t was the beginning of a new life for Tracy. She purchased a beautiful old Georgian house at 45 Eaton Square that was bright and cheerful and perfect for entertaining. It had a Queen Anne--- British slang for a front garden--- and a Mary Anne--- a back garden--- and in season the flowers were magnificent. Gunther helped Tracy furnish the house, and before the two of them were finished, it was one of the showplaces of London.

Gunther introduced Tracy as a wealthy young widow whose husband had made his fortune in the import-export business. She was an instant success; beautiful, intelligent, and charming, she was soon inundated with invitations.

At intervals, Tracy made short trips to France and Switzerland and Belgium and Italy, and each time she and Gunther Hartog profited.

Under Gunther's tutelage, Tracy studied the Almanach de Gotha and Debrett's Peerage and Baronetage, the authoritative books listing detailed information on all the royalty and titles in Europe. Tracy became a chameleon, an expert in makeup and disguises and accents. She acquired half a dozen passports. In various countries, she was a British duchess, a French airline stewardess, and a South American heiress. In a year she had accumulated more money than she would ever need. She set up a fund from which she made large, anonymous contributions to organizations that helped former women prisoners, and she arranged for a generous pension to be sent to Otto Schmidt every month. She no longer even entertained the thought of quitting. She loved the challenge of outwitting clever, successful people. The thrill of each daring escapade acted like a drug, and Tracy found that she constantly needed new and bigger challenges. There was one credo she lived by: She was careful never to hurt the innocent. The people who jumped at her swindles were greedy or immoral, or both. No one will ever commit suicide because of what I've done to them, Tracy promised herself.

The newspapers began to carry stories of the daring escapades that were occurring all over Europe, and because Tracy used different disguises, the police were convinced that a rash of ingenious swindles and burglaries was being carried out by a gang of women. Interpol began to take an interest.

At the Manhattan headquarters of the International Insurance Protection Association, J. J. Reynolds sent for Daniel Cooper.

"We have a problem," Reynolds said. "A large number of our European clients are being hit apparently by a gang of women. Everybody's screaming bloody murder. They want the gang caught. Interpol has agreed to cooperate with us. It's your assignment, Dan. You leave for Paris in the morning."

Tracy was having dinner with Gunther at Scott's on Mount Street.

"Have you ever heard of Maximilian Pierpont, Tracy?"

The name sounded familiar. Where had she heard it before? She remembered. Jeff Stevens, on board the QE II, had said, "We're here for the same reason. Maximilian Pierpont."

"Very rich, isn't he?"

"And quite ruthless. He specializes in buying up companies and stripping them."

When Joe Romano took over the business, he fired everybody and brought in his own people to run things. Then he began to raid the company.... They took everything--- the business, this house, your mother's car....

Gunther was looking at her oddly. "Tracy, are you all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine." Sometimes life can be unfair, she thought, and it's up to us to even things out. "Tell me more about Maximilian Pierpont."

"His third wife just divorced him, and he's alone now. I think it might be profitable if you made the gentleman's acquaintance. He's booked on the Orient Express Friday, from London to Istanbul."

Tracy smiled. "I've never been on the Orient Express. I think I'd enjoy it."

Gunther smiled back. "Good. Maximilian Pierpont has the only important Fabergé egg collection outside of the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. It's conservatively estimated to be worth twenty million dollars."

"If I managed to get some of the eggs for you," Tracy asked, curious, "what would you do with them, Gunther? Wouldn't they be too well known to sell?"

"Private collectors, dear Tracy. You bring the little eggs to me, and I will find a nest for them."

"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 passengers.

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 space 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 passengers 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 passengers 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 brass sconces topped with Lalique shades. Tracy entered the first dining room and noted several empty tables. The maître 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 maître 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 maître 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 maître 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 passport.

"Ah! È 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 classic 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 tycoon, 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 duchess throws herself upon him." Fornati paused to butter 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.

"Sì. 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 Titans 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 embarrassing."

"Perché? 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 passengers slept. They had turned in their passports 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 doorknob. 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. Passengers 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 passengers 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?"

"Of course I am sure. I put them there every night." Her luminous eyes, which had thrilled millions of adoring fans, pooled over with large tears, and Inspector Ricci was ready to slay dragons for her.

He walked over to the compartment door, bent down, and sniffed the keyhole. He could detect the lingering odor of ether. There had been a robbery, and he intended to catch the unfeeling bandit.

Inspector Ricci straightened up and said, "Do not worry, signora. There is no way the jewels can be removed from this train. We will catch the thief, and your gems will be returned to you."

Inspector Ricci had every reason to be confident. The trap was tightly sealed, and there was no possibility for the culprit to get away.

One by one, the detectives escorted the passengers to a station waiting room that had been roped off, and they were expertly body searched. The passengers, many of them people of prominence, were outraged by this indignity.

"I'm sorry," Inspector Ricci explained to each of them, "but a million-dollar theft is a very serious business."

As each passenger was led from the train, detectives turned their cabins upside down. Every inch of space was examined. This was a splendid opportunity for Inspector Ricci, and he intended to make the most of it. When he recovered the stolen jewels, it would mean a promotion and a raise. His imagination became inflamed. Silvana Luadi would be so grateful to him that she would probably invite him to... He gave orders with renewed vigor.

There was a knock at Tracy's cabin door and a detective entered. "Excuse me, signorina. There has been a robbery. It is necessary to search all passengers. If you will come with me, please..."

"A robbery?" Her voice was shocked. "On this train?"

"I fear so, signorina."

When Tracy stepped out of her compartment, two detectives moved in, opened her suitcases, and began carefully sifting through the contents.

At the end of four hours the search had turned up several packets of marijuana, five ounces of cocaine, a knife, and an illegal gun. There was no sign of the missing jewelry.

Inspector Ricci could not believe it. "Have you searched the entire train?" he demanded of his lieutenant.

"Inspector, we have searched every inch. We have examined the engine, the dining rooms, the bar, the toilets, the compartments. We have searched the passengers and crew and examined every piece of luggage. I can swear to you that the jewelry is not on board this train. Perhaps the lady imagined the theft."

But Inspector Ricci knew better. He had spoken to the waiters, and they had confirmed that Silvana Luadi had indeed worn a dazzling display of jewelry at dinner the evening before.

A representative of the Orient Express had flown to Milan. "You cannot detain this train any longer," he insisted. "We are already far behind schedule."

Inspector Ricci was defeated. He had no excuse for holding the train any further. There was nothing more he could do. The only explanation he could think of was that somehow, during the night, the thief had tossed the jewels off the train to a waiting confederate. But could it have happened that way? The timing would have been impossible. The thief could not have known in advance when the corridor would be clear, when a conductor or passenger might be prowling about, what time the train would be at some deserted assignation point. This was a mystery beyond the inspector's power to solve.

"Let the train go on," he ordered.

He stood watching helplessly as the Orient Express slowly pulled out of the station. With it went his promotion, his raise, and a blissful orgy with Silvana Luadi.

The sole topic of conversation in the breakfast car was the robbery.

"It's the most exciting thing that's happened to me in years," confessed a prim teacher at a girls' school. She fingered a small gold necklace with a tiny diamond chip. "I'm lucky they didn't take this."

"Very," Tracy gravely agreed.

When Alberto Fornati walked into the dining car, he caught sight of Tracy and hurried over to her. "You know what happened, of course. But did you know it was Fornati's wife who was robbed?"

"No!"

"Yes! My life was in great danger. A gang of thieves crept into my cabin and chloroformed me. Fornati could have been murdered in his sleep."

"How terrible."

"È una bella fregatura! Now I shall have to replace all of Silvana's jewelry. It's going to cost me a fortune."

"The police didn't find the jewels?"

"No, but Fornati knows how the thieves got rid of them."

"Really! How?"

He looked around and lowered his voice. "An accomplice was waiting at one of the stations we passed during the night. The ladri threw the jewels out of the train, and--- ecco--- it was done."

Tracy said admiringly, "How clever of you to figure that out."

"Sì." He raised his brows meaningfully. "You will not forget our little tryst in Venezia?"

"How could I?" Tracy smiled.

He squeezed her arm hard. "Fornati is looking forward to it. Now I must go console Silvana. She is hysterical."

When the Orient Express arrived at the Santa Lucia station in Venice, Tracy was among the first passengers to disembark. She had her luggage taken directly to the airport and was on the next plane to London with Silvana Luadi's jewelry.

Gunther Hartog was going to be pleased.