He led her through the store to a closed door, which he unlocked with a key. His office was elegantly furnished, and it looked more like an apartment 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. "Whiskey, 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 that 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 jewelry 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 what you 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 walkup, one-room apartment on the Lower East Side. From her room, through the paper-thin walls, Tracy could hear her neighbors screaming at one another in foreign languages. The windows and doors of the small stores that lined the streets were heavily barred, and Tracy could understand why. The neighborhood 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 few blocks from her apartment. It was run by a Mrs. Murphy, a matronly looking, heavy-set lady. She put down Tracy's resumй 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 hire anybody with a record."
"But I need a job. I - "