, then held them up to the light.

He looked at Zuckerman and smiled. “You were lucky, monsieur. These bills are genuine.”

Zuckerman allowed himself to exhale.
Thank God!
Everything was going to be all right.

“No problem at all, chief. He said they were genuine.”

It was almost too good to be true. Armand Grangier sat there thinking, a plan already half-formed in his mind.

“Go get the baroness.”

Tracy was seated in Armand Grangier’s office, facing him across his Empire desk.

“You and I are going to be partners,” Grangier informed her.

Tracy started to rise. “I don’t need a partner and—”

“Sit down.”

She looked into Grangier’s eyes and sat down.

“Biarritz is my town. You try to pass a single one of those bills and you’ll get arrested so fast you won’t know what hit you.
Comprenez-vous?
Bad things happen to pretty ladies in our jails. You can’t make a move here without me.”

She studied him. “So what I’m buying from you is protection?”

“Wrong. What you’re buying from me is your life.”

Tracy believed him.

“Now, tell me where you got your printing press.”

Tracy hesitated, and Grangier enjoyed her squirming. He watched her surrender.

She said reluctantly, “I bought it from an American living in Switzerland. He was an engraver with the U.S. Mint for twenty-five years, and when they retired him there was some technical problem about his pension and he never received it. He felt cheated and decided to get even, so he smuggled out some hundred-dollar plates that were supposed to have been destroyed and used his contacts to get the paper that the Treasury Department prints its money on.”

That explains it
, Grangier thought triumphantly.
That is why the bills look so good
. His excitement grew. “How much money can that press turn out in a day?”

“Only one bill an hour. Each side of the paper has to be processed and—”

He interrupted. “Isn’t there a larger press?”

“Yes, he has one that will turn out fifty bills every eight hours—five thousand dollars a day—but he wants half a million dollars for it.”

“Buy it,” Grangier said.

“I don’t have five hundred thousand dollars.”

“I do. How soon can you get hold of the press?”

She said reluctantly, “Now, I suppose, but I don’t—”

Grangier picked up the telephone and spoke into it. “Louis, I want five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of French francs. Take what we have from the safe and get the rest from the banks. Bring it to my office.
Vite!
”

Tracy stood up nervously. “I’d better go and—”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“I really should—”

“Just sit there and keep quiet. I’m thinking.”

He had business associates who would expect to be cut in on this deal,
but what they don’t know won’t hurt them
, Grangier decided. He would buy the large press for himself and replace what he borrowed from the casino’s bank account with money he would print. After that, he would tell Bruno Vicente
to handle the woman. She did not like partners.

Well, neither did Armand Grangier.

Two hours later the money arrived in a large sack. Grangier said to Tracy, “You’re checking out of the Palais. I have a house up in the hills that’s very private. You will stay there until we set up the operation.” He pushed the phone toward her. “Now, call your friend in Switzerland and tell him you’re buying the big press.”

“I have his phone number at the hotel. I’ll call from there. Give me the address of your house, and I’ll tell him to ship the press there and—”

“
Non!
” Grangier snapped. “I don’t want to leave a trail. I’ll have it picked up at the airport. We will talk about it at dinner tonight. I’ll see you at eight o’clock.”

It was a dismissal. Tracy rose to her feet.

Grangier nodded toward the sack. “Be careful with the money. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it—or to you.”

“Nothing will,” Tracy assured him.

He smiled lazily. “I know. Professor Zuckerman is going to escort you to your hotel.”

The two of them rode in the limousine in silence, the money bag between them, each busy with his own thoughts. Zuckerman was not exactly sure what was happening, but he sensed it was going to be very good for him. The woman was the key. Grangier had ordered him to keep an eye on her, and Zuckerman intended to do that.

Armand Grangier was in a euphoric mood that evening. By now, the large printing press would have been arranged for. The Whitney woman had said it would print $5,000 a day, but Grangier had a better plan. He intended to work the press on twenty-four hour shifts. That would bring it to $15,000 a day, more than $100,000 a week, $1 million every ten weeks. And that was just the beginning. Tonight he would learn who the engraver was and make a deal with him for more machines. There was no limit to the fortune it would make him.

At precisely 8:00, Grangier’s limousine pulled into the sweeping curve of the driveway of the Hôtel du Palais, and
Grangier stepped out of the car. As he walked into the lobby, he noticed with satisfaction that Zuckerman was seated near the entrance, keeping a watchful eye on the doors.

Grangier walked over to the desk. “Jules, tell the Baroness de Chantilly I am here. Have her come down to the lobby.”

The concierge looked up and said, “But the baroness has checked out, Monsieur Grangier.”

“You’re mistaken. Call her.”

Jules Bergerac was distressed. It was unhealthy to contradict Armand Grangier. “I checked her out myself.”

Impossible.
“When?”

“Shortly after she returned to the hotel. She asked me to bring her bill to her suite so she could settle it in cash—”

Armand Grangier’s mind was racing. “In cash? French francs?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, monsieur.”

Grangier asked frantically, “Did she take anything out of her suite? Any baggage or boxes?”

“No. She said she would send for her luggage later.”

So she had taken his money and gone to Switzerland to make her own deal for the large printing press.

“Take me to her suite. Quickly!”

“Oui, Monsieur Grangier.”

Jules Bergerac grabbed a key from a rack and raced with Armand Grangier toward the elevator.

As Grangier passed Zuckerman, he hissed, “Why are you sitting there, you idiot? She’s gone.”

Zuckerman looked up at him uncomprehendingly. “She can’t be gone. She hasn’t come down to the lobby. I’ve been watching for her.”

“Watching for her,”
Grangier mimicked. “Have you been watching for a nurse—a gray-haired old lady—a maid going out the service door?”

Zuckerman was bewildered. “Why would I do that?”

“Get back to the casino,” Grangier snapped. “I’ll deal with you later.”

The suite looked exactly the same as when Grangier had seen it last. The connecting door to the adjoining room was open. Grangier stepped in and hurried over to the closet and yanked
open the door. The printing press was still there, thank God! The Whitney woman had left in too big a hurry to take it with her. That was her mistake.
And it is not her only mistake
, Grangier thought. She had cheated him out of $500,000, and he was going to pay her back with a vengeance. He would let the police help him find her and put her in jail, where his men could get at her. They would make her tell who the engraver was and then shut her up for good.

Armand Grangier dialed the number of police headquarters and asked to talk to Inspector Dumont. He spoke earnestly into the phone for three minutes and then said, “I’ll wait here.”

Fifteen minutes later his friend the inspector arrived, accompanied by a man with an epicene figure and one of the most unattractive faces Grangier had ever seen. His forehead looked ready to burst out of his face, and his brown eyes, almost hidden behind thick spectacles, had the piercing look of a fanatic.

“This is Monsieur Daniel Cooper,” Inspector Dumont said. “Monsieur Grangier. Mr. Cooper is also interested in the woman you telephoned me about.”

Cooper spoke up. “You mentioned to Inspector Dumont that she’s involved in a counterfeiting operation.”

“
Vraiment
. She is on her way to Switzerland at this moment. You can pick her up at the border. I have all the evidence you need right here.”

He led them to the closet, and Daniel Cooper and Inspector Dumont looked inside.

“There is the press she printed her money on.”

Daniel Cooper walked over to the machine and examined it carefully. “She printed the money on this press?”

“I just told you so,” Grangier snapped. He took a bill from his pocket. “Look at this. It is one of the counterfeit hundred-dollar bills she gave me.”

Cooper walked over to the window and held the bill up to the light. “This is a genuine bill.”

“It only
looks
like one. That is because she used stolen plates she bought from an engraver who once worked at the Mint in Philadelphia. She printed these bills on this press.”

Cooper said rudely “You’re stupid. This is an ordinary
printing press. The only thing you could print on this is letterheads.”

“Letterheads?” The room was beginning to spin.

“You actually
believed
in the fable of a machine that turns paper into genuine hundred-dollar bills?”

“I tell you I saw with my own eyes—” Grangier stopped. What had he seen? Some wet hundred-dollar bills strung up to dry, some blank paper, and a paper cutter. The enormity of the swindle began to dawn on him. There
was
no counterfeiting operation, no engraver waiting in Switzerland. Tracy Whitney had never fallen for the sunken-treasure story. The bitch had used his own scheme as the bait to swindle him out of half a million dollars. If the word of this got out…

The two men were watching him.

“Do you wish to press charges of some kind, Armand?” Inspector Dumont asked.

How could he? What could he say? That he had been cheated while trying to finance a counterfeiting operation? And what were his associates going to do to him when they learned he had stolen half a million dollars of their money and given it away? He was filled with sudden dread.

“No. I—I don’t wish to press charges.” There was panic in his voice.

Africa
, Armand Grangier thought.
They’ll never find me in Africa
.

Daniel Cooper was thinking,
Next time. I’ll get her next time
.

It was Tracy who suggested to Gunther Hartog that they meet in Majorca. Tracy loved the island. It was one of the truly picturesque places in the world. “Besides,” she told Gunther, “it was once the refuge of pirates. We’ll feel right at home there.”

“It might be best if we are not seen together,” he suggested.

“I’ll arrange it.”

It had started with Gunther’s phone call from London. “I have something for you that is quite out of the ordinary, Tracy. I think you’ll find it a real challenge.”

The following morning Tracy flew to Palma, Majorca’s capital. Because of Interpol’s red
circulation
on Tracy, her departure from Biarritz and her arrival in Majorca were reported to the local authorities. When Tracy checked into the Royal Suite at the Son Vida Hotel, a surveillance team was set up on a twenty-four-hour basis.

Police Commandant Ernesto Marze at Palma had spoken with Inspector Trignant at Interpol.

“I am convinced,” Trignant said, “that Tracy Whitney is a one-woman crime wave.”

“All the worse for her. If she commits a crime in Majorca, she will find that our justice is swift.”

Inspector Trignant said, “Monsieur, there is one other thing I should mention.”

“Sí?”

“You will be having an American visitor. His name is Daniel Cooper.”

It seemed to the detectives trailing Tracy that she was interested only in sightseeing. They followed her as she toured the island, visiting the cloister of San Francisco and the colorful Bellver Castle and the beach at Illetas. She attended a bullfight in Palma and dined on
sobrasadas
and
camaiot
in the Plaza de la Reine; and she was always alone.

She took trips to Formentor and Valldemosa and La Granja, and visited the pearl factories at Manacor.

“
Nada
,” the detectives reported to Ernesto Marze. “She is here as a tourist, Commandant.”

The commandant’s secretary came into the office. “There is an American here to see you. Señor Daniel Cooper.”

Commandant Marze had many American friends. He liked Americans, and he had the feeling that despite what Inspector Trignant had said, he was going to like this Daniel Cooper.

He was wrong.

“You’re idiots. All of you,” Daniel Cooper snapped. “Of
course
she’s not here as a tourist. She’s after something.”

Commandant Marze barely managed to hold his temper in check. “Señor, you yourself have said that Miss Whitney’s targets are always something spectacular, that she enjoys doing the impossible. I have checked carefully, Señor Cooper. There is nothing in Majorca that is worthy of attracting Señorita Whitney’s talents.”

“Has she met anyone here…talked to anyone?”

The insolent tone of the
ojete
! “No. No one.”

“Then she will,” Daniel Cooper said flatly.

I finally know
, Commandant Marze told himself,
what they mean by the Ugly American
.

There are two hundred known caves in Majorca, but the most exciting is the Cuevas del Drach, the “Caves of the Dragon,” near Porto Cristo, an hour’s journey from Palma. The ancient caves go deep into the ground, enormous vaulted caverns carved with stalagmites and stalactites, tomb-silent except for the occasional rush of meandering, underground streams, with the water turning green or blue or white, each color denoting the extent of the tremendous depths.

The caves are a fairyland of pale-ivory architecture, a seemingly endless series of labyrinths, dimly lit by strategically placed torches.

No one is permitted inside the caves without a guide, but from the moment the caves are opened to the public in the morning, they are filled with tourists.

Tracy chose Saturday to visit the caves, when they were most crowded, packed with hundreds of tourists from countries all over the world. She bought her ticket at the small counter and disappeared into the crowd. Daniel Cooper and two of Commandant Marze’s men were close behind her. A guide led the excursionists along narrow stone paths, made slippery by the dripping water from the stalactites above, pointing downward like accusing skeletal fingers.

There were alcoves where the visitors could step off the paths to stop and admire the calcium formations that looked like huge birds and strange animals and trees. There were pools of darkness along the dimly lit paths, and it was into one of these that Tracy disappeared.

Daniel Cooper hurried forward, but she was nowhere in sight. The press of the crowd moving down the steps made it impossible to locate her. He had no way of knowing whether she was ahead of him or behind him.
She is planning something here
, Cooper told himself.
But how? Where? What?

In an arena-sized grotto at the lowest point in the caves, facing the Great Lake, is a Roman theater. Tiers of stone benches have been built to accommodate the audiences that come to watch the spectacle staged every hour, and the sightseers
take their seats in darkness, waiting for the show to begin.

Tracy counted her way up to the tenth tier and moved in twenty seats. The man in the twenty-first seat turned to her. “Any problem?”

“None, Gunther.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

He said something, and she had to lean closer to hear him above the babel of voices surrounding them.

“I thought it best that we not be seen together, in case you’re being followed.”

Tracy glanced around at the huge, packed black cavern. “We’re safe here.” She looked at him, curious. “It must be important.”

“It is.” He leaned closer to her. “A wealthy client is eager to acquire a certain painting. It’s a Goya, called
Puerto.
He’ll pay whoever can obtain it for him half a million dollars in cash. That’s above my commission.”

Tracy was thoughtful. “Are there others trying?”

“Frankly, yes. In my opinion, the chances of success are limited.”

“Where is the painting?”

“In the Prado Museum in Madrid.”

“The Prado!”
The word that flashed through Tracy’s mind was
impossible
.

He was leaning very close, speaking into her ear, ignoring the chattering going on around them as the arena filled up. “This will take a great deal of ingenuity. That is why I thought of you, my dear Tracy.”

“I’m flattered,” Tracy said. “Half a million dollars?”

“Free and clear.”

The show began, and there was a sudden hush. Slowly, invisible bulbs began to glow and music filled the enormous cavern. The center of the stage was a large lake in front of the seated audience, and on it, from behind a stalagmite, a gondola appeared, lighted by hidden spotlights. An organist was in the boat, filling the air with a melodic serenade that echoed across the water. The spectators watched, rapt, as the colored
lights rainbowed the darkness, and the boat slowly crossed the lake and finally disappeared, as the music faded.

“Fantastic,” Gunther said. “It was worth traveling here just to see this.”

“I love traveling,” Tracy said. “And do you know what city I’ve always wanted to see, Gunther? Madrid.”

Standing at the exit to the caves, Daniel Cooper watched Tracy Whitney come out.

She was alone.