On an afternoon in late August the French Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly swept into the lobby of the Hôtel du Palais. The baroness was an elegant young woman with a sleek cap of ash-blond hair. She wore a green-and-white silk Givency dress that set off a figure that made the women turn and watch her enviously, and the men gape.
The baroness walked up to the concierge. “Ma clé, s’il vous plaît,” she said. She had a charming French accent.
“Certainly, Baroness.” He handed Tracy her key and several telephone messages.
As Tracy walked toward the elevator, a bespectacled, rum-pled-looking man turned abruptly away from the vitrine displaying Hermes scarves and crashed into her, knocking the purse from her hand.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry.” He picked up her purse and handed it to her. “Please forgive me.” He spoke with a Middle European accent.
The Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly gave him an imperious nod and moved on.
An attendant ushered her into the elevator and let her off at the third floor. Tracy had chosen Suite 312, having learned that often the selection of the hotel accommodations was as important as the hotel its If. In Capri, it was Bungalow 522 in the Quisisana. In Majorca, it was the Royal Suite of Son Vida, overlooking the mountains and the distant bay. In New York, it was Tower Suite 4717 at The Helmsley Palace Hotel, and in Amsterdam, Room 325 at the Amstel, where one was lulled to sleep by the soothing lapping of the canal waters.
Suite 312 at the Hôtel du Palais had a panoramic view of both the ocean and the city. From every window Tracy could watch the waves crashing against the timeless rocks protruding from the sea like drowning figures. Directly below her window was an enormous kidney-shaped swimming pool, its bright blue water clashing with the gray of the ocean, and next to it a large terrace with umbrellas to ward off the summer sun. The walls of the suite were upholstered in blue-and-white silk damask, with marble baseboards, and the rugs and curtains were the color of faded sweetheart roses. The wood of the doors and shutters was stained with the soft patina of time.
When Tracy had locked the door behind her, she took off the tight-fitting blond wig and massaged her scalp. The baroness persona was one of her best. There were hundreds of titles to choose from in Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage and Almanach de Gotha. There were ladies and duchesses and princesses and baronesses and countesses by the score from two dozen countries, and the books were invaluable to Tracy, for they gave family histories dating back centuries, with the names of fathers and mothers and children, schools and houses, and addresses of family residences. It was a simple matter to select a prominent family and become a distant cousin—particularly a wealthy distant cousin. People were so impressed by titles and money.
Tracy thought of the stranger who had bumped into her in the hotel lobby and smiled. It had begun.
At 8:00 that evening the Baroness Marguerite de Chantilly was seated in the hotel’s bar when the man who had collided with her earlier approached her table.
“Excuse me,” he said diffidently, “but I must apologize again for my inexcusable clumsiness this afternoon.”
Tracy gave him a gracious smile. “That’s quite all right. It was an accident.”
“You are most kind.” He hesitated. “I would feel much better if you would permit me to buy you a drink.”
“Oui. If you wish.”
He slid into a chair opposite her. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Professor Adolf Zuckerman.”
“Marguerite de Chantilly.”
Zuckerman signaled the captain. “What are you drinking?” Zuckerman asked Tracy.
“Champagne. But perhaps—”
He raised a reassuring hand. “I can afford it. In fact, I am on the verge of being able to afford anything in the world.”
“Really?” Tracy gave him a small smile. “How nice for you.”
“Yes.”
Zuckerman ordered a bottle of Bollinger, then turned to Tracy. “The most extraordinary thing has happened to me. I really should not be discussing this with a stranger, but it is too exciting to keep to myself.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “To tell you the truth, I am a simple school-teacher—or I was, until recently. I teach history. It is most enjoyable, you understand, but not too exciting.”