In Their Footsteps / Thief of Hearts

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Why wouldn’t it be a burglar?” asked Beryl.

  “It’s just—one shouldn’t draw conclusions.”

  “Of course it’s a burglar,” said Hugh. “Why else would one break into Guy’s house?”

  “There could be other…explanations. Couldn’t there?”

  No one answered.

  Smiling, Jordan took a sip of soda water. But the whole time he felt his sister’s gaze, watching him closely.

  Suspiciously.

  The phone was ringing when Clea returned to her hotel room. Before she could answer it, the ringing stopped, but she knew it would start up again. Tony must be anxious. She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Eventually she would have to, of course, but first she needed a chance to recover from the night’s near catastrophe, a chance to figure out what she should do next. What Tony should do next.

  She rooted around in her suitcase and found the miniature bottle of brandy she’d picked up on the airplane. She went into the bathroom, poured out a splash into a water glass and stood sipping the drink, staring dejectedly at her reflection in the mirror. In the car she’d managed to wipe away most of the camouflage paint, but there were still smudges of it on her temples and down one side of her nose. She turned on the faucet, wet a facecloth and scrubbed away the rest of the paint.

  The phone was ringing again.

  Carrying her glass, she went into the bedroom and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Clea?” said Tony. “What happened?”

  She sank onto the bed. “I didn’t get it.”

  “Did you get in the house?”

  “Of course I got in!” Then, more softly, she said, “I was close. So close. I searched the downstairs, but it wasn’t there. I’d just gotten upstairs when I was rudely interrupted.”

  “By Delancey?”

  “No. By another burglar. Believe it or not.” She managed a tired laugh. “Delancey’s house seems to be quite the popular place to rob.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Tony asked a question that instantly chilled her. “Are you sure it was just a burglar? Are you sure it wasn’t one of Van Weldon’s men?”

  At the mention of that name, Clea’s fingers froze around the glass of brandy. “No,” she murmured.

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? They may have figured out what you’re up to. Now they’ll be after the Eye of Kashmir.”

  “They couldn’t have followed me! I was so careful.”

  “Clea, you don’t know these people—”

  “The hell I don’t!” she retorted. “I know exactly who I’m dealing with!”

  After a pause Tony said softly, “I’m sorry. Of course you know. You know better than anyone. But I’ve had my ear to the ground. I’ve been hearing things.”

  “What things?”

  “Van Weldon’s got friends in London. Friends in high places.”

  “He has friends everywhere.”

  “I’ve also heard…” Tony’s voice dropped. “They’ve upped the ante. You’re worth a million dollars to them, Clea. Dead.”

  Her hands were shaking. She took a desperate gulp of brandy. At once her eyes watered, tears of rage and despair. She blinked them away.

  “I think you should try the police again,” Tony said.

  “I’m not repeating that mistake.”

  “What’s the alternative? Running for the rest of your life?”

  “The evidence is there. All I have to do is get my hands on it. Then they’ll have to believe me.”

  “You can’t do it on your own, Clea!”

  “I can do it. I’m sure I can.”

  “Delancey will know someone’s broken in. Within twenty-four hours he’ll have his house burglarproof.”

  “Then I’ll get in some other way.”

  “How?”

  “By walking in his front door. He has a weakness, you know. For women.”

  Tony groaned. “Clea, no.”

  “I can handle him.”

  “You think you can—”

  “I’m a big girl, Tony. I can deal with a man like Delancey.”

  “This makes me sick. To think of you and…” He made a sound of disgust. “I’m going to the police.”

  Firmly Clea set down her glass. “Tony,” she said. “There’s no other way. I have some breathing space now. A week, maybe more before Van Weldon figures out where I am. I have to make the most of it.”

  “Delancey may not be so easy.”

  “To him I’ll just be another dimwitted bimbo. A rich one, I think. That should get his attention.”

  “And if he gives you too much attention?”

  Clea paused. The thought of actually making love to that oily Guy Delancey was enough to nauseate her. With any luck, it would never get that far.

  She’d see to it it never got that far.

  “I’ll handle it,” she said. “You just keep your ear to the ground. Find out if anything else has come up for sale. And stay out of sight.”

  After she’d hung up, Clea sat on the bed, thinking about the last time she’d seen Tony. It had been in Brussels. They’d both been happy, so very happy! Tony had had a brand-new wheelchair, a sporty edition, he called it, for upper-body athletes. He had just received a fabulous commission for the sale of four medieval tapestries to an Italian industrialist. Clea had been about to leave for Naples, to finalize the purchase. Together they had celebrated not just their good fortune but the fact they’d finally found their way out of the darkness of their youth. The darkness of their shared past. They’d laughed and drunk wine and talked about the men in her life, the women in his, and about the peculiar hazards of courting from a wheelchair. Then they’d parted.

  What a difference a month made.

  She reached for her glass and drained the last of the brandy. Then she went to her suitcase and dug around in her clothes until she found what she was looking for: the box of Miss Clairol. She stared at the model’s hair on the box, wondering if perhaps she should have chosen something more subtle. No, Guy Delancey wasn’t the type to go for subtle. Brazen was more his style.

  And “cinnamon red” should do the trick.

  “I’ve checked the name Nimrod Associates,” said Richard. “There’s no such security firm. At least, not in England.”

  The three of them were sitting on the terrace, enjoying a late breakfast. As usual, Beryl and Richard were snuggling cheek to cheek, laughing and darting amorous glances at each other. In short, behaving precisely as one would expect a newly engaged couple to behave. Some of that snuggling might be due to the unexpected chill in the air. Summer was definitely over, Jordan thought with regret. But the sun was shining, the gardens still clung stubbornly to their blossoms and a bracing breakfast on the terrace was just the thing to clear the fog of last night’s champagne from his head.

  Now, after two cups of coffee, Jordan’s brain was finally starting to function. It wasn’t just the champagne that had left him feeling muddled this morning; it was the lack of sleep. Several times in the night he’d awakened, sweating, from the same dream.

  About the woman. Though her face had been obscured by darkness, her hair was a vivid halo of silvery ripples. She had reached up to him, her fingers caressing his face, her flesh hot and welcoming. As their lips had met, as his hands had slid into those silvery coils of hair, he’d felt her body move against his in that sweet and ancient dance. He’d gazed into her eyes. The eyes of a panther.

  Now, by the light of morning, the symbolism of that nightmare was all too clear. Panthers. Dangerous women.

  He shook off the image and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  Beryl took a nibble of toast and marmalade, the whole time watching him. “Tell me, Jordie,” she said. “Where did you hear about Nimrod Associates?”

  “What?” Jordan glanced guiltily at his sister. “Oh, I don’t know. A while ago.”

  “I thought it came up last night,” said Richard.

  Jordan reached automatica
lly for a slice of toast. “Yes, I suppose that’s when I heard it. Veronica must have mentioned the name.”

  Beryl was still watching him. This was the downside of being so close to one’s sister; she could tell when he was being evasive.

  “I notice you’re rather chummy with Veronica Cairncross these days,” she observed.

  “Oh, well.” He laughed. “We try to keep up the friendship.”

  “At one time, I recall, it was more than friendship.”

  “That was ages ago.”

  “Yes. Before she was married.”

  Jordan looked at her with feigned astonishment. “You’re not thinking…good Lord, you can’t possibly imagine…”

  “You’ve been acting so odd lately. I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Save for the fact I’ve recently taken up a life of crime, he thought.

  He took a sip of tepid coffee and almost choked on it when Richard said, “Look. It’s the police.”

  An official car had turned onto Chetwynd’s private road. It pulled into the gravel driveway and out stepped Constable Glenn, looking trim and snappy in uniform. He waved to the trio on the terrace.

  As the policeman came up the steps, Jordan thought, This is it, then. I’ll be ignominiously hauled off to prison. My face in the papers, my name disgraced…

  “Good morning to you all,” said Constable Glenn cheerily. “May I inquire if Lord Lovat’s about?”

  “You’ve just missed him,” said Beryl. “Uncle Hugh’s gone off to London for the week.”

  “Oh. Well, perhaps I should speak with you, then.”

  “Do sit down.” Beryl smiled and indicated a chair. “Join us for some breakfast.”

  Oh, lovely, thought Jordan. What would she offer him next? Tea? Coffee? My brother, the thief?

  Constable Glenn sat down and smiled primly at the cup of coffee set before him. He took a sip, careful not to let his mustache get wet. “I suppose,” he said, setting his cup down, “that you know about the robbery at Mr. Delancey’s residence.”

  “We heard about it last night,” said Beryl. “Have you any leads?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. We have a pretty good idea what we’re dealing with here.” Constable Glenn looked at Jordan and smiled.

  Weakly, Jordan smiled back.

  “A matter of excellent police work, I’m sure,” said Beryl.

  “Well, not exactly,” admitted the constable. “More a case of carelessness on the burglar’s part. You see, she dropped her stocking cap. We found it in Mr. Delancey’s bedroom.”

  “She?” said Richard. “You mean the burglar’s a woman?”

  “We’re going on that assumption, though we could be wrong. There was a very long strand of hair in the cap. Blond. It would’ve reached well below her—or his—shoulders. Does that sound like anyone you might know?” Again he looked at Jordan.

  “No one I can think of,” Jordan said quickly. “That is—there are some blondes in our circle of acquaintances. But not a burglar among them.”

  “It could be anyone. Anyone at all. It’s not the first break-in we’ve had in this neighborhood. Three just this year. And the culprit might even be someone you know. You’d be surprised, Mr. Tavistock, what sort of misbehavior occurs, even in your social circle.”

  Jordan cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine.”

  “This woman, whoever she is, is quite bold. She entered through a downstairs locked door. Got upstairs without alarming the butler. Only then did she get careless—caused a bit of a racket. That’s when she was chased out.”

  “Was anything taken?” asked Beryl.

  “Not so far as Mr. Delancey knows.”

  So Guy Delancey didn’t report the stolen letters, thought Jordan. Or perhaps he never even noticed they were missing.

  “This time she slipped up,” said Constable Glenn. “But there’s always the chance she’ll strike again. That’s what I came to warn you about. These things come in waves, you see. A certain neighborhood will be chosen. Delancey’s house isn’t that far from here, so Chetwynd could be in her target zone.” He said it with the authority of one who had expert knowledge of the criminal mind. “A residence as grand as yours would be quite a temptation.” Again he looked directly at Jordan.

  Again Jordan had that sinking feeling that the good Constable Glenn knew more than he was letting on. Or is it just my guilty conscience?

  Constable Glenn rose and addressed Beryl. “You’ll let Lord Lovat know of my concerns?”

  “Of course,” said Beryl. “I’m sure we’ll be perfectly all right. After all, we do have a security expert on the premises.” She beamed at Richard. “And he’s quite trustworthy.”

  “I’ll look over the household arrangements,” said Richard. “We’ll beef up security as necessary.”

  Constable Glenn nodded in satisfaction. “Good day, then. I’ll let you know how things develop.”

  They watched the constable march smartly back to his car. As it drove away, up the tree-lined road, Richard said, “I wonder why he felt the need to warn us personally.”

  “As a special favor to Uncle Hugh, I’m sure,” said Beryl. “Constable Glenn was employed by MI6 years ago as a ‘watcher’—domestic surveillance. I think he still feels like part of the team.”

  “Still, I get the feeling there’s something else going on.”

  “A woman burglar,” said Beryl thoughtfully. “My, we have come a long way.” Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Lord, what a relief to hear it’s a she!”

  “Why?” asked Richard.

  “Oh, it’s just too ridiculous to mention.”

  “Tell me, anyway.”

  “You see, after last night, I thought—I mean, it occurred to me that—” She laughed harder. She sat back, flush with merriment, and pressed her hand to her mouth. Between giggles she managed to choke out the words. “I thought Jordie might be the cat burglar!”

  Richard burst out laughing, as well. Like two giddy school kids, he and Beryl collapsed against each other in a fit of the sillies.

  Jordan’s response was to calmly bite off a corner of his toast. Though his throat had gone dry as chalk, he managed to swallow down a mouthful of crumbs. “I fail to see the humor in all this,” he said.

  They only laughed harder as he bore the abuse with a look of injured dignity.

  Clea spotted Guy Delancey walking toward the refreshment tent. It was the three-minute time-out between the third and fourth chukkers, and a general exodus was under way from the polo viewing stands. Briefly she lost sight of him in the press of people, and she felt a momentary panic that all her detective work would be for nothing. She’d made a few discreet inquiries in the village that morning, had learned that most of the local gentry would almost certainly be headed for the polo field that afternoon. Armed with that tip, she’d called Delancey’s house, introduced herself as Lady So-and-So, and asked the butler if Mr. Delancey was still meeting her at the polo game as he’d promised.

  The butler assured her that Mr. Delancey would be at the field.

  It had taken her the past hour to track him down in the crowd. She wasn’t about to lose him now.

  She pressed ahead, plunging determinedly into the Savile-Row-and-silk-scarf set. The smell of the polo field, of wet grass and horseflesh, was quickly overpowered by the scent of expensive perfumes. With an air of regal assuredness—pure acting on her part—Clea swept into the green-and-white-striped tent and glanced around at the well-heeled crowd. There were dozens of tables draped in linen, silver buckets overflowing with ice and champagne, fresh-faced girls in starched aprons whisking about with trays and glasses. And the ladies—what hats they wore! What elegant vowels tripped from their tongues! Clea paused, her confidence suddenly wavering. Lord, she’d never pull this off….

  She glimpsed Delancey by the bar. He was standing alone, nursing a drink. Now or never, she thought.

  She swayed over to the
counter and edged in close to Delancey. She didn’t look at him, but kept her attention strictly focused on the young fellow manning the bar.

  “A glass of champagne,” she said.

  “Champagne, coming up,” said the bartender.

  As she waited for the drink, she sensed Delancey’s gaze. Casually she shifted around so that she was almost, but not quite, looking at him. He was indeed facing her.

  The bartender slid across her drink. She took a sip and gave a weary sigh. Then she drew her fingers slowly, sensuously, through her mane of red hair.

  “Been a long day, has it?”

  Clea glanced sideways at Delancey. He was fashionably tanned and impeccably dressed in autumn-weight cashmere. Though tall and broad shouldered, his once striking good looks had gone soft and a bit jowly, and the hand clutching the whiskey glass had a faint tremor. What a waste, she thought, and smiled at him prettily.

  “It has been rather a long day.” She sighed, and took another sip. “Afraid I’m not very good in airplanes. And now my friends haven’t shown up as promised.”

  “You’ve just flown in? From where?”

  “Paris. Went on holiday for a few weeks, but decided to cut it short. Dreadfully unfriendly there.”

  “I was there just last month. Didn’t feel welcome at all. I recommend you try Provence. Much friendlier.”

  “Provence? I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He sidled closer. “You’re not English, are you?”

  She smiled at him coyly. “You can tell?”

  “The accent—what, American?”

  “My, you’re quick,” she said, and noted how he puffed up with the compliment. “You’re right, I’m American. But I’ve been living in London for some time. Ever since my husband died.”

  “Oh.” He shook his head sympathetically. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He was eighty-two.” She sipped again, gazing at him over the rim of her glass. “It was his time.”

  She could read the thoughts going through his transparent little head. Filthy rich old man, no doubt. Why else would a lovely young thing marry him? Which makes her a rich widow….

  He moved closer. “Did you say your friends were supposed to meet you here?”