“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.
27
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.