The Scarletti Inheritance

by Ludlum, Robert

  The main points Hammer made were to protect Elizabeth and stay out of Switzerland.

  There was a light tapping on his door Canfield gathered the pages together and put them in his pocket. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Goldilocks, confound you! I in looking for a bed to sleep in.’ The crisp British accent belonged of course to James Derek. Canfield opened the door and the Englishman walked in without further greeting. He threw a manila envelope on the bed, placed his bowler on the bureau, and sat down in the nearest stuffed chair.

  ‘I like the hat, James.’

  ‘I’m just praying that it may keep me from being arrested. A Londoner prowling around the Savoy at this hour has to have the look of immense respectability.’

  ‘You have it take my word.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take your word for a damn thing, you insomniac.’

  ‘Can I get you a whiskey?’

  ‘God, no! Madame Scarlatti didn’t mention a thing to you?’

  ‘Nothing. Less than nothing. She tried to divert my attention. Then she just shut up and locked herself in her bedroom.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I thought you two were working together.’ Derek withdrew a hotel key attached to the usual wooden identification tag. ‘I had a chat with the hotel bobby.’

  ‘Can you trust him?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a master key and he thinks I’m covering a party on the second floor.’

  Then I’ll get going. Wait for me please. Grab some sleep.’

  ‘Hold on. You’re obviously connected with Madame Scarlatti. I should do the reconnoitermg.’

  The field accountant paused. There was ment in what Derek said. He presumed the British operative was far more adept at this kind of sleuthing than he was. On the other hand, he could not be sure of the man’s confidence. Neither was he prepared to tell him very much and have the British government making decisions.

  ‘That’s brave of you Derek but I wouldn’t ask it.’

  ‘Not brave at all. Numerous explanations under the Alien Order.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d prefer going myself. Frankly, there’s no reason for you to be involved. I called you for help, not to do my work.’

  ‘Let’s compromise. In my favor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s safer.’

  ‘You’ve won a point.’

  ‘I’ll go in first while you wait in the corridor by the lift. I’ll check the rooms and then signal you to join me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With as little energy as possible. Perhaps a short whistle.’

  Canfield heard the short, shrill whistle and walked quickly down the hallway to nine west one.

  He closed the door and went to the source of the flashlight. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘It’s a well-kept hotel suite. Perhaps not so ostentatious as the American variety, but infinitely more home-like.’

  ‘That’s reassuring.’

  ‘More than you know. I really don’t like this sort of work.’

  ‘I thought you people were famous for it.’

  This small talk covered the start of their rapid but thorough search of the premises. The floor plan of the rooms was identical to the Scarlatti suite two stories below. However, instead of similar furniture there was a long table in the center of the main room with perhaps a dozen chairs around it.

  ‘Conference table, I presume,’ said Derek.

  ‘Let’s take a look at the window.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Canfield thought. ‘Over here.’ He went toward the french windows directly in line with those of Elizabeth Scarlatti.

  ‘Good point. Here.’ The Englishman edged Canfield out of the way as he directed the light.

  On the wooden sill was a freshly made valley, which had gone through the paint to the wood grain. Where the wood met the outer stone there was a similar semicircle, which had cut through the layers of dirt and turned that small portion of blackish stone to light gray. The ridge was approximately an inch and a half thick and obviously caused by the friction of a wide rope.

  ‘Whoever it was is a cat,’ said Canfield.

  ‘Let’s look around.’ The two men walked first through the left bedroom door and found a double bed fully made up. The bureaus were empty and nothing but the usual stationery and corked pens were on the desk. The closets held nothing but hangers and cloth shoe repositories. The bathroom was spotless, the fixtures gleaming. The second bedroom to the right was the same except that the bedspread was mussed. Someone had slept or rested on it.

  ‘Large frame. Probably six feet or over,’ said the Englishman. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Imprint of the buttocks. See here, below the half point of the bed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought of that.’

  ‘I have no comment.’

  ‘He could have been sitting.’

  ‘I said probably.’

  The field accountant opened the closet door. ‘Hey, shine the light here.’

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘Here it is!’

  On the closet floor was a sloppily coiled pile of rope. Through the coils at the bottom were three wide straps of leather attached to the rope by metal clasps.

  ‘It’s an Alpine rig,’ said the English agent.

  ‘For mountain climbing?’

  ‘Precisely. Very secure. The professionals won’t use it. Unsporting. Used for rescues, mainly.’

  ‘God bless ‘em. Would it scale a wall at the Savoy?’

  ‘Beautifully. Very quick, very safe. You were correct.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Canfield.

  ‘I’ll take that drink now.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Canfield rose from the bed with difficulty. ‘Scotch whiskey and soda, friend?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The American walked to a table by the window that served as his bar and poured two large quantities of whiskey into glasses. He handed one to James Derek and half raised his own in a toast.

  ‘You do good work, James.’

  ‘You’re quite competent yourself. And I’ve been thinking you may be right about taking that rig.’

  ‘All it can do is cause confusion.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. It could be helpful… It’s such an American device.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Nothing personal. Just that you Americans are so equipment conscious, if you know what I mean. When you shoot birds in Scotland, you carry heavy millimeter cannon with you into the field… When you fish in the Lowlands, you have six-hundred artifices in your tackle box. The American’s sense of sportsmanship is equated with his ability to master the sport with his purchases, not his skill.’

  ‘If this is hate-the-American hour, you should get a radio program.’

  ‘Please, Matthew. I’m trying to tell you that I think you’re right. Whoever broke into the Scarlatti suite was an American. We can trace the rig to someone at your embassy. Hasn’t that occurred to you?’

  ‘We can do what?’

  ‘Your embassy. If it is someone at your embassy. Someone who knows Bertholde. The men you suspect of having been involved with the securities. Even an Alpine rig has to be manipulated by a trained mountain climber. How many climbers can be there in your embassy? Scotland Yard could check it in a day.’

  ‘No—We’ll handle it ourselves.’

  ‘Waste of time, you know. After all, embassy personnel have dossiers just as Bertholde has. How many are mountain climbers?’

  The field accountant turned away from James Derek and refilled his glass. ‘That puts it in a police category. We don’t want that. We’ll make the interrogations.’

  ‘Just as you say. It shouldn’t be difficult. Twenty to thirty people at most. You should track it down quickly.’

  ‘We will.’ Canfield walked to his bed and sat down.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the Englishman, finishing the last of his whiskey, ‘do you have a current list of your embassy person
nel? Up-to-date, that is?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure that members of the staff working there now were part of this securities swindle last year?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve told you that. At least, the State Department thinks so. I wish you’d stop harping on it.’

  ‘I shan’t any longer. It’s late and I have a great deal of work on my desk which I’ve neglected.’ The British operative rose from the chair and went to the bureau where he had put his hat. ‘Good night. Canfield.’

  ‘Oh, you’re leaving?… Was there anything in the Bertholde file? I’ll read it but right now I’m bushed.’

  James Derek stood by the door looking down at the exhausted field accountant. ‘One item I’m sure you’ll be interested in… Several probably, but one comes to mind.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Among the marquis’s athletic pursuits is mountain climbing. The imminent sportsman is, in fact, a member of the Matterhorn Club. He’s also one of the few hundred who’ve scaled the north side of the Jungfrau. No mean feat, I gather.’

  Canfield stood up angrily and shouted at the Englishman. ‘Why didn’t you say so, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I frankly thought you were more interested in his associations with your embassy. That’s really what I was looking for.’

  The field accountant stared at Derek. ‘So it was Bertholde. But why?… Unless he knew she wouldn’t open the door for anyone.’

  ‘Perhaps. I really wouldn’t know. Enjoy the dossier, Canfield.’

  It’s fascinating—However, I don’t think you’ll find much in it related to the American embassy—But that’s not why you wanted it, is it?’

  The Britisher let himself out the door, closing it sharply behind him. Canfield stared after him, confused but too tired to care.

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Thirty

  The telephone awoke him.

  ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Yes, Jan?’ He held the phone and the blood drained from his arm and it hurt.

  ‘I’m in the lobby. I told Mother Scarlatti I had some shopping to do.’

  The field accountant looked at his watch. It was eleven thirty. He had needed the sleep. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ve never seen her like this, Matthew. She’s frightened.’

  ‘That’s new. Did she bring up the Sheffield business?’

  ‘No, I had to. She brushed it aside and said the situation had changed.’

  ‘Nothing else? Just that?’

  ‘Yes… There was something else. She said she was going to talk with you this afternoon. She says there are problems back in New York that have to be attended to. I think she’s going to tell you that she’s decided to leave England and go home.’

  ‘That’s impossible! What did she say exactly?’

  ‘She was vague. Just that Chancellor was a fool and that it was senseless throwing away time on a wild-goose chase.’

  ‘She doesn’t believe that!’

  ‘I know she doesn’t. She wasn’t convincing either. But she means it. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Take her by surprise, I hope. Stay out shopping for at least two hours, will you?’

  They made plans for a late lunch and said good-bye. Thirty minutes later the field accountant walked across the Savoy lobby into the grill and ordered breakfast. It was no time to go without food. Without energy.

  He carried the Bertholde file with him. He promised himself that he’d read through it, or most of it, at the table. He opened it and placed it to the left of his plate and started at the top of the first page.

  Jacques Louis Aumont Bertholde, fourth marquis of Chatellerault.

  It was a dossier like so many other dossiers on the very wealthy. Exhaustive details about the family lineage. The positions and titles held by each member for several generations in business, government, and society—all impressive sounding, all meaningless to anyone else. The Bertholde holdings—enormous—mainly, as Elizabeth Scarlatti had said, within British territories. The specific education of the subject in question and his subsequent rise in the world of commerce. His clubs—all very correct. His hobbies—automobiles, horse breeding, dogs—also correct. The sports he excelled in—polo, sailing, the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau—not only correct, but colorful, fitting. And finally the character estimates elicited from his contemporaries. The most interesting part and yet the part many professionals disregarded. The flattering contributions were generally supplied by friends or associates hoping to gain. The unflattering, by enemies or competitors with a wish to undermine.

  Canfield withdrew a pencil and made two notations in the dossier.

  The first was on page 18, paragraph 5.

  No particular reason other than the fact that it seemed out of place—unattractive—and it contained the name of a city Canfield recalled was on Ulster Scarlett’s European itinerary.

  The Bertholde family had extensive interests in the Ruhr Valley, which were sold to the German Ministry of Finance several weeks before the assassination at Sarajevo. The Bertholde offices in Stuttgart and Tassing were closed. The sale caused considerable comment in French business circles and the Bertholde family was criticized by the States General and in numerous newspaper editorials. No collusion accused, however, due to explanation that the German Finance Ministry was paying exorbitant prices. Explanation proved out. Following the war, the Ruhr Valley interests repurchased from the Weimar government. Offices in Stuttgart and Tassing reopened.

  The second, on page 23, paragraph 2, referred to one of Bertholde’s more recently formed corporations and included the following information.

  The Marquis de Bertholde’s partners in the importing firm are Mr. Sydney Masterson and Mr. Harold Leacock—

  Masterson and Leacock.

  Both were on the Zurich list. Each owned one of the fourteen properties in Switzerland.

  No surprise. They tied Bertholde to the Zurich contingent. No surprise at all. Just comforting—in a professional way—to know that another piece of the puzzle fitted.

  As he finished his coffee, an unfamiliar man in a Savoy waistcoat approached the field accountant.

  ‘Front desk, sir I have two messages.’

  Canfield was alarmed. He reached for the notes extended to him. ‘You could have had me paged.’

  ‘Both parties requested that we not do that, sir.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  The first message was from Derek. ‘Imperative you contact me.’

  The second was from Elizabeth Scarlatti. ‘Please come to my suite at two thirty. It is most urgent. I cannot see you before then.’

  Canfield lit one of his thin cigars and settled back into the curved Savoy dining chair. Derek could wait. The Englishman probably had gotten word of Benjamin Reynolds’s new arrangement with the British government and was either furious or apologetic. He’d postpone Derek.

  Scarlatti, on the other hand, had made a decision. If Janet was right, she was folding up. Forgetting for the moment his own potential loss, he could never explain her reversal to Reynolds, or Glover, or anyone else at Group Twenty, for that matter. He had spent thousands of dollars on the premise that he had Elizabeth’s cooperation.

  The field accountant thought about the old woman’s visitor, the fourth marquis of Chatellerault, veteran of the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau, Jacques Louis Bertholde. Why had he broken into the Scarlatti suite the way he had? Was it simply the locked door and the knowledge that it would remain locked? Was it to terrify Elizabeth? Or was he searching for something?

  Just as he and Derek had searched in the darkness two floors above.

  Once confronting her what could Bertholde have said to bend her will. What could he possibly say that would frighten Elizabeth Scarlatti?

  He could promise the death of her son if he were still alive. That might do it. But would it? Her son had betrayed her. Betrayed the Scarlatti Industries. Canfield had the unnatural feeling that Elizabet
h would rather see her son dead than let him continue that betrayal.

  Yet now she was retreating.

  Again Canfield felt the inadequacy he had begun to feel aboard the Calpurnia. An assignment conceived of as theft had been complicated by extraordinary occurrences, extraordinary people.

  He forced his mind back to Elizabeth Scarlatti. He was convinced she could ‘not see’ him before two thirty because she was completing arrangements to return home.

  Well, he had a shock in store for her. He knew she had had an early morning visitor. And he had the Bertholde dossier.

  The dossier she could refuse. The Alpine rig would be irresistible.

  ‘I wrote in my note that I couldn’t see you before two-thirty. Would you please respect my wishes?’

  ‘It can’t wait. Let me in quickly.’

  She opened the door in disgust, leaving it ajar as she walked back into the center of the room. Canfield closed it loudly inserting the bolt. He spoke before she turned around to face him. ‘I’ve read the dossier. I know now why your visitor didn’t have to open the door.’

  It was as if a pistol had been fired in front of her ancient face. The old woman turned and sprang her back forward and arched her neck. Had she been thirty years younger she would have leapt upon him in fury. She spoke with an intensity he had never heard from her before.

  ‘You unconscionable bastard! You’re a liar! A thief! Liar! Liar! I’ll have you spend the rest of your life in prison.’’

  ‘That’s very good. Attack for attack’ You’ve pulled it before but not this time. Derek was with me. We found the rig. An Alpine rig, he called it—which your visitor let down the side of the building.’

  The old woman lurched toward him unsteady on her feet.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, relax! I’m on your side. He held her thin shoulders.

  ‘You’ve got to buy him! Oh, my God! You’ve got to buy him! Get him here!’

  ‘Why? Buy him how? Who?’

  ‘Derek. How long have you known? Mr Canfield I ask you in the name of all that’s holy, how long have you known?’