That's what this is all about, Tracy thought in surprise. He wants to sell me something.
As it turned out, she was wrong.
As Gunther Hartog was paying the check, he said, casually, "I have a little country house in Hampshire. I'm having a few friends down for the weekend, and I'd be delighted if you would join us."
Tracy hesitated. The man was a complete stranger, and she still had no idea what he wanted from her. She decided she had nothing to lose.
The weekend turned out to be fascinating. Gunther Hartog's "little country house" was a beautiful seventeenth-century manor home on a thirty-acre estate. Gunther was a widower, and except for his servants, he lived alone. He took Tracy on a tour of the grounds. There was a barn stabling half a dozen horses, and a yard where he raised chickens and pigs.
"That's so we'll never go hungry," he said gravely. "Now, let me show you my real hobby."
He led Tracy to a cote full of pigeons. "These are homing pigeons." Gunther's voice was filled with pride. "Look at these little beauties. See that slate-gray one over there? That's Margo." He picked her up and held her. "You really are a dreadful girl, do you know that? She bullies the others, but she's the brightest." He gently smoothed the feathers over the small head and carefully set her down.
The colors of the birds were spectacular: There was a variety of blue-black, blue-gray with checked patterns, and silver.
"But no white ones," Tracy noticed.
"Homing pigeons are never white," Gunther explained, "because white feathers come off too easily, and when pigeons are homing, they fly at an average of forty miles an hour."
Tracy watched Gunther as he fed the birds a special racing feed with added vitamins.
"They are an amazing species," Gunther said. "Do you know they can find their way home from over five hundred miles away?"
"That's fascinating."
The guests were equally fascinating. There was a cabinet minister, with his wife; an earl; a general and his girl friend; and the Maharani of Morvi, a very attractive, friendly young woman. "Please call me V.J.," she said, in an almost unaccented voice. She wore a deep-red sari shot with golden threads, and the most beautiful jewels Tracy had ever seen.
"I keep most of my jewelry in a vault," V.J. explained. "There are so many robberies these days."
On Sunday afternoon, shortly before Tracy was to return to London, Gunther invited her into his study. They sat across from each other over a tea tray. As Tracy poured the tea into the wafer-thin Belleek cups, she said, "I don't know why you invited me here, Gunther, but whatever the reason, I've had a wonderful time."
"I'm pleased, Tracy." Then, after a moment, he continued. "I've been observing you."
"I see."
"Do you have any plans for the future?"
She hesitated. "No. I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet."
"I think we could work well together."
"You mean in your antique shop?"
He laughed. "No, my dear. It would be a shame to waste your talents. You see, I know about your escapade with Conrad Morgan. You handled it brilliantly."
"Gunther... all that's behind me."
"But what's ahead of you? You said you have no plans. You must think about your future. Whatever money you have is surely going to run out one day. I'm suggesting a partnership. I travel in very affluent, international circles. I attend charity balls and hunting parties and yachting parties. I know the comings and goings of the rich."
"I don't see what that has to do with me - "
"I can introduce you into that golden circle. And I do mean golden, Tracy. I can supply you with information about fabulous jewels and paintings, and how you can safely acquiree them. I can dispose of them privately. You would be balancing the ledgers of people who have become wealthy at the expense of others. Everything would be divided evenly between us. What do you say?"
"I say no."
He studied her thoughtfully. "I see. You will call me if you change your mind?"
"I won't change my mind, Gunther."
Late that afternoon Tracy returned to London.
Tracy adored London. She dined at Le Gavroche and Bill Bentley's and Coin du Feu, and went to Drones after the theater, for real American hamburgers and hot chili. She went to the National Theatre and the Royal Opera House and attended auctions at Christie's and Sotheby's. She shopped at Harrods, and Fortnum and Mason's, and browsed for books at Hatchards and Foyles, and W. H. Smith. She hired a car and driver and spent a memorable weekend at the Chewton Glen Hotel in Hampshire, on the fringe of the New Forest, where the setting was spectacular and the service impeccable.
But all these things were expensive. Whatever money you have is sure to run out some day. Gunther Hartog was right. Her money was not going to last forever, and Tracy realized she would have to make plans for the future.
She was invited back for more weekends at Gunther's country home, and she thoroughly enjoyed each visit and delighted in Gunther's company.
One Sunday evening at dinner a member of Parliament turned to Tracy and said, "I've never met a real Texan, Miss Whitney. What are they like?"
Tracy went into a wicked imitation of a nouveau riche Texas dowager and had the company roaring with laughter.
Later, when Tracy and Gunther were alone, he asked, "How would you like to make a small fortune doing that imitation?"
"I'm not an actress, Gunther."
"You underestimate yourself. There's a jewelry firm in London - Parker and Parker - that takes a delight in - as you Americans would say - ripping off their customers. You've given me an idea how to make them pay for their dishonesty." He told Tracy his idea.