“There’s no danger of that. Not one of my people has ever been caught. Not while they were working for me. Well…what do you say?”
That was obvious. She was going to say no. The whole idea was insane.
“You said twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Cash on delivery.”
It was a fortune, enough to take care of her until she could figure out what to do with her life. She thought of the dreary little room she lived in, of the screaming tenants, and the customer yelling, “I don’t want a murderess waiting on me,” and the assistant manager saying, “We’re going to have to call in the police to investigate.”
But Tracy still could not bring herself to say yes.
“I would suggest this Saturday night,” Conrad Morgan said. “The staff leaves at noon on Saturdays. I’ll arrange a driver’s license and a credit card for you in a false name. You’ll rent a car here in Manhattan and drive out to Long Island, arriving at eleven o’clock. You’ll pick up the jewelry, drive back to New York, and return the car…You do drive, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. There’s a train leaving for St. Louis at seven-forty-five A.M. I’ll reserve a compartment for you. I’ll meet you at the station in St. Louis, you’ll turn over the jewels, and I’ll give you your twenty-five thousand.”
He made it all sound so simple.
This was the moment to say no, to get up and walk out. Walk out to where?
“I’ll need a blond wig,” Tracy said slowly.
When Tracy had left, Conrad Morgan sat in the dark in his office, thinking about her. A beautiful woman. Very beautiful, indeed. It was a shame. Perhaps he should have warned her that he was not really that familiar with that particular burglar-alarm system.
16
With the thousand dollars that Conrad Morgan advanced her, Tracy purchased two wigs—one blond and one black, with a multitude of tiny braids. She bought a dark-blue pants suit, black coveralls, and an imitation Gucci valise from a street vendor on Lexington Avenue. So far everything was going smoothly. As Morgan had promised, Tracy received an envelope containing a driver’s license in the name of Ellen Branch, a diagram of the security system in the Bellamy house, the combination to the bedroom safe, and an Amtrak ticket to St. Louis, in a private compartment. Tracy packed her few belongings and left. I’ll never live in a place like this again, Tracy promised herself. She rented a car and headed for Long Island. She was on her way to commit a burglary.
What she was doing had the unreality of a dream, and she was terrified. What if she were caught? Was the risk worth what she was about to do?
It’s ridiculously simple, Conrad Morgan had said.
He wouldn’t be involved in anything like this if he weren’t sure about it. He has his reputation to protect. I have a reputation, too, Tracy thought bitterly, and it’s all bad. Any time a piece of jewelry is missing, I’ll be guilty until proven innocent.
Tracy knew what she was doing: She was trying to work herself up into a rage, trying to psych herself up to commit a crime. It did not work. By the time she reached Sea Cliff, she was a nervous wreck. Twice, she almost ran the car off the road. Maybe the police will pick me up for reckless driving, she thought hopefully, and I can tell Mr. Morgan that things went wrong.
But there was not a police car in sight. Sure, Tracy thought, in disgust. They’re never around when you need them.
She headed toward Long Island Sound, following Conrad Morgan’s directions. The house is right on the water. It’s called the Embers. It’s an old Victorian mansion. You can’t miss it.
Please let me miss it, Tracy prayed.
But there it was, looming up out of the dark like some ogre’s castle in a nightmare. It looked deserted. How dare the servants take the weekend off, Tracy thought indignantly. They should all be discharged.
She drove the car behind a stand of giant willow trees, where it was hidden from view, and turned off the engine, listening to the nocturnal sounds of insects. Nothing else disturbed the silence. The house was off the main road, and there was no traffic at that time of night.