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He checked into his room and went directly into the bathroom. To his surprise, the bathtub was satisfactory. In fact, he admitted to himself, it was much larger than the one at home. He ran the bath water and went into the bedroom to unpack. Near the bottom of his suitcase was the small locked box, safe between his extra suit and his underwear. He picked up the box and held it in his hands, staring at it, and it seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He carried it into the bathroom and placed it on the sink. With the tiny key dangling from his key ring, he unlocked the box and opened it, and the words screamed up at him from the yellowed newspaper clipping.

  BOY TESTIFIES IN MURDER TRIAL

  Twelve-year-old Daniel Cooper today testified in the trial of Fred Zimmer, accused of the rape-murder of the young boy's mother. According to his testimony, the boy returned home from school and saw Zimmer, a next-door neighbor, leaving the Cooper home with blood on his hands and face. When the boy entered his home, he discovered the body of his mother in the bathtub. She had been savagely stabbed to death. Zimmer confessed to being Mrs. Cooper's lover, but denied that he had killed her.

  The young boy has been placed in the care of an aunt.

  Daniel Cooper's trembling hands dropped the clipping back into the box and locked it. He looked around wildly. The walls and ceiling of the hotel bathroom were spattered with blood. He saw his mother's naked body floating in the red water. He felt a wave of vertigo and clutched the sink. The screams inside him became gutteral moans, and he frantically tore off his clothes and sank down into the blood-warm bath.

  "I must inform you, Mr. Cooper," Inspector Trignant said, "that your position here is most unusual. You are not a member of any police force, and your presence here is unofficial. However, we have been requested by the police departments of several European countries to extend our cooperation."

  Daniel Cooper said nothing.

  "As I understand it, you are an investigator for the International Insurance Protective Association, a consortium of insurance companies."

  "Some of our European clients have had heavy losses lately. I was told there are no clues."

  Inspector Trignant sighed. "I'm afraid that is the case. We know we are dealing with a gang of very clever women, but beyond that--"

  "No information from informers?"

  "No. Nothing."

  "Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

  "What do you mean, monsieur?"

  It seemed so obvious to Cooper that he did not bother to keep the impatience out of his voice. "When a gang is involved, there's always someone who talks too much, drinks too much, spends too much. It's impossible for a large group of people to keep a secret. Would you mind giving me your files on this gang?"

  The inspector started to refuse. He thought Daniel Cooper was one of the most physically unattractive men he had ever met. And certainly the most arrogant. He was going to be a chierie, "a pain in the ass"; but the inspector had been asked to cooperate fully.

  Reluctantly, he said, "I will have copies made for you." He spoke into an intercom and gave the order. To make conversation, Inspector Trignant said, "An interesting report just crossed my desk. Some valuable jewels were stolen aboard the Orient Express while it--"

  "I read about it. The thief made a fool of the Italian police."

  "No one has been able to figure out how the robbery was accomplished."

  "It's obvious," Daniel Cooper said rudely. "A matter of simple logic."

  Inspector Trignant looked over his glasses in surprise. Mon Dieu, he has the manners of a pig. He continued, coolly, "In this case, logic does not help. Every inch of that train was examined, and the employees, passengers, and all the luggage searched."

  "No," Daniel Cooper contradicted.

  This man is crazy, Inspector Trignant decided. "No--what?"

  "They didn't search all the luggage."

  "And I tell you they did," Inspector Trignant insisted. "I have seen the police report."

  "The woman from whom the jewels were stolen--Silvana Luadi?"

  "Yes?"

  "She had placed her jewels in an overnight case from which they were taken?"

  "That is correct."

  "Did the police search Miss Luadi's luggage?"

  "Only her overnight case. She was the victim. Why should they search her luggage?"

  "Because that's logically the only place the thief could have hidden the jewels--in the bottom of one of her other suitcases. He probably had a duplicate case, and when all the luggage was piled on the platform at the Venice station, all he had to do was exchange suitcases and disappear." Daniel Cooper rose. "If those reports are ready, I'll be running along."

  Thirty minutes later, Inspector Trignant was speaking to Alberto Fornati in Venice.

  "Monsieur," the inspector said, "I was calling to inquire whether there happened to be any problem with your wife's luggage when you arrived in Venice."

  "Si, si," Fornati complained. "The idiot porter got her suitcase mixed up with someone else's. When my wife opened her bag at the hotel, it contained nothing but a lot of old magazines. I reported it to the office of the Orient Express. Have they located my wife's suitcase?" he asked hopefully.

  "No, monsieur," the inspector said. And he added silently to himself. Nor would I expect it, if I were you.

  When he completed the telephone call, he sat back in his chair thinking, This Daniel Cooper is tres formidable. Very formidable, indeed.

  24

  Tracy's house in Eaton Square was a haven. It was in one of the most beautiful areas in London, with the old Georgian houses facing tree-filled private parks. Nannies in stiffly starched uniforms wheeled their small charges in status-named prams along the graveled paths, and children played their games. I miss Amy, Tracy thought.

  Tracy walked along the storied old streets and shopped at the greengrocers and the chemist on Elizabeth Street; she marveled at the variety of brilliantly colored flowers sold outside the little shops.

  Gunther Hartog saw to it that Tracy contributed to the right charities and met the right people. She dated wealthy dukes and impoverished earls and had numerous proposals of marriage. She was young and beautiful and rich, and she seemed so vulnerable.

  "Everyone thinks you're a perfect target," Gunther laughed. "You've really done splendidly for yourself, Tracy. You're set now. You have everything you'll ever need."

  It was true. She had money in safe-deposit boxes all over Europe, the house in London, and a chalet in St. Moritz. Everything she would ever need. Except for someone to share it with. Tracy thought of the life she had almost had, with a husband and a baby. Would that ever be possible for her again? She could never reveal to any man who she really was, nor could she live a lie by concealing her past. She had played so many parts, she was no longer sure who she really was, but she did know that she could never return to the life she had once had. It's all right, Tracy thought defiantly. A lot of people are lonely. Gunther is right. I have everything.

  She was giving a cocktail party the following evening, the first since her return from Venice.

  "I'm looking forward to it," Gunther told her. "Your parties are the hottest ticket in London."

  Tracy said fondly, "Look who my sponsor is."

  "Who's going to be there?"

  "Everybody," Tracy told him.

  Everybody turned out to be one more guest than Tracy had anticipated. She had invited the Baroness Howarth, an attractive young heiress, and when Tracy saw the baroness arrive, she walked over to greet her. The greeting died on Tracy's lips. With the baroness was Jeff Stevens.

  "Tracy, darling, I don't believe you know Mr. Stevens. Jeff, this is Mrs. Tracy Whitney, your hostess."

  Tracy said stiffly, "How do you do, Mr. Stevens?"

  Jeff took Tracy's hand, holding it a fraction longer than necessary. "Mrs. Tracy Whitney?" he said. "Of course! I was a friend of your husband's. We were together in India."

  "Isn't that exciting!" Baroness Howarth exclaimed.

  "Strange, he never me
ntioned you," Tracy said coolly.

  "Didn't he, really? I'm surprised. Interesting old fella. Pity he had to go the way he did."

  "Oh, what happened?" Baroness Howarth asked.

  Tracy glared at Jeff. "It was nothing, really."

  "Nothing!" Jeff said reproachfully. "If I remember correctly, he was hanged in India."

  "Pakistan," Tracy said tightly. "And I believe I do remember my husband mentioning you. How is your wife?"

  Baroness Howarth looked at Jeff. "You never mentioned that you were married, Jeff."

  "Cecily and I are divorced."

  Tracy smiled sweetly. "I meant Rose."

  "Oh, that wife."

  Baroness Howarth was astonished. "You've been married twice?"

  "Once," he said easily. "Rose and I got an annulment. We were very young." He started to move away.

  Tracy asked, "But weren't there twins?"

  Baroness Howarth exclaimed, "Twins?"

  "They live with their mother," Jeff told her. He looked at Tracy. "I can't tell you how pleasant it's been talking to you, Mrs. Whitney, but we mustn't monopolize you." And he took the baroness's hand and walked away.

  The following morning Tracy ran into Jeff in an elevator at Harrods. The store was crowded with shoppers. Tracy got off at the second floor. As she left the elevator, she turned to Jeff and said in a loud, clear voice, "By the way, how did you ever come out on that morals charge?" The door closed, and Jeff was trapped in an elevator filled with indignant strangers.

  Tracy lay in bed that night thinking about Jeff, and she had to laugh. He really was a charmer. A scoundrel, but an engaging one. She wondered what his relationship with Baroness Howarth was: She knew very well what his relationship with Baroness Howarth was. Jeff and I are two of a kind, Tracy thought. Neither of them would ever settle down. The life they led was too exciting and stimulating and rewarding.

  She turned her thoughts toward her next job. It was going to take place in the South of France, and it would be a challenge. Gunther had told her that the police were looking for a gang. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

  In his hotel room in Paris, Daniel Cooper was reading the reports Inspector Trignant had given him. It was 4:00 A.M., and Cooper had been poring over the papers for hours, analyzing the imaginative mix of robberies and swindles. Some of the scams Cooper was familiar with, but others were new to him. As Inspector Trignant had mentioned, all the victims had unsavory reputations. This gang apparently thinks they're Robin Hoods, Cooper reflected.

  He had nearly finished. There were only three reports left. The one on top was headed BRUSSELS. Cooper opened the cover and glanced at the report. Two million dollars' worth of jewelry had been stolen from the wall safe of a Mr. Van Ruysen, a Belgian stockbroker, who had been involved in some questionable financial dealings.

  The owners were away on vacation, and the house was empty, and--Cooper caught something on the page that made his heart quicken. He went back to the first sentence and began rereading the report, focusing on every word. This one varied from the others in one significant respect: The burglar had set off an alarm, and when the police arrived, they were greeted at the door by a woman wearing a filmy negligee. Her hair was tucked into a curler cap, and her face was thickly covered with cold cream. She claimed to be a houseguest of the Van Ruysens'. The police accepted her story, and by the time they were able to check it out with the absent owners, the woman and the jewelry had vanished.

  Cooper laid down the report. Logic, logic.

  Inspector Trignant was losing his patience. "You're wrong. I tell you it is impossible for one woman to be responsible for all these crimes."

  "There's a way to check it out," Daniel Cooper said.

  "How?"

  "I'd like to see a computer run on the dates and locations of the last few burglaries and swindles that fit into this category."

  "That's simple enough, but--"

  "Next, I would like to get an immigration report on every female American tourist who was in those same cities at the times the crimes were committed. It's possible that she uses false passports some of the time, but the probabilities are that she also uses her real identity."

  Inspector Trignant was thoughtful. "I see your line of reasoning, monsieur." He studied the little man before him and found himself half hoping that Cooper was mistaken. He was much too sure of himself. "Very well. I will set the wheels in motion."

  The first burglary in the series had been committed in Stockholm. The report from Interpol Sektionen Rikspolis Styrelsen, the Interpol branch in Sweden, listed the American tourists in Stockholm that week, and the names of the women were fed into a computer. The next city checked was Milan. When the names of American women tourists in Milan at the time of the burglary was cross-checked with the names of women who had been in Stockholm during that burglary, there were fifty-five names on the list. That list was checked against the names of female Americans who had been in Ireland during a swindle, and the list was reduced to fifteen. Inspector Trignant handed the printout to Daniel Cooper.

  "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," Daniel Cooper said aloud. Then he flicked the rewind button of the cassette player once more.

  25

  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 Chateau de Matigny, at Cap d'Antibes, was one of the showplaces of France. The carefully manicured grounds were superb, and the chateau 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 rav
ishing 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 gives 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."

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