"No trouble at all," the purser smiled. "Your young lady is really wizard, isn't she?"
"She certainly is."
"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Stevens, where in the world did she learn to play chess like that?"
Jeff leaned close and confided, "I heard she studied with Bobby Fischer."
The purser took two large manila envelopes out of the safe. "This is a lot of cash to carry around. Would you like me to give you a check for this amount?"
"No, don't bother. The cash will be fine," Jeff assured him. "I wonder if you could do me a favor? The mail boat comes out to meet the ship before it docks, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Sir. We're expecting it at six A.M."
"I'd appreciate it if you could arrange for me to leave on the mail boat. My mother is seriously ill, and I'd like to get to her before it's" - his voice dropped - "before it's too late."
"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr. Stevens. Of course I can handle that for you. I'll make the arrangements with customs."
At 6:15 A.M. Jeff Stevens, with the two envelopes carefully stashed away in his suitcase, climbed down the ship's ladder into the mail boat. He turned to take one last look at the outline of the huge ship towering above him. The passengers on the liner were sound asleep. Jeff would be on the dock long before the QE II landed. "It was a beautiful voyage," Jeff said to one of the crewmen on the mail boat.
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" a voice agreed.
Jeff turned around. Tracy was seated on a coil of rope, her hair blowing softly around her face.
"Tracy! What are you doing here?"
"What do you think I'm doing?"
He saw the expression on her face. "Wait a minute! You didn't think I was going to run out on you?"
"Why would I think that?" Her tone was bitter.
"Tracy, I left a note for you. I was going to meet you at the Savoy and - "
"Of course you were," she said cuttingly. "You never give up, do you?"
He looked at her, and there was nothing more for him to say.
In Tracy's suite at the Savoy, she watched carefully as Jeff counted out the money. "Your share comes to one hundred and one thousand dollars."
"Thank you." Her tone was icy.
Jeff said, "You know, you're wrong about me, Tracy. I wish you'd give me a chance to explain. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "All right."
"Good. I'll pick you up at eight o'clock."
When Jeff Stevens arrived at the hotel that evening and asked for Tracy, the room clerk said, "I'm sorry, sir. Miss Whitney checked out early this afternoon. She left no forwarding address."
Chapter 21
It was the handwritten invitation. Tracy decided later, that changed her life.
After, collecting her share of the money from Jeff Stevens, Tracy checked out of the Savoy and moved into 47 Park Street, a quiet, semiresidential hotel with large, pleasant rooms and superb service.
On her second day in London the invitation was delivered to her suite by the hall porter. It was written in a fine, copperplate handwriting: "A mutual friend has suggested that it might be advantageous for us to become acquainted. Won't you join me for tea at the Ritz this afternoon at 4:00? If you will forgive the clichй, I will be wearing a red carnation." It was signed "Gunther Hartog."
Tracy had never heard of him. Her first inclination was to ignore the note, but her curiosity got the better of her, and at 4:15 she was at the entrance of the elegant dining hall of the Ritz Hotel. She noticed him immediately. He was in his sixties, Tracy guessed, an interesting-looking man with a lean, intellectual face. His skin was smooth and clear, almost translucent. He was dressed in an expensively tailored gray suit and wore a red carnation in his lapel.
As Tracy walked toward his table, he rose and bowed slightly. "Thank you for accepting my invitation."
He seated her with an old-fashioned gallantry that Tracy found attractive. He seemed to belong to another world. Tracy could not imagine what on earth he wanted with her.
"I came because I was curious," Tracy confessed, "but are you sure you haven't confused me with some other Tracy Whitney?"
Gunther Hartog smiled. "From what I have heard, there is only one Tracy Whitney."
"What exactly have you heard?"
"Shall we discuss that over tea?"
Tea consisted of finger sandwiches, filled with chopped egg, salmon, cucumber, watercress, and chicken. There were hot scones with clotted cream and jam, and freshly made pastries, accompanied by Twinings tea. As they ate, they talked.
"Your note mentioned a mutual friend," Tracy began.
"Conrad Morgan. I do business with him from time to time."
I did business with him once, Tracy thought grimly. And he tried to cheat me.
"He's a great admirer of yours," Gunther Hartog was saying.
Tracy looked at her host more closely. He had the bearing of an aristocrat and the look of wealth. What does he want with me? Tracy wondered again. She decided to let him pursue the subject, but there was no further mention of Conrad Morgan or of what possible mutual benefit there could be between Gunther Hartog and Tracy Whitney.
Tracy found the meeting enjoyable and intriguing. Gunther told her about his background. "I was born in Munich. My father was a banker. He was wealthy, and I'm afraid I grew up rather spoiled, surrounded by beautiful paintings and antiques. My mother was Jewish, and when Hitler came to power, my father refused to desert my mother, and so he was stripped of everything. They were both killed in the bombings. Friends smuggled me out of Germany to Switzerland, and when the war was over, I decided not to return to Germany. I moved London and opened a small antique shop on Mount Street. I hope that you will visit it one day."