"I'll see what I can do."

"Maximilian Pierpont is not an easy man to approach. However, there are two other pigeons also booked on the Orient Express Friday, bound for the film festival in Venice. I think they're ripe for plucking. Have you heard of Silvana Luadi?"

"The Italian movie star? Of course."

"She's married to Alberto Fornati, who produces those terrible epic films. Fornati is infamous for hiring actors and directors for very little cash, promising them big percentages of the profits, and keeping all the profits for himself. He manages to make enough to buy his wife very expensive jewels. The more unfaithful he is to her, the more jewelry he gives her. By this time Silvana should be able to open her own jewelry store. I'm sure you'll find all of them interesting company."

"I'm looking forward to it," Tracy said.

The Venice Simplon Orient Express departs from Victoria Station in London every Friday morning at 11:44, traveling from London to Istanbul, with intermediate stops in Boulogne, Paris, Lausanne, Milan, and Venice. Thirty minutes before departure a portable check-in counter is set up at the entrance to the boarding platform in the terminal, and two burly uniformed men roll a red rug up to the counter, elbowing aside eagerly waiting pa.s.sengers.

The new owners of the Orient Express had attempted to recreate the golden age of rail travel as it existed in the late nineteenth century, and the rebuilt train was a duplicate of the original, with a British Pullman car, wagon-lit restaurants, a bar-salon car, and sleeping cars.

An attendant in a 1920's marine-blue uniform with gold braid carried Tracy's two suitcases and her vanity case to her cabin, which was disappointingly small. There was a single seat, upholstered with a flower-patterned mohair. The rug, as well as the ladder that was used to reach the top berth, was covered in the same green plush. It was like being in a candy box.

Tracy read the card accompanying a small bottle of champagne in a silver bucket: OLIVER AUBERT, TRAIN MANAGER.

I'll save it until I have something to celebrate, Tracy decided. Maximilian Pierpont. Jeff Stevens had failed. It would be a wonderful feeling to top Mr. Stevens. Tracy smiled at the thought.

She unpacked in the cramped s.p.a.ce and hung up the clothes she would be needing. She preferred traveling on a Pan American jet rather than a train; but this journey promised to be an exciting one.

Exactly on schedule, the Orient Express began to move out of the station. Tracy sat back in her seat and watched the southern suburbs of London roll by.

At 1:15 that afternoon the train arrived at the port of Folkestone, where the pa.s.sengers transferred to the Sealink ferry, which would take them across the channel to Boulogne, where they would board another Orient Express heading south.

Tracy approached one of the attendants. "I understand Maximilian Pierpont is traveling with us. Could you point him out to me?"

The attendant shook his head. "I wish I could, ma'am. He booked his cabin and paid for it, but he never showed up. Very unpredictable gentleman, so I'm told."

That left Silvana Luadi and her husband, the producer of forgettable epics.

In Boulogne, the pa.s.sengers were escorted onto the continental Orient Express. Unfortunately, Tracy's cabin on the second train was identical to the one she had left, and the rough roadbed made the journey even more uncomfortable. She remained in her cabin all day making her plans, and at 8:00 in the evening she began to dress.

The dress code of the Orient Express recommended evening clothes, and Tracy chose a stunning dove-gray chiffon gown with gray hose and gray satin shoes. Her only jewelry was a single strand of matched pearls. She checked herself in the mirror before she left her quarters, staring at her reflection for a long time. Her green eyes had a look of innocence, and her face looked guileless and vulnerable. The mirror is lying, Tracy thought. I'm not that woman anymore. I'm living a masquerade. But an exciting one.

As Tracy left her cabin, her purse slipped out of her hand, and as she knelt down to retrieve it, she quickly examined the outside locks on the door. There were two of them: a Yale lock and a Universal lock. No problem. Tracy rose and moved on toward the dining cars.

There were three dining cars aboard the train. The seats were plush-covered, the walls were veneered, and the soft lights came from bra.s.s sconces topped with Lalique shades. Tracy entered the first dining room and noted several empty tables. The maitre d' greeted her. "A table for one, mademoiselle?"

Tracy looked around the room. "I'm joining some friends, thank you."

She continued on to the next dining car. This one was more crowded, but there were still several unoccupied tables.

"Good evening," the maitre d' said. "Are you dining alone?"

"No, I'm meeting someone. Thank you."

She moved on to the third dining car. There, every table was occupied.

The maitre d' stopped her at the door. "I'm afraid there will be a wait for a table, madam. There are available tables in the other dining cars, however."

Tracy looked around the room, and at a table in the far corner she saw what she was looking for. "That's all right," Tracy said. "I see friends."

She moved past the maitre d' and walked over to the corner table. "Excuse me," she said apologetically. "All the tables seem to be occupied. Would you mind if I joined you?"

The man quickly rose to his feet, took a good look at Tracy, and exclaimed, "Prego! Con piacere! I am Alberto Fornati and this is my wife, Silvans Luadi."

"Tracy Whitney." She was using her own pa.s.sport.

"Ah! e Americana! I speak the excellent English."

Alberto Fornati was short, bald; and fat. Why Silvana Luadi had ever married him had been the most lively topic in Rome for the twelve years they had been together. Silvana Luadi was a cla.s.sic beauty, with a sensational figure and a compelling, natural talent. She had won an Oscar and a Silver Palm award and was always in great demand. Tracy recognized that she was dressed in a Valentino evening gown that sold for five thousand dollars, and the jewelry she wore must have been worth close to a million. Tracy remembered Gunther Hartog's words: The more unfaithful he is to her, the more jewelry he gives her. By this time Silvana should be able to open her own jewelry store.

"This is your first time on the Orient Express, signorina?" Fornati opened the conversation, after Tracy was seated.

"Yes, it is."

"Ah, it is a very romantic train, filled with legend." His eyes were moist. "There are many interessante tales about it. For instance, Sir Basil Zaharoff, the arms tyc.o.o.n, used to ride the old Orient Express--- always in the seventh compartment. One night he hears a scream and a pounding on his door. A bellissima young Spanish d.u.c.h.ess throws herself upon him." Fornati paused to b.u.t.ter a roll and take a bite. "Her husband was trying to murder her. The parents had arranged the marriage, and the poor girl now realized her husband was insane. Zaharoff restrained the husband and calmed the hysterical young woman and thus began a romance that lasted forty years."

"How exciting," Tracy said. Her eyes were wide with interest.

"S. Every year after that they meet on the Orient Express, he in compartment number seven, she in number eight. When her husband died; the lady and Zaharoff were married, and as a token of his love, he bought her the casino at Monte Carlo as a wedding gift."

"What a beautiful story, Mr. Fornati."

Silvana Luadi sat in stony silence.

"Mangia," Fornati urged Tracy. "Eat."

The menu consisted of six courses, and Tracy noted that Alberto Fornati ate each one and finished what his wife left on her plate. In between bites he kept up a constant chatter.

"You are an actress, perhaps?" he asked Tracy.

She laughed. "Oh no. I'm just a tourist."

He beamed at her. "Bellissima. You are beautiful enough to be an actress."

"She said she is not an actress," Silvana said sharply.

Alberto Fornati ignored her. "I produce motion pictures," he told Tracy. "You have heard of them, of course: Wild Savages, The t.i.tans versus Superwoman...."

"I don't see many movies," Tracy apologized. She felt his fat leg press against hers under the table.

"Perhaps I can arrange to show you some of mine."

Silvana turned white with anger.

"Do you ever get to Rome, my dear?" His leg was moving up and down against Tracy's.

"As a matter of fact, I'm planning to go to Rome after Venice."

"Splendid! Benissimo! We will all get together for dinner. Won't we, cara?" He gave a quick glance toward Silvana before he continued. "We have a lovely villa off the Appian Way. Ten acres of---" His hand made a sweeping gesture and knocked a bowl of gravy into his wife's lap. Tracy could not be sure whether it was deliberate or not.

Silvana Luadi rose to her feet and looked at the spreading stain on her dress. "Sei un mascalzone!" she screamed. "Tieni le tue puttane lontano da me!"

She stormed out of the dining car, every eye following her.

"What a shame," Tracy murmured. "It's such a beautiful dress." She could have slapped the man for degrading his wife. She deserves every carat of jewelry she has, Tracy thought, and more.

He sighed. "Fornati will buy her another one. Pay no attention to her manners. She is very jealous of Fornati."

"I'm sure she has good reason to be." Tracy covered her irony with a small smile.

He preened. "It is true. Women find Fornati very attractive."

It was all Tracy could do to keep from bursting out laughing at the pompous little man. "I can understand that."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "Fornati likes you," he said. "Fornati likes you very much. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a legal secretary. I saved up all my money for this trip. I hope to get an interesting position in Europe."

His bulging eyes roved over her body. "You will have no problem, Fornati promises you. He is very nice to people who are very nice to him."

"How wonderful of you," Tracy said shyly.

He lowered his voice. "Perhaps we could discuss this later this evening in your cabin?"

"That might be embarra.s.sing."

"Perche? Why?"

"You're so famous. Everyone on the train probably knows who you are."

"Naturally."

"If they see you come to my cabin--- well, you know, some people might misunderstand. Of course, if your cabin is near mine... What number are you in?"

"E settanta--- seventy." He looked at her hopefully.

Tracy sighed. "I'm in another car. Why don't we meet in Venice?"

He beamed. "Bene! My wife, she stays in her room most of the time. She cannot stand the sun on her face. Have you ever been to Venezia?"

"No."

"Ah. You and I shall go to Torcello, a beautiful little island with a wonderful restaurant, the Locanda Cipriani. It is also a small hotel." His eyes gleamed. "Molto privato."

Tracy gave him a slow, understanding smile. "It sounds exciting." She lowered her eyes, too overcome to say more.

Fornati leaned forward, squeezed her hand, and whispered wetly, "You do not know what excitement is yet, cara."

Half an hour later Tracy was back in her cabin.

The Orient Express sped through the lonely night, past Paris and Dijon and Vallarbe, while the pa.s.sengers slept. They had turned in their pa.s.sports the evening before, and the border formalities would be handled by the conductors.

At 3:30 in the morning Tracy quietly left her compartment. The timing was critical. The train would cross the Swiss border and reach Lausanne at 5:21 A.M. and was due to arrive in Milan, Italy, at 9:15 A.M.

Clad in pajamas and robe, and carrying a sponge bag, Tracy moved down the corridor, every sense alert, the familiar excitement making her pulse leap. There were no toilets in the cabins of the train, but there were some located at the end of each car. If Tracy was questioned, she was prepared to say that she was looking for the ladies' room, but she encountered no one. The conductors and porters were taking advantage of the early-morning hours to catch up on their sleep.

Tracy reached Cabin E 70 without incident. She quietly tried the doork.n.o.b. The door was locked. Tracy opened the sponge bag and took out a metallic object and a small bottle with a syringe, and went to work.

Ten minutes later she was back in her cabin, and thirty minutes after that she was asleep, with the trace of a smile on her freshly scrubbed face.

At 7:00 A.M., two hours before the Orient Express was due to arrive in Milan, a series of piercing screams rang out. They came from Cabin E 70, and they awakened the entire car. Pa.s.sengers poked their heads out of their cabins to see what was happening. A conductor came hurrying along the car and entered E 70.

Silvana Luadi was in hysterics. "Aiuto! Help!" she screamed. "All my jewelry is gone! This miserable train is full of ladri--- thieves!"

"Please calm down, madame," the conductor begged. "The other---"

"Calm down!" Her voice went up an octave. "How dare you tell me to calm down, stupido maiale! Someone has stolen more than a million dollars' worth of my jewels!"

"How could this have happened?" Alberto Fornati demanded. "The door was locked--- and Fornati is a light sleeper. If anyone had entered, I would have awakened instantly."

The conductor sighed. He knew only too well how it had happened, because it had happened before. During the night someone had crept down the corridor and sprayed a syringe full of ether through the keyhole. The locks would have been child's play for someone who knew what he was doing. The thief would have closed the door behind him, looted the room, and, having taken what he wanted, quietly crept back to his compartment while his victims were still unconscious. But there was one thing about this burglary that was different from the others. In the past the thefts had not been discovered until after the train had reached its destination, so the thieves had had a chance to escape. This was a different situation. No one had disembarked since the robbery, which meant that the jewelry still had to be on board.

"Don't worry," the conductor promised the Fornatis. "You'll get your jewels back. The thief is still on this train."

He hurried forward to telephone the police in Milan.

When the Orient Express pulled into the Milan terminal, twenty uniformed policemen and plainclothes detectives lined the station platform, with orders not to let any pa.s.sengers or baggage off the train.

Luigi Ricci, the inspector in charge, was taken directly to the Fornati compartment.

If anything, Silvana Luadi's hysteria had increased. "Every bit of jewelry I owned was in that jewel case," she screamed. "And none of it was insured!"

The inspector examined the empty jewel case. "You are sure you put your jewels in there last night, signora?"