"There's nothing to it," Jeff had assured her. "Trust me."
And like a fool she had trusted him. I must have been out of my mind, Tracy thought. She was playing the two greatest chess players in the world, and she knew nothing about the game, except what Jeff had spent four hours teaching her.
The big moment had arrived. Tracy felt her legs trembling. Melnikov turned to the expectant crowd and grinned. He made a hissing noise at a steward. "Bring me a brandy. Napoleon."
"In order to be fair to everyone," Jeff had said to Melnikov, "I suggest that you play the white so that you go first, and in the game with Mr. Negulesco, Miss Whitney will play the white and she will go first."
Both grand masters agreed.
While the audience stood hushed, Boris Melnikov reached across the board and played the queen's gambit decline opening, moving his queen pawn two squares. I'm not simply going to beat this woman. I'm going to crush her.
He glanced up at Tracy. She studied the board, nodded, and stood up, without moving a piece. A steward cleared the way through the crowd as Tracy walked into the second salon, where Pietr Negulesco was seated at a table waiting for her. There were at least a hundred people crowding the room as Tracy took her seat opposite Negulesco.
"Ah, my little pigeon. Have you defeated Boris yet?" Pietr Negulesco laughed uproariously at his joke.
"I'm working on it, Mr. Negulesco," Tracy said quietly.
She reached forward and moved her white queen's pawn two squares. Negulesco looked up at her and grinned. He had arranged for a massage in one hour, but he planned to finish this game before then. He reached down and moved his black queen's pawn two squares. Tracy studied the board a moment, then rose. The steward escorted her back to Boris Melnikov.
Tracy sat down at the table and moved her black queen's pawn two squares. In the background she saw Jeff's almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Without hesitation, Boris Melnikov moved his white queen's bishop pawn two squares.
Two minutes later, at Negulesco's table, Tracy moved her white queen's bishop two squares.
Negulesco played his king's pawn square.
Tracy rose and returned to the room where Boris Melnikov was waiting. Tracy played her king's pawn square.
So! She is not a complete amateur, Melnikov thought in surprise. Let us see what she does with this. He played his queen's knight to queen's bishop 3.
Tracy watched his move, nodded, and returned to Negulesco, where she copied Melnikov's move.
Negulesco moved the queen's bishop pawn two squares, and Tracy went back to Melnikov and repeated Negulesco's move.
With growing astonishment, the two grand masters realized they were up against a brilliant opponent. No matter how clever their moves, this amateur managed to counteract them.
Because they were separated, Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco had no idea that, in effect, they were playing against each other. Every move that Melnikov made with Tracy, Tracy repeated with Negulesco. And when Negulesco countered with a move, Tracy used that move against Melnikov.
By the time the grand masters entered the middle game, they were no longer smug. They were fighting for their reputations. They paced the floor while they contemplated moves and puffed furiously on cigarettes. Tracy appeared to be the only calm one.
In the beginning, in order to end the game quickly, Melnikov had tried a knight's sacrifice to allow his white bishop to put pressure on the black king's side. Tracy had carried the move to Negulesco. Negulesco had examined the move carefully, then refuted the sacrifice by covering his exposed side, and when Negulesco had sacked a bishop to advance a rook to white's seventh rank, Melnikov had refuted it before the black rook could damage his pawn structure.
There was no stopping Tracy. The game had been going on for four hours, and not one person in either audience had stirred.
Every grand master carries in his head hundreds of games played by other grand masters. It was as this particular match was going into the end game that both Melnikov and Negulesco recognized the hallmark of the other.
The bitch, Melnikov thought. She has studied with Negulesco. He has tutored her.
And Negulesco thought, She is Melnikov's protegee. The bastard has taught her his game.
The harder they fought Tracy, the more they came to realize there was simply no way they could beat her. The match was appearing drawish.
In the sixth hour of play, at 4:00 A.M., when the players had reached the end game, the pieces on each board had been reduced to three pawns, one rook, and a king. There was no way for either side to win. Melnikov studied the board for a long time, then took a deep, choked breath and said, "I offer a draw."
Over the hubbub, Tracy said, "I accept."
The crowd went wild.
Tracy rose and made her way through the crowd into the next room. As she started to take her seat, Negulesco, in a strangled voice said, "I offer a draw."
And the uproar from the other room was repeated. The crowd could not believe what it had just witnessed. A woman had come out of nowhere to simultaneously stalemate the two greatest chess masters in the world.
Jeff appeared at Tracy's side. "Come on," he grinned. "We both need a drink."
When they left, Boris Melnikov and Pietr Negulesco were still slumped in their chairs, mindlessly staring at their boards.
Tracy and Jeff sat at a table for two in the Upper Deck bar.
"You were beautiful," Jeff laughed. "Did you notice the look on Melnikov's face? I thought he was going to have a heart attack."
"I thought I was going to have a heart attack," Tracy said. "How much did we win?"
"About two hundred thousand dollars. We'll collect it from the purser in the morning when we dock at Southampton. I'll meet you for breakfast in the dining room."
"Fine."
"I think I'll turn in now. Let me walk you to your stateroom."
"I'm not ready to go to bed yet, Jeff. I'm too excited. You go ahead."
"You were a champion," Jeff told her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Good night, Tracy."
"Good night, Jeff."
She watched him leave. Go to sleep? Impossible! It had been one of the most fantastic nights of her life. The Russian and the Romanian had been so sure of themselves, so arrogant. Jeff had said, "Trust me," and she had. She had no illusions about what he was. He was a con artist. He was bright and amusing and clever, easy to be with. But of course she could never be seriously interested in him.
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."
21
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 cliche, 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.