The following day Telephoto pictures of Tracy Whitney from the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women were in the hands of Interpol.
Daniel Cooper put in a call to J. J. Reynolds’s home. The phone rang a dozen times before it was answered.
“Hello…”
“I need some information.”
“Is that you, Cooper? For Christ’s sake, it’s four o’clock in the morning here. I was sound—”
“I want you to send me everything you can find on Tracy Whitney. Press clippings, videotapes—everything.”
“What’s happening over—?”
Cooper had hung up.
One day I’ll kill the son of a bitch, Reynolds swore.
Before, Daniel Cooper had been only casually interested in Tracy Whitney. Now she was his assignment. He taped her photographs on the walls of his small Paris hotel room and read all the newspaper accounts about her. He rented a video cassette player and ran and reran the television news shots of Tracy after her sentencing, and after her release from prison. Cooper sat in his darkened room hour after hour, looking at the film, and the first glimmering of suspicion became a certainty. “You’re the gang of women, Miss Whitney,” Daniel Cooper said aloud. Then he flicked the rewind button of the cassette player once more.
25
Every year, on the first Saturday in June, the Count de Ma-tigny sponsored a charity ball for the benefit of the Children’s Hospital in Paris. Tickets for the white-tie affair were a thousand dollars apiece, and society’s elite flew in from all over the world to attend.
The Château de Matigny, at Cap d’Antibes, was one of the showplaces of France. The carefully manicured grounds were superb, and the château itself dated back to the fifteenth century. On the evening of the fete, the grand ballroom and the petit ballroom were filled with beautifully dressed guests and smartly liveried servants offering endless glasses of champagne. Huge buffet tables were set up, displaying an astonishing array of hors d’oeuvres on Georgian silver platters.
Tracy, looking ravishing in a white lace gown, her hair dressed high and held in place by a diamond tiara, was dancing with her host, Count de Matigny, a widower in his late sixties, small and trim, with pale, delicate features. The benefit ball the count gives each year for the Children’s Hospital is a racket, Gunther Hartog had told Tracy. Ten percent of the money goes to the children—ninety percent goes into his pocket.
“You are a superb dancer, Duchess,” the count said.
Tracy smiled. “That’s because of my partner.”
“How is it that you and I have not met before?”
“I’ve been living in South America,” Tracy explained. “In the jungles, I’m afraid.”
“Why on earth!”
“My husband owns a few mines in Brazil.”
“Ah. And is your husband here this evening?”
“No. Unfortunately, he had to stay in Brazil and take care of business.”
“Unlucky for him. Lucky for me.” His arm tightened around her waist. “I look forward to our becoming very good friends.”
“And I, too,” Tracy murmured.
Over the count’s shoulder Tracy suddenly caught sight of Jeff Stevens, looking suntanned and ridiculously fit. He was dancing with a beautiful, willowy brunet in crimson taffeta, who was clinging to him possessively. Jeff saw Tracy at the same moment and smiled.
The bastard has every reason to smile, Tracy thought grimly. During the previous two weeks Tracy had meticulously planned two burglaries. She had broken into the first house and opened the safe, only to find it empty. Jeff Stevens had been there first. On the second occasion Tracy was moving through the grounds toward the targeted house when she heard the sudden acceleration of a car and caught a glimpse of Jeff as he sped away. He had beaten her to it again. He was infuriating. Now he’s here at the house I’m planning to burgle next, Tracy thought.
Jeff and his partner danced nearer. Jeff smiled and said, “Good evening, Count.”
The Count de Matigny smiled. “Ah, Jeffrey. Good evening. I’m so pleased that you could come.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Jeff indicated the voluptuous-looking woman in his arms. “This is Miss Wallace. The Count de Matigny.”
“Enchanté!” The count indicated Tracy. “Duchess, may I present Miss Wallace and Mr. Jeffrey Stevens? The Duchess de Larosa.”