If Tomorrow Comes Page 16

  Conrad Morgan clasped his hands together, and Tracy noticed how beautifully manicured they were.

  "Poor Betty. Such a lovely lady. She was unlucky, you know."

  "Unlucky?"

  "Yes. She got caught."

  "I--I don't understand."

  "It's really quite simple, Miss Whitney. Betty used to work for me. She was well protected. Then the poor dear fell in love with a chauffeur from New Orleans and went off on her own. And, well...they caught her."

  Tracy was confused. "She worked for you here as a saleslady?"

  Conrad Morgan sat back and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. "No, my dear," he said, wiping the tears away. "Obviously, Betty didn't explain everything to you." He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "I have a very profitable little sideline, Miss Whitney, and I take great pleasure in sharing those profits with my colleagues. I have been most successful employing people like yourself--if you'll forgive me--who have served time in prison."

  Tracy studied his face, more puzzled that ever.

  "I'm in a unique position, you see. I have an extremely wealthy clientele. My clients become my friends. They confide in me." He tapped his fingers together delicately. "I know when my customers take trips. Very few people travel with jewelry in these parlous times, so their jewels are locked away at home. I recommend to them the security measures they should take to protect them. I know exactly what jewels they own because they purchased them from me. They--"

  Tracy found herself on her feet. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgan."

  "Surely you're not leaving already?"

  "If you're saying what I think you're saying--

  "Yes. Indeed, I am."

  She could feel her cheeks burning. "I'm not a criminal. I came here looking for a job."

  "And I'm offering you one, my dear. It will take an hour or two of your time, and I can promise you twenty-five thousand dollars." He smiled impishly. "Tax free, of course."

  Tracy was fighting hard to control her anger. "I'm not interested. Would you let me out, please?"

  "Certainly, if that is what you wish." He rose to his feet and showed her to the door. "You must understand, Miss Whitney, that if there were the slightest danger of anyone's being caught, I would not be involved in this. I have my reputation to protect."

  "I promise you I won't say anything about it," Tracy said coldly.

  He grinned. "There's really nothing you could say, my dear, is there? I mean, who would believe you? I am Conrad Morgan."

  As they reached the front entrance of the store, Morgan said, "You will let me know if you change your mind, won't you? The best time to telephone me is after six o'clock in the evening. I'll wait for your call."

  "Don't," Tracy said curtly, and she walked out into the approaching night. When she reached her room, she was still trembling.

  She sent the hotel's one bellboy out for a sandwich and coffee. She did not feel like facing anyone. The meeting with Conrad Morgan had made her feel unclean. He had lumped her with all the sad, confused, and beaten criminals she had been surrounded by at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. She was not one of them. She was Tracy Whitney, a computer expert, a decent, law-abiding citizen.

  Whom no one would hire.

  Tracy lay awake all night thinking about her future. She had no job, and very little money left. She made two resolutions: In the morning she would move to a cheaper place and she would find a job. Any kind of job.

  The cheaper place turned out to be a dreary fourth-floor walk-up, one-room apartment on the Lower East Side. From her room, through the paper-thin walls, Tracy could hear her neighbors screaming at one another in foreign languages. The windows and doors of the small stores that lined the streets were heavily barred, and Tracy could understand why. The neighborhood seemed to be populated by drunks, prostitutes, and bag ladies.

  On her way to the market to shop, Tracy was accosted three times--twice by men and once by a woman.

  I can stand it. I won't be here long, Tracy assured herself.

  She went to a small employment agency a few blocks from her apartment. It was run by a Mrs. Murphy, a matronly looking, heavy-set lady. She put down Tracy's resume and studied her quizzically "I don't know what you need me for. There must be a dozen companies that'd give their eyeteeth to get someone like you."

  Tracy took a deep breath. "I have a problem," she said. She explained as Mrs. Murphy sat listening quietly, and when Tracy was finished, Mrs. Murphy said flatly, "You can forget about looking for a computer job."

  "But you said--"

  "Companies are jumpy these days about computer crimes. They're not gonna hire anybody with a record."

  "But I need a job. I--"

  "There are other kinds of jobs. Have you thought about working as a saleslady?"

  Tracy remembered her experience at the department store. She could not bear to go through that again. "Is there anything else?"

  The woman hesitated. Tracy Whitney was obviously over-qualified for the job Mrs. Murphy had in mind. "Look," she said. "I know this isn't up your alley, but there's a waitress job open at Jackson Hole. It's a hamburger place on the Upper East Side."

  "A waitress job?"

  "Yeah. If you take it, I won't charge you any commission. I just happened to hear about it."

  Tracy sat there, debating. She had waited on tables in college. Then it had been fun. Now it was a question of surviving.

  "I'll try it," she said.

  Jackson Hole was bedlam, packed with noisy and impatient customers, and harassed, irritable fry cooks. The food was good and the prices reasonable, and the place was always jammed. The waitresses worked at a frantic pace with no time to relax, and by the end of the first day Tracy was exhausted. But she was earning money.

  At noon on the second day, as Tracy was serving a table filled with salesmen, one of the men ran his hand up her skirt, and Tracy dropped a bowl of chili on his head. That was the end of the job.

  She returned to Mrs. Murphy and reported what had happened.

  "I may have some good news," Mrs. Murphy said. "The Wellington Arms needs an assistant housekeeper. I'm going to send you over there."

  The Wellington Arms was a small, elegant hotel on Park Avenue that catered to the rich and famous. Tracy was interviewed by the housekeeper and hired. The work was not difficult, the staff was pleasant, and the hours reasonable.

  A week after she started, Tracy was summoned to the housekeeper's office. The assistant manager was also there.

  "Did you check Suite eight-twenty-seven today?" the housekeeper asked Tracy. The suite was occupied by Jennifer Marlowe, a Hollywood actress. Part of Tracy's job was to inspect each suite and see that the maids had done their work properly.

  "Why, yes," she said.

  "What time?"

  "At two o'clock. Is something wrong?"

  The assistant manager spoke up. "At three o'clock Miss Marlowe returned and discovered that a valuable diamond ring was missing."

  Tracy could feel her body grow tense.

  "Did you go into the bedroom, Tracy?"

  "Yes. I checked every room."

  "When you were in the bedroom, did you see any jewelry lying around?"

  "Why...no. I don't think so."

  The assistant manager pounced on it. "You don't think so? You're not sure?"

  "I wasn't looking for jewelry," Tracy said. "I was checking the beds and towels."

  "Miss Marlowe insists that her ring was on the dressing table when she left the suite."

  "I don't know anything about it."

  "No one else has access to that room. The maids have been with us for many years."

  "I didn't take it."

  The assistant manager sighed. "We're going to have to call in the police to investigate."

  "It had to be someone else," Tracy cried. "Or perhaps Miss Marlowe misplaced it."

  "With your record--" the assistant manager said.

  And there it was, out in the
open. With your record....

  "I'll have to ask you to please wait in the security office until the police get here."

  Tracy felt her face flush. "Yes, sir."

  She was accompanied to the office by one of the security guards, and she felt as though she were back in prison again. She had read of convicts being hounded because they had prison records, but it had never occurred to her that this kind of thing could happen to her. They had stuck a label on her, and they expected her to live up to it. Or down to it, Tracy thought bitterly.

  Thirty minutes later the assistant manager walked into the office, smiling. "Well!" he said. "Miss Marlowe found her ring. She had misplaced it, after all. It was just a little mistake."

  "Wonderful," Tracy said.

  She walked out of the office and headed for Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewelers.

  "It's ridiculously simple," Conrad Morgan was saying. "A client of mine, Lois Bellamy, has gone to Europe. Her house is in Sea Cliff, on Long Island. On weekends the servants are off, so there's no one there. A private patrol makes a check evey four hours. You can be in and out of the house in a few minutes."

  They were seated in Conrad Morgan's office.

  "I know the alarm system, and I have the combination to the safe. All you have to do, my dear, is walk in, pick up the jewels, and walk out again. You bring the jewels to me, I take them out of their settings, recut the larger ones, and sell them again."

  "If it's so simple, why don't you do it yourself?" Tracy asked bluntly.

  His blue eyes twinkled. "Because I'm going to be out of town on business. Whenever one of these little 'incidents' occurs, I'm always out of town on business."

  "I see."

  "If you have any scruples about the robbery hurting Mrs. Bellamy, you needn't have. She's really quite a horrible woman, who has houses all over the world filled with expensive goodies. Besides, she's insured for twice the amount the jewels are worth. Naturally, I did all the appraisals."

  Tracy sat there looking at Conrad Morgan, thinking, I must be crazy. I'm sitting here calmly discussing a jewel robbery with this man.

  "I don't want to go back to prison, Mr. Morgan."

  "There's no danger of that. Not one of my people has ever been caught. Not while they were working for me. Well...what do you say?"

  That was obvious. She was going to say no. The whole idea was insane.

  "You said twenty-five thousand dollars?"

  "Cash on delivery."

  It was a fortune, enough to take care of her until she could figure out what to do with her life. She thought of the dreary little room she lived in, of the screaming tenants, and the customer yelling, "I don't want a murderess waiting on me," and the assistant manager saying, "We're going to have to call in the police to investigate."

  But Tracy still could not bring herself to say yes.

  "I would suggest this Saturday night," Conrad Morgan said. "The staff leaves at noon on Saturdays. I'll arrange a driver's license and a credit card for you in a false name. You'll rent a car here in Manhattan and drive out to Long Island, arriving at eleven o'clock. You'll pick up the jewelry, drive back to New York, and return the car...You do drive, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Excellent. There's a train leaving for St. Louis at seven-forty-five A.M. I'll reserve a compartment for you. I'll meet you at the station in St. Louis, you'll turn over the jewels, and I'll give you your twenty-five thousand."

  He made it all sound so simple.

  This was the moment to say no, to get up and walk out. Walk out to where?

  "I'll need a blond wig," Tracy said slowly.

  When Tracy had left, Conrad Morgan sat in the dark in his office, thinking about her. A beautiful woman. Very beautiful, indeed. It was a shame. Perhaps he should have warned her that he was not really that familiar with that particular burglar-alarm system.

  16

  With the thousand dollars that Conrad Morgan advanced her, Tracy purchased two wigs--one blond and one black, with a multitude of tiny braids. She bought a dark-blue pants suit, black coveralls, and an imitation Gucci valise from a street vendor on Lexington Avenue. So far everything was going smoothly. As Morgan had promised, Tracy received an envelope containing a driver's license in the name of Ellen Branch, a diagram of the security system in the Bellamy house, the combination to the bedroom safe, and an Amtrak ticket to St. Louis, in a private compartment. Tracy packed her few belongings and left. I'll never live in a place like this again, Tracy promised herself. She rented a car and headed for Long Island. She was on her way to commit a burglary.

  What she was doing had the unreality of a dream, and she was terrified. What if she were caught? Was the risk worth what she was about to do?

  It's ridiculously simple, Conrad Morgan had said.

  He wouldn't be involved in anything like this if he weren't sure about it. He has his reputation to protect. I have a reputation, too, Tracy thought bitterly, and it's all bad. Any time a piece of jewelry is missing, I'll be guilty until proven innocent.

  Tracy knew what she was doing: She was trying to work herself up into a rage, trying to psych herself up to commit a crime. It did not work. By the time she reached Sea Cliff, she was a nervous wreck. Twice, she almost ran the car off the road. Maybe the police will pick me up for reckless driving, she thought hopefully, and I can tell Mr. Morgan that things went wrong.

  But there was not a police car in sight. Sure, Tracy thought, in disgust. They're never around when you need them.

  She headed toward Long Island Sound, following Conrad Morgan's directions. The house is right on the water. It's called the Embers. It's an old Victorian mansion. You can't miss it.

  Please let me miss it, Tracy prayed.

  But there it was, looming up out of the dark like some ogre's castle in a nightmare. It looked deserted. How dare the servants take the weekend off, Tracy thought indignantly. They should all be discharged.

  She drove the car behind a stand of giant willow trees, where it was hidden from view, and turned off the engine, listening to the nocturnal sounds of insects. Nothing else disturbed the silence. The house was off the main road, and there was no traffic at that time of night.

  The property is screened by trees, my dear, and the nearest neighbor is acres away, so you don't have to be concerned about being seen. The security patrol makes its check at ten P.M. and again at two A.M. You'll be long gone by the two A.M. check.

  Tracy looked at her watch. It was 11:00. The first patrol had gone. She had three hours before the patrol was due to arrive for its second check. Or three seconds to turn the car around and head back to New York and forget about this insanity. But head back to what? The images flashed unbidden into her mind. The assistant manager at Saks: "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Whitney, but our customers must be humored..."

  "You can forget about running a computer. They're not going to hire anybody with a record..."

  "Twenty-five thousand tax-free dollars for an hour or two. If you have scruples, she's really a horrible woman."

  What am I doing? Tracy thought. I'm not a burglar. Not a real one. I'm a dumb amateur who's about to have a nervous breakdown.

  If I had half a brain, I'd get away from here while there's still time. Before the SWAT team catches me and there's a shoot-out and they carry my riddled body to the morgue. I can see the headline: DANGEROUS CRIMINAL KILLED DURING BUNGLED BURGLARY ATTEMPT.

  Who would be there to cry at her funeral? Ernestine and Amy. Tracy looked at her watch. "Oh, my God." She had been sitting there, daydreaming, for twenty minutes. If I'm going to do it, I'd better move.

  She could not move. She was frozen with fear. I can't sit here forever, she told herself. Why don't I just go take a look at the house? A quick look.

  Tracy took a deep breath and got out of the car. She was wearing black coveralls; her knees were shaking. She approached the house slowly, and she could see that it was completely dark.

  Be sure to wear gloves.

  Tracy reached in
her pocket, took out a pair of gloves, and put them on. Oh, God, I'm doing it, she thought. I'm really going ahead with it. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could no longer hear any other sounds.

  The alarm is to the left of the front door. There are five buttons. The red light will be on, which means the alarm is activated. The code to turn it off is three-two-four-one-one. When the red light goes off, you'll know the alarm is deactivated. Here's the key to the front door. When you enter, be sure to close the door after you. Use this flashlight. Don't turn on any of the lights in the house in case someone happens to drive past. The master bedroom is upstairs, to your left, overlooking the bay. You'll find the safe behind a portrait of Lois Bellamy. It's a very simple safe. All you have to do is follow this combination.

  Tracy stood stock-still, trembling, ready to flee at the slightest sound. Silence. Slowly, she reached out and pressed the sequence of alarm buttons, praying that it would not work. The red light went out. The next step would commit her. She remembered that airplane pilots had a phrase for it: the point of no return.

  Tracy put the key in the lock, and the door swung open. She waited a full minute before she stepped inside. Every nerve in her body throbbed to a savage beat as she stood in the hallway, listening, afraid to move. The house was filled with a deserted silence. She took out a flashlight, turned it on, and saw the staircase. She moved forward and started up. All she wanted to do now was get it over with as quickly as possible and run.

  The upstairs hallway looked eerie in the glow of her flashlight, and the wavering beam made the walls seem to pulse back and forth. Tracy peered into each room she passed. They were all empty.

  The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway, looking out over the bay, just as Morgan had described it. The bedroom was beautiful, done in dusky pink, with a canopied bed and a commode decorated with pink roses. There were two love seats, a fireplace, and a table in front of it for dining. I almost lived in a house like this with Charles and our baby, Tracy thought.

  She walked over to the picture window and looked out at the distant boats anchored in the bay. Tell me, God, what made you decide that Lois Bellamy should live in this beautiful house and that I should be here robbing it? Come on, girl, she told herself, don't get philosophical. This is a one-time thing. It will be over in a few minutes, but not if you stand here doing nothing.