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."
"S屑." 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.
Chapter 23
The seven-story headquarters building of Interpol, the International Criminal Police Organization, is at 26 Rue Armengaud, in the hills of St. Cloud, about six miles west of Paris, discreetly hidden behind a high green fence and white stone walls. The gate at the street entrance is locked twenty-four hours a day, and visitors are admitted only after being scrutinized through a closed-circuit television system. Inside the building, at the head of the stairs at each floor, are white iron gates which are locked at night, and every floor is equipped with a separate alarm system and closed-circuit television.
The extraordinary security is mandatory, for within this building are kept the world's most elaborate dossiers with files on two and a half million criminals. Interpol is a clearinghouse of information for 126 police forces in 78 countries, and coordinates the worldwide activities of police forces in dealing with swindlers, counterfeiters, narcotics smugglers, robbers, and murderers. It disseminates up-to-the-second information by an updated bulletin called a circulation; by radio, photo-telegraphy, and early-bird satellite. The Paris headquarters is manned by former detectives from the S?ret泄 Nationale or the Paris Pr泄fecture.
On an early May morning a conference was under way in the office of Inspector Andr泄 Trignant, in charge of Interpol headquarters. The office was comfortable and simply furnished, and the view was breathtaking. In the far distance to the east, the Eiffel Tower loomed, and in another direction the white dome of the Sacr泄 Coeur in Montmartre was clearly visible. The inspector was in his mid-forties, an attractive, authoritative figure, with an intelligent face, dark hair, and shrewd brown eyes behind black horn-rimmed glasses. Seated in the office with him were detectives from England, Belgium, France, and Italy.
"Gentlemen," Inspector Trignant said, "I have received urgent requests from each of your countries for information about the rash of crimes that has recently sprung up all over Europe. Half a dozen countries have been hit by an epidemic of ingenious swindles and burglaries, in which there are several similarities. The victims are of unsavory reputation, there is never violence involved, and the perpetrator is always a female. We have reached the conclusion that we are facing an international gang of women. We have identi-kit pictures based on the descriptions by victims and random witnesses. As you will see, none of the women in the pictures is alike. Some are blond, some brunet. They have variously been reported as being English, French, Spanish, Italian, American - or Texan."
Inspector Trignant pressed a switch, and a series of pictures began to appear on the wall screen. "Here you see an identi-kit sketch of a brunet with short hair." He pressed the button again. "Here is a young blonde with a shag cut.... Here is another blonde with a perm... a brunet with a pageboy.... Here is an older woman with a French twist... a young woman with blond streaks... an older woman with a coup sauvage". He turned off the projector. "We have no idea who the gang's leader is or where their headquarters is located. They never leave any clues behind, and they vanish like smoke rings. Sooner or later we will catch one of them, and when we do, we shall get them all. In the meantime, gentlemen, until one of you can furnish us with some specific information, I am afraid we are at a dead end...."
When Daniel Cooper's plane landed in Paris, he was met at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport by one of Inspector Trignant's assistants, and driven to the Prince de Galles, next door to its more illustrious sister hotel, the