"This is your first time on the Orient Express, signorina?" Fornati opened the conversation, after Tracy was seated.
"Yes, it is."
"Ah, it is a very romantic train, filled with legend." His eyes were moist. "There are many interessante tales about it. For instance, Sir Basil Zaharoff, the arms tycoon, used to ride the old Orient Express--always in the seventh compartment. One night he hears a scream and a pounding on his door. A bellis-sima young Spanish duchess throws herself upon him." Fornati paused to butter a roll and take a bite. "Her husband was trying to murder her. The parents had arranged the marriage, and the poor girl now realized her husband was insane. Zaharoff restrained the husband and calmed the hysterical young woman and thus began a romance that lasted forty years."
"How exciting," Tracy said. Her eyes were wide with interest.
"Si. Every year after that they meet on the Orient Express, he in compartment number seven, she in number eight. When her husband died, the lady and Zaharoff were married, and as a token of his love, he bought her the casino at Monte Carlo as a wedding gift."
"What a beautiful story, Mr. Fornati."
Silvana Luadi sat in stony silence.
"Mangia," Fornati urged Tracy. "Eat."
The menu consisted of six courses, and Tracy noted that Alberto Fornati ate each one and finished what his wife left on her plate. In between bites he kept up a constant chatter.
"You are an actress, perhaps?" he asked Tracy.
She laughed. "Oh no. I'm just a tourist."
He beamed at her. "Bellissima. You are beautiful enough to be an actress."
"She said she is not an actress," Silvana said sharply.
Alberto Fornati ignored her. "I produce motion pictures," he told Tracy. "You have heard of them, of course: Wild Savages, The Titans versus Superwoman..."
"I don't see many movies," Tracy apologized. She felt his fat leg press against hers under the table.
"Perhaps I can arrange to show you some of mine"
Silvana turned white with anger.
"Do you ever get to Rome, my dear?" His leg was moving up and down against Tracy's.
"As a matter of fact, I'm planning to go to Rome after Venice."
"Splendid! Benissimo! We will all get together for dinner. Won't we, cara?" He gave a quick glance toward Silvana before he continued. "We have a lovely villa off the Appian Way. Ten acres of--" His hand made a sweeping gesture and knocked a bowl of gravy into his wife's lap. Tracy could not be sure whether it was deliberate or not.
Silvana Luadi rose to her feet and looked at the spreading stain on her dress. "Sei un mascalzone!" she screamed. "Tieni le tue puttane lontano da me!"
She stormed out of the dining car, every eye following her.
"What a shame," Tracy murmured. "It's such a beautiful dress." She could have slapped the man for degrading his wife. She deserves every carat of jewelry she has, Tracy thought, and more.
He sighed. "Fornati will buy her another one. Pay no attention to her manners. She is very jealous of Fornati."
"I'm sure she has good reason to be." Tracy covered her irony with a small smile.
He preened. "It is true. Women find Fornati very attractive."
It was all Tracy could do to keep from bursting out laughing at the pompous little man. "I can understand that."
He reached across the table and took her hand. "Fornati likes you," he said. "Fornati likes you very much. What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a legal secretary. I saved up all my money for this trip. I hope to get an interesting position in Europe."
His bulging eyes roved over her body. "You will have no problem, Fornati promises you. He is very nice to people who are very nice to him."
"How wonderful of you," Tracy said shyly.
He lowered his voice. "Perhaps we could discuss this later this evening in your cabin?"
"That might be embarrassing."
"Perche? Why?"
"You're so famous. Everyone on the train probably knows who you are."
"Naturally."
"If they see you come to my cabin--well, you know, some people might misunderstand. Of course, if your cabin is near mine...What number are you in?"
"E settanta--seventy." He looked at her hopefully.
Tracy sighed. "I'm in another car. Why don't we meet in Venice?"
He beamed. "Bene! My wife, she stays in her room most of the time. She cannot stand the sun on her face. Have you ever been to Venezia?"
"No."
"Ah. You and I shall go to Torcello, a beautiful little island with a wonderful restaurant, the Locanda Cipriani. It is also a small hotel." His eyes gleamed. "Molto privato."
Tracy gave him a slow, understanding smile. "It sounds exciting." She lowered her eyes, too overcome to say more.
Fornati leaned forward, squeezed her hand, and whispered wetly, "You do not know what excitement is yet, cara."
Half an hour later Tracy was back in her cabin.
The Orient Express sped through the lonely night, past Paris and Dijon and Vallarbe, while the passengers slept. They had turned in their passports the evening before, and the border formalities would be handled by the conductors.
At 3:30 in the morning Tracy quietly left her compartment. The timing was critical. The train would cross the Swiss border and reach Lausanne at 5:21 A.M. and was due to arrive in Milan, Italy, at 9:15 A.M.
Clad in pajamas and robe, and carrying a sponge bag, Tracy moved down the corridor, every sense alert, the familiar excitement making her pulse leap. There were no toilets in the cabins of the train, but there were some located at the end of each car. If Tracy was questioned, she was prepared to say that she was looking for the ladies' room, but she encountered no one. The conductors and porters were taking advantage of the early-morning hours to catch up on their sleep.
Tracy reached Cabin E 70 without incident. She quietly tried the doorknob. The door was locked. Tracy opened the sponge bag and took out a metallic object and a small bottle with a syringe, and went to work.
Ten minutes later she was back in her cabin, and thirty minutes after that she was asleep, with the trace of a smile on her freshly scrubbed face.
At 7:00 A.M., two hours before the Orient Express was due to arrive in Milan, a series of piercing screams rang out. They came from Cabin E 70, and they awakened the entire car. Passengers poked their heads out of their cabins to see what was happening. A conductor came hurrying along the car and entered E 70.
Silvana Luadi was in hysterics. "Aiuto! Help!" she screamed. "All my jewelry is gone! This miserable train is full of ladri--thieves!"
"Please calm down, madame," the conductor begged. "The other--"
"Calm down!" Her voice went up an octave. "How dare you tell me to calm down, stupido maiale! Someone has stolen more than a million dollars' worth of my jewels!"
"How could this have happened?" Alberto Fornati demanded. "The door was locked--and Fornati is a light sleeper. If anyone had entered, I would have awakened instantly."
The conductor sighed. He knew only too well how it had happened, because it had happened before. During the night someone had crept down the corridor and sprayed a syringe full of ether through the keyhole. The locks would have been child's play for someone who knew what he was doing. The thief would have closed the door behind him, looted the room, and, having taken what he wanted, quietly crept back to his compartment while his victims were still unconscious. But there was one thing about this burglary that was different from the others. In the past the thefts had not been discovered until after the train had reached its destination, so the thieves had had a chance to escape. This was a different situation. No one had disembarked since the robbery, which meant that the jewelry still had to be on board.
"Don't worry," the conductor promised the Fornatis. "You'll get your jewels back. The thief is still on this train."
He hurried forward to telephone the police in Milan.
When the Orient Express pulled into the Milan termin
al, twenty uniformed policemen and plainclothes detectives lined the station platform, with orders not to let any passengers or baggage off the train.
Luigi Ricci, the inspector in charge, was taken directly to the Fornati compartment.
If anything, Silvana Luadi's hysteria had increased. "Every bit of jewelry I owned was in that jewel case," she screamed. "And none of it was insured!"
The inspector examined the empty jewel case. "You are sure you put your jewels in there last night, signora?"
"Of course I am sure. I put them there every night." Her luminous eyes, which had thrilled millions of adoring fans, pooled over with large tears, and Inspector Ricci was ready to slay dragons for her.
He walked over to the compartment door, bent down, and sniffed the keyhole. He could detect the lingering odor of ether. There had been a robbery, and he intended to catch the unfeeling bandit.
Inspector Ricci straightened up and said, "Do not worry, signora. There is no way the jewels can be removed from this train. We will catch the thief, and your gems will be returned to you."
Inspector Ricci had every reason to be confident. The trap was tightly sealed, and there was no possibility for the culprit to get away.
One by one, the detectives escorted the passengers to a station waiting room that had been roped off, and they were expertly body searched. The passengers, many of them people of prominence, were outraged by this indignity.
"I'm sorry," Inspector Ricci explained to each of them, "but a million-dollar theft is a very serious business."
As each passenger was led from the train, detectives turned their cabins upside down. Every inch of space was examined. This was a splendid opportunity for Inspector Ricci, and he intended to make the most of it. When he recovered the stolen jewels, it would mean a promotion and a raise. His imagination became inflamed. Silvana Luadi would be so grateful to him that she would probably invite him to...He gave orders with renewed vigor.
There was a knock at Tracy's cabin door and a detective entered. "Excuse me, signorina. There has been a robbery. It is necessary to search all passengers. If you will come with me, please..."
"A robbery?" Her voice was shocked. "On this train?"
"I fear so, signorina."
When Tracy stepped out of her compartment, two detectives moved in, opened her suitcases, and began carefully sifting through the contents.
At the end of four hours the search had turned up several packets of marijuana, five ounces of cocaine, a knife, and an illegal gun. There was no sign of the missing jewelry.
Inspector Ricci could not believe it. "Have you searched the entire train?" he demanded of his lieutenant.
"Inspector, we have searched every inch. We have examined the engine, the dining rooms, the bar, the toilets, the compartments. We have searched the passengers and crew and examined every piece of luggage. I can swear to you that the jewelry is not on board this train. Perhaps the lady imagined the theft."
But Inspector Ricci knew better. He had spoken to the waiters, and they had confirmed that Silvana Luadi had indeed worn a dazzling display of jewelry at dinner the evening before.
A representative of the Orient Express had flown to Milan. "You cannot detain this train any longer," he insisted. "We are already far behind schedule."
Inspector Ricci was defeated. He had no excuse for holding the train any further. There was nothing more he could do. The only explanation he could think of was that somehow, during the night, the thief had tossed the jewels off the train to a waiting confederate. But could it have happened that way? The timing would have been impossible. The thief could not have known in advance when the corridor would be clear, when a conductor or passenger might be prowling about, what time the train would be at some deserted assignation point. This was a mystery beyond the inspector's power to solve.
"Let the train go on," he ordered.
He stood watching helplessly as the Orient Express slowly pulled out of the station. With it went his promotion, his raise, and a blissful orgy with Silvana Luadi.
The sole topic of conversation in the breakfast car was the robbery.
"It's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in years," confessed a prim teacher at a girls' school. She fingered a small gold necklace with a tiny diamond chip. "I'm lucky they didn't take this."
"Very," Tracy gravely agreed.
When Alberto Fornati walked into the dining car, he caught sight of Tracy and hurried over to her. "You know what happened, of course. But did you know it was Fornati's wife who was robbed?"
"No!"
"Yes! My life was in great danger. A gang of thieves crept into my cabin and chloroformed me. Fornati could have been murdered in his sleep."
"How terrible."
"E una bella fregatura! Now I shall have to replace all of Silvana's jewelry. It's going to cost me a fortune."
"The police didn't find the jewels?"
"No, but Fornati knows how the thieves got rid of them."
"Really! How?"
He looked around and lowered his voice. "An accomplice was waiting at one of the stations we passed during the night. The ladri threw the jewels out of the train, and--ecco--it was done."
Tracy said admiringly, "How clever of you to figure that out."
"Si." He raised his brows meaningfully. "You will not forget our little tryst in Venezia?"
"How could I?" Tracy smiled.
He squeezed her arm hard. "Fornati is looking forward to it. Now I must go console Silvana. She is hysterical."
When the Orient Express arrived at the Santa Lucia station in Venice, Tracy was among the first passengers to disembark. She had her luggage taken directly to the airport and was on the next plane to London with Silvana Luadi's jewelry.
Gunther Hartog was going to be pleased.
23
The seven-story headquarters building of Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization, is at 26 Rue Armen-gaud, in the hills of St. Cloud, about six miles west of Paris, discreetly hidden behind a high green fence and white stone walls. The gate at the street entrance is locked twenty-four hours a day, and visitors are admitted only after being scrutinized through a closed-circuit television system. Inside the building, at the head of the stairs at each floor, are white iron gates which are locked at night, and every floor is equipped with a separate alarm system and closed-circuit television.
The extraordinary security is mandatory, for within this building are kept the world's most elaborate dossiers with files on two and a half million criminals. Interpol is a clearinghouse of information for 126 police forces in 78 countries, and coordinates the worldwide activities of police forces in dealing with swindlers, counterfeiters, narcotics smugglers, robbers, and murderers. It disseminates up-to-the-second information by an updated bulletin called a circulation; by radio, phototelegraphy, and early-bird satellite. The Paris headquarters is manned by former detectives from the Surete Nationale or the Paris Prefecture.
On an early May morning a conference was under way in the office of Inspector Andre Trignant, in charge of Interpol headquarters. The office was comfortable and simply furnished, and the view was breathtaking. In the far distance to the east, the Eiffel Tower loomed, and in another direction the white dome of the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre was clearly visible. The inspector was in his mid-forties, an attractive, authoritative figure, with an intelligent face, dark hair, and shrewd brown eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses. Seated in the office with him were detectives from England, Belgium, France, and Italy.
"Gentlemen," Inspector Trignant said, "I have received urgent requests from each of your countries for information about the rash of crimes that has recently sprung up all over Europe. Half a dozen countries have been hit by an epidemic of ingenious swindles and burglaries, in which there are several similarities. The victims are of unsavory reputation, there is never violence involved, and the perpetrator is always a female. We have reached the conclusion that we are facing an international gang of women.
We have identi-kit pictures based on the descriptions by victims and random witnesses. As you will see, none of the women in the pictures is alike. Some are blond, some brunet. They have variously been reported as being English, French, Spanish, Italian, American--or Texan."
Inspector Trignant pressed a switch, and a series of pictures began to appear on the wall screen. "Here you see an identi-kit sketch of a brunet with short hair." He pressed the button again. "Here is a young blonde with a shag cut....Here is another blonde with a perm...a brunet with a pageboy...Here is an older woman with a French twist...a young woman with blond streaks...an older woman with a coup sauvage. He turned off the projector. "We have no idea who the gang's leader is or where their headquarters is located. They never leave any clues behind, and they vanish like smoke rings. Sooner or later we will catch one of them, and when we do, we shall get them all. In the meantime, gentlemen, until one of you can furnish us with some specific information, I am afraid we are at a dead end..."
When Daniel Cooper's plane landed in Paris, he was met at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport by one of Inspector Trignant's assistants, and driven to the Prince de Galles, next door to its more illustrious sister hotel, the George V.
"It is arranged for you to meet Inspector Trignant tomorrow," his escort told Cooper. "I will pick you up at eight-fifteen."
Daniel Cooper had not been looking forward to the trip to Europe. He intended to finish his assignment as quickly as possible and return home. He knew about the fleshpots of Paris, and he had no intention of becoming involved.