Jeff asked, “Why don’t we all have dinner together to celebrate?”
“I’m sorry,” Gunther apologized, “but I have a previous engagement.”
Jeff turned to Tracy. “Would—”
“No, thanks. I’m tired,” she said quickly.
It was an excuse to avoid being with Jeff, but even as Tracy said it, she realized she really was exhausted. It was probably the strain of the excitement she had been going through for so long. She was feeling lightheaded. When this is over, she promised herself, I’m going back to London for a long rest. Her head was beginning to throb. I really must.
“I brought you a little present,” Jeff told her. He handed her a gaily wrapped box. In it was an exquisite silk scarf with the initials TW stitched in one corner.
“Thank you.” He can afford it, Tracy thought angrily. He bought it with my half million dollars.
“Sure you won’t change your mind about dinner?”
“I’m positive.”
In Paris, Tracy stayed at the classic Plaza Athénée, in a lovely old suite that overlooked the garden restaurant. There was an elegant restaurant inside the hotel, with soft piano music, but on this evening Tracy was too tired to change into a more formal dress. She went into the Relais, the hotel’s small café, and ordered a bowl of soup. She pushed the plate away, half-finished, and left for her suite.
Daniel Cooper, seated at the other end of the room, noted the time
Daniel Cooper had a problem. Upon his return to Paris, he had asked for a meeting with Inspector Trignant. The head of Interpol had been less than cordial. He had just spent an hour on the telephone listening to Commandant Ramiro’s complaints about the American.
“He is loco!” the commandant had exploded. “I wasted men and money and time following this Tracy Whitney, who he insisted was going to rob the Prado, and she turned out to be a harmless tourist—just as I said she was.”
The conversation had led Inspector Trignant to believe that Daniel Cooper could have been wrong about Tracy in the first place. There was not one shred of evidence against the woman. The fact that she had been in various cities at the times the crimes were committed was not evidence.
And so, when Daniel Cooper had gone to see the inspector and said, “Tracy Whitney is in Paris. I would like her placed on twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the inspector had replied, “Unless you can present me with some proof that this woman is planning to commit a specific crime, there is nothing I can do.”
Cooper had fixed him with his blazing brown eyes and said, “You’re a fool,” and had found himself being unceremoniously ushered out of the office.
That was when Cooper had begun his one-man surveillance. He trailed Tracy everywhere: to shops and restaurants, through the streets of Paris. He went without sleep and often without food. Daniel Cooper could not permit Tracy Whitney to defeat him. His assignment would not be finished until he had put her in prison.
Tracy lay in bed that night, reviewing the next day’s plan. She wished her head felt better. She had taken aspirin, but the throbbing was worse. She was perspiring, and the room seemed unbearably hot. Tomorrow it will be over. Switzerland. That’s where I’ll go. To the cool mountains of Switzerland. To the château.
She set the alarm for 5:00 A.M., and when the bell rang she was in her prison cell and Old Iron Pants was yelling, “Time to get dressed. Move it,” and the corridor echoed with the clanging of the bell. Tracy awakened. Her chest felt tight, and the light hurt her eyes. She forced herself into the bathroom. Her face looked blotchy and flushed in the mirror. I can’t get sick now, Tracy thought. Not today. There’s too much to do.
She dressed slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head. She put on black overalls with deep pockets, rubber-soled shoes, and a Basque beret. Her heart seemed to beat erratically, but she was not sure whether it was from excitement or the malaise that gripped her. She was dizzy and weak. Her throat felt sore and scratchy. On her table she saw the scarf Jeff had given her. She picked it up and wrapped it around her neck.