Sidney Sheldon 3-Book Collection: If Tomorrow Comes, Nothing Lasts Forever, The Best Laid Plans. Sidney Sheldon
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friend suggested that I see him.’
‘Your name?’
‘Tracy Whitney.’
‘Just a moment, please.’
The receptionist picked up a telephone and murmured something into it that Tracy could not hear. She replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Morgan is occupied just now. He wonders if you could come back at six o’clock.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Tracy said.
She walked out of the shop and stood on the pavement, uncertainly. Coming to New York had been a mistake. There was probably nothing Conrad could do for her. And why should he? She was a complete stranger to him. He’ll give me a lecture and a handout. Well, I don’t need either. Not from him or anyone else. I’m a survivor. Somehow I’m going to make it. To hell with Conrad Morgan. I won’t go back to see him.
Tracy wandered the streets aimlessly, passing the glittering salons of Fifth Avenue, the guarded apartment buildings on Park Avenue, the bustling shops on Lexington and Third. She walked the streets of New York mindlessly, seeing nothing, filled with a bitter frustration.
At 6:00 she found herself back on Fifth Avenue, in front of Conrad Morgan et Cie Jewellers. The doorman was gone, and the door was locked. Tracy pounded on the door in a gesture of defiance and then turned away, but to her surprise, the door suddenly opened.
An avuncular-looking man stood there looking at her. He was bald, with ragged tufts of grey hair above his ears, and he had a jolly, rubicund face and twinkling blue eyes. He looked like a cheery little gnome. ‘You must be Miss Whitney?’
‘Yes …’
‘I’m Conrad Morgan. Please, do come in, won’t you?’
Tracy entered the deserted shop.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ Conrad Morgan said. ‘Let’s go into my office where we can talk.’
He led her through the shop to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like a flat than a place of business, with no desk, just couches, chairs, and tables artfully placed. The walls were covered with old masters.
‘Would you care for a drink?’ Conrad Morgan offered. ‘Whisky, cognac, or perhaps sherry?’
‘No, nothing, thank you.’
Tracy was suddenly nervous. She had dismissed the idea that this man would do anything to help her, yet at the same time she found herself desperately hoping that he could.
‘Betty Franciscus suggested that I look you up, Mr Morgan. She said you – you helped people who have been in … trouble.’ She could not bring herself to say prison.
Conrad Morgan clasped his hands together, and Tracy noticed how beautifully manicured they were.
‘Poor Betty. Such a lovely lady. She was unlucky, you know.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘Yes. She got caught.’
‘I – I don’t understand.’
‘It’s really quite simple, Miss Whitney. Betty used to work for me. She was well protected. Then the poor dear fell in love with a chauffeur from New Orleans and went off on her own. And, well … they caught her.’
Tracy was confused. ‘She worked for you here as a saleslady?’
Conrad Morgan sat back and laughed until his eyes filled with tears. ‘No, my dear,’ he said, wiping the tears away. ‘Obviously, Betty didn’t explain everything to you.’ He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘I have a very profitable little sideline, Miss Whitney, and I take great pleasure in sharing those profits with my colleagues. I have been most successful employing people like yourself – if you’ll forgive me – who have served time in prison.’
Tracy studied his face, more puzzled than ever.
‘I’m in a unique position, you see. I have an extremely wealthy clientele. My clients become my friends. They confide in me.’ He tapped his fingers together delicately. ‘I know when my customers take trips. Very few people travel with jewellery in these parlous times, so their jewels are locked away at home. I recommend to them the security measures they should take to protect them. I know exactly what jewels they own because they purchased them from me. They –’
Tracy found herself on her feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Morgan.’
‘Surely you’re not leaving already?’
‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying –’
‘Yes. Indeed, I am.’
She could feel her cheeks burning. ‘I’m not a criminal. I came here looking for a job.’
‘And I’m offering you one, my dear. It will take an hour or two of your time, and I can promise you twenty-five thousand dollars.’ He smiled impishly. ‘Tax free, of course.’
Tracy was fighting hard to control her anger. ‘I’m not interested. Would you let me out, please?’
‘Certainly, if that is your wish.’ He rose to his feet and showed her to the door. ‘You must understand, Miss Whitney, that if there were the slightest danger of anyone’s being caught, I would not be involved in this. I have my reputation to protect.’
‘I promise you I won’t say anything about it,’ Tracy said coldly.
He grinned. ‘There’s really nothing you could say, my dear, is there? I mean, who would believe you? I am Conrad Morgan.’
As they reached the front entrance of the store, Morgan said, ‘You will let me know if you change your mind, won’t you? The best time to telephone me is after six o’clock in the evening. I’ll wait for your call.’
‘Don’t,’ Tracy said curtly, and she walked out into the approaching night. When she reached her room, she was still trembling.
She sent the hotel’s one bellboy out for a sandwich and coffee. She did not feel like facing anyone. The meeting with Conrad Morgan had made her feel unclean. He had lumped her with all the sad, confused and beaten criminals she had been surrounded by at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. She was not one of them. She was Tracy Whitney, a computer expert, a decent, law-abiding citizen.
Whom no one would hire.
Tracy lay awake all night thinking about her future. She had no job, and very little money left. She made two resolutions: in the morning she would move to a cheaper place and she would find a job. Any kind of job.
The cheaper place turned out to be a dreary fourth-floor walk-up, one-room flat on the Lower East Side. From her room, through the paper-thin walls, Tracy could hear her neighbours screaming at one another in foreign languages. The windows and doors of the small shops that lined the streets were heavily barred, and Tracy could understand why. The neighbourhood seemed to be populated by drunks, prostitutes and bag ladies.
On her way to the market to shop, Tracy was accosted three times – twice by men and once by a woman.
I can stand it. I won’t be here long, Tracy assured herself.
She went to a small employment agency a short distance from her flat. It was run by a Mrs Murphy, a matronly looking, heavy-set lady. She put down Tracy’s résumé and studied her quizzically. ‘I don’t know what you need me for. There must be a dozen companies that’d give their eyeteeth to get someone like you.’
Tracy took a deep breath. ‘I have a problem,’ she said. She explained as Mrs Murphy sat listening quietly, and when Tracy was finished, Mrs Murphy said flatly, ‘You can forget about looking for a computer job.’
‘But you said –’
‘Companies are jumpy these days about computer crimes. They’re not gonna