The Scarletti Inheritance

by Ludlum, Robert

  The girl’s eyes began to fill with tears.

  ‘I’m doing my job as best I can, and I’m not so sure you’re the one who should scream “violated virgin”! You may not realize it, but your husband, or former husband, or whatever the hell he is, could be very much alive. A lot of nice people who never heard of him—women like you and young girls—were burned to death because of him! Others were killed, too, but maybe they should have been.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ He relaxed his grip on her but still held her firmly.

  ‘I just know that I left your mother-in-law a week ago in England. It was a hell of a trip over! Someone tried to kill her the first night out on the ship. Oh, you can bet your life it would have been suicide! They would have said she had tearfully thrown herself overboard. No trace at all—A week ago people! An accident, of course!’

  ‘You want to go or do you still want me to go?’

  ‘I guess you’d better stay and finish.’ They sat on the sofa and Canfield talked. He talked as he had never talked before.

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Benjamin Reynolds sat forward in his chair, clipping a week-old article from the Sunday supplement of the New York Herald. It was a photograph of Janet Saxon Scarlett being escorted by sporting goods executive, ‘M. Canfield to a dog show at Madison Square Garden. Reynolds smiled as he recalled Canfield’s remark on the telephone.

  ‘I can stand everything but the God damn dog shows. Dogs are for the very rich or the very poor. Not for anyone in between!’

  No matter, thought Group Twenty’s head. The newspapers were doing an excellent job. Washington had ordered Canfield to spend an additional ten days in Manhattan thoroughly establishing his relationship with Ulster Scarlett’s wife before returning to England.

  The relationship was unmistakable and Benjamin Reynolds wondered if it was really a public facade. Or was it something else? Was Canfield in the process of trapping himself? The ease with which he had engineered a collaboration with Elizabeth Scarlatti bore watching.

  ‘Ben’—Glover walked briskly into the office—’I think we’ve found what we’ve been looking for!’ He closed the door firmly and approached Reynolds’s desk.

  ‘What have you got? About what?’

  ‘A link with the Scarlatti business. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Glover placed several pages on top of the spread-out newspaper. ‘Nice coverage, wasn’t it?’ he said, indicating the photograph of Canfield and the girl.

  ‘Just what us dirty old men ordered. He’s going to be the toast of society if he doesn’t spit on the floor.’

  ‘He’s doing a good job, Ben. They’re back on board ship now, aren’t they?’

  ‘Sailed yesterday—What is this?’

  ‘Statistics found it. From Switzerland. Zurich area. Fourteen estates all purchased within the year. Look at these latitude and longitude marks. Every one of the properties is adjacent to another one. A borders on B, B on C, C on D, right down the line. Hundreds of thousands of acres forming an enormous compound.’

  ‘One of the buyers Scarlatti?’

  ‘No—But one of the estates was bought in the name of Boothroyd. Charles Boothroyd.’

  ‘You’re sure? What do you mean “bought in the name of”?’

  ‘Father-in-law bought it for his daughter and her husband. Named Rawlins. Thomas Rawlins. Partner in the brokerage house of Godwin and Rawlins. His daughter’s name is Cecily. Married to Boothroyd.’

  Reynolds picked up the page with the list of names. ‘Who are these people? How does it break down?’

  Glover reached for the other two pages. ‘It’s all here. Four Americans, two Swedes, three English, two French, and three German. Fourteen in all.’

  ‘Do you have any rundowns?’

  ‘Only on the Americans. We’ve sent for information on the rest.’

  ‘Who are they? Besides Rawlins.’

  ‘A Howard Thornton, San Francisco. He’s in construction. And two Texas oilmen. A Louis Gibson and Avery Landor. Between them they own more wells than fifty of their competitors combined.’

  ‘Any connections between them?’

  ‘Nothing so far. We’re checking that out now.’

  ‘What about the others? The Swedes, the French?… The English and the Germans?’

  ‘Only the names.’

  ‘Anyone familiar?’

  ‘Several. There’s an Innes-Brown, he’s English, in textiles, I think. And I recognize the name of Daudet, French. Owns steamship lines. And two of the Germans. Kindorf—he’s in the Ruhr Valley. Coal. And von Schnitzler, speaks for I. G. Farben. Don’t know the rest, never heard of the Swedes, either.’

  ‘In one respect they’re all alike—’

  ‘You bet your life they are. They’re all as rich as a roomful of Astors. You don’t buy places like these with mortgages. Shall I contact Canfield?’

  ‘We’ll have to. Send the list by courier. We’ll cable him to stay in London until it arrives.’

  ‘Madame Scarlatti may know some of them.’

  ‘I’m counting on it—But I see a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s going to be a temptation for the old girl to head right into Zurich… If she does, she’s dead. So’s Canfield and Scarlett’s wife.’

  That’s a pretty drastic assumption.’

  ‘Not really. We’re presuming that a group of wealthy men have bought fourteen estates all adjoining one another because of a common interest. And Boothroyd—courtesy of a generous father-in-law—is one of them.’

  ‘Which ties Zurich to Scarlatti—’

  ‘We think so. We believe it because Boothroyd tried to kill her, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But the Scarlatti woman is alive. Boothroyd failed.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘And the property was purchased before that fact.’

  ‘It must have been—’

  Then if Zurich is tied to Boothroyd, Zurich wants Scarlatti dead. They want to stop her. Also… Zurich presumed success. They expected Boothroyd to succeed.’

  ‘And now that he’s gone,’ interrupted Glover, ‘Zurich will figure the old woman found out who he was. Maybe more… Ben, perhaps we’ve gone too far. It might be better to call it off. Make a report to Justice and get Canfield back.’

  ‘Not yet. We’re getting close to something. Elizabeth Scarlatti’s the key right now. We’ll get them plenty of protection.’

  ‘I don’t want to make an alibi in advance, but this is your responsibility.’

  ‘I understand that. In our instructions to Canfield make one thing absolutely clear. He’s to stay out of Zurich. Under no condition is he to go to Switzerland.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  Reynolds turned from his desk and stared out the window. He spoke to his subordinate without looking at him. ‘And… keep a line open on this Rawlins. Boothroyd’s father-in-law. He’s the one who may have made the mistake.’

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Twenty-five miles from the ancient limits of Cardiff, set in a remote glen in a Welsh forest, stands the Convent of the Virgin, the home of the Carmelite sisters. The walls rise in alabaster purity, like a new bride standing in holy expectation in a lush but serpentless Eden.

  The field accountant and the young wife drove up to the entrance. Canfield got out of the car and walked to a small arched doorway set in the wall in which was centered a viewer. There was a black iron knocker on the side of the door that he used, then waited for several minutes until a nun answered.

  ‘May I help you?’

  The field accountant drew out his identification card and held it up for the nun to see. ‘My name is Canfield, sister. I’m here for Madame Elizabeth Scarlatti. Her daughter-in-law is with me.’

  ‘If you’ll wait, please. May I?’ She indicated that she wished to take his identificat
ion card with her. He handed it to her through the small opening.

  ‘Of course.’

  The viewer was closed and bolted. Canfield wandered back to the car and spoke to Janet. ‘They’re very cautious.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘She’s taking my card in to make sure the photograph’s me and not someone else.’

  ‘Lovely here, isn’t it? So quiet.’

  ‘It is now. I make no promises when we finally see the old girl.’

  ‘Your callous, unfeeling disregard for my well-being, to say nothing of my comforts, is beyond anything I can describe! Do you have any idea what these idiots sleep on? I’ll tell you! Army cots!’

  ‘I’m sorry—’ Canfield tried not to laugh.

  ‘And do you know the slops they eat? I’ll tell you! Food I’d prohibit in my stables!’

  ‘I’m told they grow their own vegetables,’ the field accountant countered gently.

  ‘They pluck up the fertilizer and leave the plants!’

  At that moment the bells of the Angelus pealed out.

  ‘That goes on night and day! I asked that damned fool, Mother MacCree, or whoever she is, why so early in the morning—and do you know what she said?’

  ‘What, Mother?’ asked Janet.

  ‘“That is the way of Christ,” that’s what she said. “Not a good Episcopal Christ!” I told her… It’s been intolerable! Why were you so late? Mr. Derek said you’d be here four days ago.’

  ‘I had to wait for a courier from Washington. Let’s go. I’ll tell you about it.’

  Elizabeth sat in the back seat of the Bentley reading the Zurich list.

  ‘Know any of those people?’ asked Canfield.

  ‘Not personally. Most all of them by reputation, however.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘The Americans, Louis Gibson and Avery Landor are two self-styled Texas Bunyans. They think they built the oil territories. Landor’s a pig, I’m told. Harold Leacock, one of the Englishmen, is a power on the British Stock Exchange. Very bright. Myrdal from Sweden is also in the European market. Stockholm—’ Elizabeth looked up and acknowledged Canfield’s glance in the rearview mirror.

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Yes. Thyssen in Germany. Fritz Thyssen. Steel companies. Everyone knows Kindorf—Ruhr Valley coal, and von Schnitzler. He’s I. G. Farben now… One of the Frenchmen, D’Almeida, has control of railroads, I think. I don’t know Daudet but I recognize the name.’

  ‘He owns tankers. Steamships.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And Masterson. Sydney Masterson. English. Far East imports, I think. I don’t know Innes-Bowen, but again I’ve heard the name.’

  ‘You didn’t mention Rawlins, Thomas Rawlins.’

  ‘I didn’t think I had to. Godwin and Rawlins. Boothroyd’s father-in-law.’

  ‘You don’t know the fourth American, Howard Thornton? He’s from San Francisco.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Janet says your son knew a Thornton from San Francisco.’

  ‘I’m not at all surprised.’

  On the road from Pontypridd, on the outskirts of the Rhondda Valley, Canfield became aware of an automobile, which regularly appeared in his side mirror. It was far behind them, hardly more than a speck in the glass, but it was never out of sight except around curves. And whenever Canfield rounded one of the many turns, the automobile appeared subsequently much sooner than its previous distance would indicate. On long stretches it stayed far in the distance and whenever possible allowed other cars to come between them.

  ‘What is it, Mr. Canfield?’ Elizabeth was watching the field accountant, who kept shifting his eyes to the mirror outside his window.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is someone following us?’

  ‘Probably not. There aren’t that many good roads leading to the English border.’

  Twenty minutes later Canfield saw that the automobile was drawing nearer. Five minutes after that he began to understand. There were no cars between the two vehicles now. Only a stretch of road—a very long curve—bordered on one side by the rocky slope of a small incline and on the other by a sheer drop of fifty feet into the waters of a Welsh lake.

  Beyond the end of the curve, Canfield saw that the ground leveled off into a pasture or overgrown field. He accelerated the Bentley. He wanted to reach that level area.

  The car behind shot forward closing the gap between them. It swung to the right on the side of the road by the rocky slope. Canfield knew that once the car came parallel it could easily force him off the road, over the edge, plunging the Bentley down the steep incline into the water. The field accountant held the pedal down and veered the car toward the center trying to cut off the pursuer.

  ‘What is it? What are you doing?’ Janet held on to the top of the dashboard.

  ‘Brace yourselves! Both of you!’

  Canfield held the Bentley in the center, crossing to the right each time the car behind him tried to squeeze between him and the solid ground. The level field was nearer now. Only another hundred yards.

  There were two sharp, heavy crunches as the Bentley lurched spastically under the second car’s impact. Janet Scarlett screamed. Her mother-in-law kept silent, clutching the girl’s shoulders from behind, helping to brace her.

  The level pasture was now on the left and Canfield suddenly swerved the car toward it, going off the road, holding to the dirt border beyond the pavement.

  The pursuing car plunged forward at tremendous speed. Canfield riveted his eyes on the rapidly receding black-and-white license plate. He shouted, ‘E, B… I or L! Seven. Seven or nine! One, one, three!’ He repeated the numbers again softly, quickly. He slowed the Bentley down and came to a stop.

  Janet’s back was arched against the seat. She held Elizabeth’s arms with both her hands. The old woman sat forward, her cheek pressed against her daughter-in-law’s head.

  Elizabeth spoke.

  The letters you called out were E, B, I or L, the numbers, seven or nine, one, one, three.’

  ‘I couldn’t tell the make of the car.’

  Elizabeth spoke again as she took her arms from Janet’s shoulders.

  ‘It was a Mercedes-Benz.’

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘The automobile in question is a Mercedes-Benz coup. Nineteen twenty-five model. The license is EBI nine, one, one, three. The vehicle is registered in the name of Jacques Louis Bertholde. Once again, the Marquis de Bertholde.’ James Derek stood by Canfield in front of Elizabeth and Janet who sat on the sofa. He read from his notebook and wondered if these curious Americans realized who the marquis was. Bertholde, too, often stayed at the Savoy and was probably as rich as Elizabeth Scarlatti.

  ‘The same man who met Boothroyd’s wife at the pier?’ asked Canfield.

  ‘Yes. Or I should say, no. We assume it was Bertholde at the pier from your description. It couldn’t have been yesterday. We’ve established that he was in London. However, the automobile is registered to him.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr. Derek?’ Elizabeth smoothed her dress and avoided looking at the Englishman. There was something about the man that disturbed her.

  ‘I don’t know what to think—However, I feel I should tell you that the Marquis de Bertholde is a resident alien of considerable influence and position…’

  ‘He is the owner of Bertholde et Fils, as I recall.’ Elizabeth rose from the sofa and gave her empty sherry glass to Canfield. It was not that she wished more wine. She was just too wrought up to sit still. ‘Bertholde et Fils is an old established firm.’

  The field accountant went to the drinks table and poured Elizabeth’s sherry.

  Then you’ve met the marquis, Madame Scarlatti? Perhaps you know him?’

  Elizabeth didn’t like Derek’s insinuation. ‘No, I do not know the marquis. I may have met his father. I’m not sure. The Bertholdes go back many years.’

  Canfield handed Elizabeth her glass aware t
hat the old woman and the British operative were playing a mental tennis game. He broke in. ‘What’s his business?’

  ‘Plural. Businesses. Near East oil, mining and drilling in Africa, imports—Australia and South America—’

  ‘Why is he a resident alien?’

  ‘I can answer that,’ said Elizabeth, returning to the couch. ‘The physical plants—his offices—are, no doubt, within Empire territories or protectorates.’

  ‘Quite correct, madame,’ said Derek. ‘Since the majority of his interests lie within the borders of British possessions, he deals continuously with Whitehall. He does so, most favorably.’

  ‘Is there a government dossier on Bertholde?’

  ‘As a resident alien, of course there is.’

  ‘Can you get it for me?’

  ‘I’d have to have a very sound reason. You know that.’

  ‘Mr. Derek!’ interrupted Elizabeth. ‘An attempt was made on my life aboard the Calpurnia! Yesterday in Wales an automobile tried to run us off the road! In both instances the Marquis de Bertholde can be implicated. I would call these sound reasons!’

  ‘I’m afraid I must disagree. What you describe are police matters. Anything I know to the contrary is privileged information and I respect it as such. Certainly no charges are being made in either case. It’s a gray area, I grant you, but Canfield knows what I’m talking about.’

  The field accountant looked at Elizabeth and she knew the time had come to use his ploy. He had explained that eventually they would have to. He had called it—‘part of the truth.’ The reason was simple. British Intelligence was not going to be used as someone’s personal police force. There had to be other justifications. Justifications that Washington would confirm. Canfield looked at the Englishman and spoke softly.

  ‘The United States government wouldn’t involve my agency unless there were reasons beyond police matters. When Madame Scarlatti’s son—Mrs. Scarlett’s husband—was in Europe last year, large sums of money, in the form of negotiable securities on a number of American corporations, were forwarded to him. We think they were sold undercover on the European markets. The British exchange included.’