She walked over to the picture window and looked out at the distant boats anchored in the bay. Tell me, God, what made you decide that Lois Bellamy should live in this beautiful house and that I should be here robbing it? Come on, girl, she told herself, don’t get philosophical. This is a one-time thing. It will be over in a few minutes, but not if you stand here doing nothing.
She turned from the window and walked over to the portrait Morgan had described. Lois Bellamy had a hard, arrogant look. It’s true. She does look like a horrible woman. The painting swung outward, away from the wall, and behind it was a small safe. Tracy had memorized the combination. Three turns to the right, stop at forty-two. Two turns to the left, stop at ten. One turn to the right, stop at thirty. Her hands were trembling so much that she had to start over twice. She heard a click. The door was open.
The safe was filled with thick envelopes and papers, but Tracy ignored them. At the back, resting on a small shelf, was a chamois jewelry bag. Tracy reached for it and lifted it from the shelf. At that instant the burglar alarm went off, and it was the loudest sound Tracy had ever heard. It seemed to reverberate from every corner of the house, screaming out its warning. She stood there, paralyzed, in shock.
What had gone wrong? Had Conrad Morgan not known about the alarm inside the safe that was activated when the jewels were removed?
She had to get out quickly. She scooped the chamois bag into her pocket and started running toward the stairs. And then, over the sound of the alarm, she heard another sound, the sound of an approaching siren. Tracy stood at the top of the staircase, terrified, her heart racing, her mouth dry. She hurried to a window, raised the curtain, and peered out. A black-and-white patrol car was pulling up in front of the house. As Tracy watched, a uniformed policeman ran toward the back of the house, while a second one moved toward the front door. There was no escape. The alarm bells were still clanging, and suddenly they sounded like the terrible bells in the corridors of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women.
No! thought Tracy. I won’t let them send me back there.
The front doorbell shrilled.
Lieutenant Melvin Durkin had been on the Sea Cliff police force for ten years. Sea Cliff was a quiet town, and the main activity of the police was handling vandalism, a few car thefts, and occasional Saturday-night drunken brawls. The setting-off of the Bellamy alarm was in a different category. It was the type of criminal activity for which Lieutenant Durkin had joined the force. He knew Lois Bellamy and was aware of what a valuable collection of paintings and jewelry she owned. With her away, he had made it a point to check the house from time to time, for it was a tempting target for a cat burglar. And now, Lieutenant Durkin thought, it looks like I’ve caught one. He had been only two blocks away when the radio call had come in from the security company. This is going to look good on my record. Damned good.
Lieutenant Durkin pressed the front doorbell again. He wanted to be able to state in his report that he had rung it three times before making a forcible entry. His partner was covering the back, so there was no chance of the burglar’s escaping. He would probably try to conceal himself on the premises, but he was in for a surprise. No one could hide from Melvin Durkin.
As the lieutenant reached for the bell for the third time, the front door suddenly opened. The policeman stood there staring. In the doorway was a woman dressed in a filmy nightgown that left little to the imagination. Her face was covered with a mudpack, and her hair was tucked into a curler cap.
She demanded, “What on earth is going on?”
Lieutenant Durkin swallowed. “I…who are you?”
“I’m Ellen Branch. I’m a houseguest of Lois Bellamy’s. She’s away in Europe.”