The secretary placed some papers into a manila folder and looked over at the three men. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, the Marquis de Bertholde cannot see anyone further this afternoon. We apologize for any inconvenience.’
‘Now see here, young lady!’ The impatient gentleman was on his feet. ‘This is preposterous! I’ve been here for three-quarters of an hour at the explicit request of the Marquis!… Request be damned! At his instructions!’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ll convey your displeasure.’
‘You’ll do more than that! You’ll convey to Monsieur Bertholde that I am waiting right here until he sees me!’ He sat down pompously.
The man named Arthur rose and walked toward the elevator.
‘For heaven’s sake, man, you’ll not improve French manners. People have been trying for centuries. Come along. Basil. We’ll stop at the Dorchester and start the evening.’
‘Can’t do it, Arthur. I’m staying right where I am.’
‘Have it your way. Be in touch.’
Canfield remained in his seat next to the impatient Basil. He knew only that he would not leave until Bertholde came out. Basil was his best weapon.
‘Ring the marquis again, please, miss,’ said Basil.
She did so.
A number of times. And there was no response.
The field accountant was alarmed. He rose from his chair and walked to the large double doors and knocked. There was no answer. He tried opening both doors; they were locked.
Basil unfolded his arms and got out of his chair. The spit-curled secretary stood up behind her white desk. She automatically picked up the phone and started pressing the buzzer, finally holding her finger down upon it.
‘Unlock the door,’ commanded the field accountant.
‘Oh, I don’t know…’
‘I do! Get me a key!’
The girl started to open the top drawer of her desk and then looked up at the American. ‘Perhaps we should wait—’
‘Damn it! Give me the key!’
‘Yes, sir!’ She picked up a ring of keys and selecting one, separated it from the others, and gave the key to Canfield. He rapidly unlocked the doors and flung them open.
There in front of them was the Frenchman sprawled across the top of his white desk, blood trickling from his mouth; his tongue was extended and swollen; his eyes bulged from their sockets, his neck was inflated and lacerated just below the chin line. He had been expertly garroted.
The girl kept screaming but did not collapse—a fact that Canfield wasn’t sure was fortunate. Basil began to shake and repeated ‘Oh, my God!’ over and over again. The field accountant approached the desk and lifted the dead man’s wrist by the coat sleeve. He let it go and the hand fell back.
The girl’s screams grew louder and two middle-aged executives burst through the staircase doorway into the outer room. Through the double doors the scene was clear to both men. One ran back to the stairway, shouting at the top of his voice, while the other slowly, fearfully walked into Bertholde’s room.
‘Le bon Dieu!’
Within a minute, a stream of employees had run down and up the staircase, log-jamming themselves in the doorway. As each group squeezed through, subsequent screams and oaths followed. Within two minutes twenty-five people were shouting instructions to nonexistent subordinates.
Canfield shook the spit-curled secretary in an attempt to stop her screaming. He kept telling her to phone the police, but she could not accept the order. Canfield did not want to make the call himself because it would have required separate concentration. He wished to keep his full attention on everyone in sight, especially Basil, if that was possible.
A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man in a double-breasted pinstripe suit came rushing through the crowd up to the secretary and Canfield. ‘Miss Richards! Miss Richards! What in God’s name happened?’
‘We opened his door and found him like this! That’s what happened,’ shouted the field accountant over the growing din of excited voices.
And then Canfield looked closely at the questioner. Where had he seen him before? Or had he? The man was like so many in the Scarlatti world. Even to the perfectly waxed moustache.
‘Have you phoned the police?’ asked the gentleman.
Canfield saw Basil pushing his way through the hysterical mob gathered by the office doors. ‘No, the police haven’t been called,’ yelled the American as he watched Basil making headway through the crowd. ‘Call them!… It might be a good idea to close these doors.’ He started after Basil as if to push the doors shut. The distinguished-looking man with the waxed moustache held him firmly by the lapel.
‘You say you found him?’
‘Yes. Let go of me!’
‘What’s your name, young man?’
‘What?’
‘I asked you your name!’
‘Derek, James Derek! Now, phone the police!’
Canfield took the man’s wrist and pressed hard against the vein. The arm withdrew in pain and Canfield ran into the crowd after Basil.
The man in the pin-striped suit winced and turned to the secretary. ‘Did you get his name, Miss Richards? I couldn’t hear.’
The girl was sobbing. ‘Yes, sir. It was Darren, or Derrick. First name, James.’
The man with the waxed moustache looked carefully at the secretary. She had heard. ‘The police. Miss Richards. Phone the police!’
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Poole.’
The man named Poole pushed his way through the crowd. He had to get to his office, he had to be by himself. They had done it! The men of Zurich had ordered Jacques’ death! His dearest friend, his mentor, closer to him than anyone in the world. The man who’d given him everything, made everything possible for him.
The man he’d killed for—willingly.
They’d pay! They’d pay and pay and pay!
He, Poole, had never failed Bertholde in life. He’d not fail him in death either!
But there were questions. So many questions.
This Canfield who’d just lied about his name. The old woman, Elizabeth Scarlatti.
Most of all the misshapen Heinrich Kroeger. The man Poole knew beyond a doubt was Elizabeth Scarlatti’s son. He knew because Bertholde had told him.
He wondered if anyone else knew.
On the third-floor landing, which was now completely filled with Bertholde employees in varying stages of hysteria, Canfield could see Basil one floor below pulling himself downward by the railing. Canfield began yelling.
‘Get clear? Get clear! The doctor’s waiting! I’ve got to bring him up! Get clear!’
To some degree the ruse worked and he made swifter headway. By the time he reached the first-floor lobby, Basil was no longer in sight. Canfield ran out of the front entrance onto the sidewalk. There was Basil about half a block south, limping in the middle of Vauxhall Road, waving, trying to hail a taxi. The knees of his trousers were coated with mud where he had fallen in his haste.
Shouts were still coming from various windows of Bertholde et Fils, drawing dozens of pedestrians to the foot of the company’s steps.
Canfield walked against the crowd toward the limping figure.
A taxi stopped and Basil grabbed for the door handle. As he pulled the door open and climbed in, Canfield reached the side of the cab and prevented the Englishman from pulling the door shut. He moved in alongside Basil, pushing him sideway to make room.
‘I say! What are you doing?’ Basil was frightened but he did not raise his voice. The driver kept turning his head back and forth from the street in front of him to the gathering crowds receding behind him. Basil did not wish to draw additional attention.
Before Basil could think further, the American grasped the Englishman’s right hand and pulled the coat above his wrist. He twisted Basil’s arm revealing the red and black cuff link.
‘Zurich, Basil!’ the field accountant whispered.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You damn fool, I’m with you! Or I will be, i
f they let you live!’
‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ Basil babbled.
The American released Basil’s hand by throwing it downward. He looked straight ahead as if ignoring the Englishman. ‘You’re an idiot. You realize that, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know you, sir! I don’t know you!’ The Englishman was near collapse.
‘Then we’d better change that. I may be all you have left.’
‘Now see here. I had nothing to do with it! I was in the waiting room with you. I had nothing to do with it!’
‘Of course, you didn’t. It’s pretty damned obvious that it was the chauffeur. But a number of people are going to want to know why you ran. Maybe you were just making sure the job was done.’
‘That’s preposterous!’
‘Then why did you run away?’
‘I… I…’
‘Let’s not talk now. Where can we go where we’ll be seen for about ten or fifteen minutes? I don’t want it to look as though we dropped out of sight.’
‘My club… I suppose.’
‘Give him the address!’
The Scarletti Inheritance
Chapter Thirty-two
‘What the devil do you mean I was there?’ James Derek shouted into the phone. ‘I’ve been here at the Savoy since mid-afternoon!… Yes, of course I am. Since three or thereabouts… No, she’s here with me.’ The Englishman suddenly caught his breath. When he spoke again his words were barely audible, drawn out in disbelief. ‘Good Lord!… How horrible… Yes. Yes, I heard you.’
Elizabeth Scarlatti sat across the room on the Victorian couch, absorbed in the Bertholde dossier. At the sound of Derek’s voice she looked up at the Englishman. He was staring at her. He spoke again into the phone.
‘Yes. He left here roughly at three-thirty. With Ferguson, from our office. They were to meet Mrs. Scarlett at Tippin’s and he was to proceed from there to Bertholde’s—I don’t know. His instructions were that she remain in Ferguson’s custody until he returned. Ferguson’s to call in… I see. For heaven’s sake, keep me posted. I’ll phone you if there’s any developments here.’
He replaced the telephone receiver on the hook and remained at the table. ‘Bertholde’s been killed.’
‘Good God! Where’s my daughter?’
‘With our man. She’s all right. He reported in an hour ago,’’
‘Canfield! Where’s Canfield?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘How can I answer that if I don’t know where he is? We can presume he’s functioning. He identified himself as me and left the scene!’
‘How did it happen?’
‘He was garroted. A wire around his throat.’
‘Oh!’ Elizabeth suddenly, vividly recalled the picture of Matthew Canfield thrusting the cord in her face after Boothroyd’s attempt on her life aboard the Calpurnia. ‘If he killed him, he must have had a reason!’
‘What?’
‘For killing him. He must have had to!’
‘That’s most interesting.’
‘What is?’
‘That you would think Canfield had to kill him.’
‘It couldn’t have happened otherwise! He’s no killer.’
‘He didn’t kill Bertholde either, if it’s any comfort to you.’
Her relief was visible. ‘Do they know who did?’
‘They believe so. Apparently it was Bertholde’s chauffeur.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘Very. The man’s been with him for years.’
‘Perhaps Canfield’s gone after him.’
‘Not likely. The man left some ten to twelve minutes before they found Bertholde.’
James Derek walked from the telephone table toward Elizabeth. It was obvious that he was upset. ‘In the light of what’s just happened, I’d like to ask you a question. But, of course, you needn’t answer—-’
‘What is it?’
‘I’d like to know how—or perhaps why—Mr. Canfield received a full clearance from the British Foreign Office.’
‘I don’t know what that is.’
‘Come, madame. If you don’t care to answer, I respect that. But since my name’s been used in the killing of an influential man, I believe I’m entitled to something more than another… falsehood.’
‘Another… falsehood? That’s insulting, Mr. Derek.’
‘Is it? And are you and Mr. Canfield still setting elaborate traps for embassy personnel who returned to the United States over four months ago?’
‘Oh.’ Elizabeth sat down again on the couch. She was not concerned with the Englishman’s complaint; she only wished Canfield was there to answer him. What she was concerned with was the agent’s reference to the Foreign Office. ‘An unfortunate necessity.’
‘Most unfortunate—I gather, then, that you don’t care to answer.’
‘On the contrary, I have answered you.’ Elizabeth looked up at the Britisher. ‘I wish you’d explain. What is full clearance?’
‘Extraordinary cooperation from the highest echelons of our government. And such decisions from the British Foreign Office are generally reserved for major political crises! Not a stocks-and-bonds struggle between squabbling millionaires—Or, if you’ll pardon me, a private citizen’s personal tragedy.’
Elizabeth Scarlatti froze.
What James Derek had just said was abhorrent to the head of Scarlatti. More than anything else she had to operate outside the boundaries of ‘highest echelon’ scrutiny. For the sake of Scarlatti itself. Canfield’s minor agency had seemed heaven sent. Her arrangement with him gave her the facilities of official cooperation without answering to anyone of consequence. If she had wanted it otherwise, she would have commanded any number of men in either or both the legislative and executive branches of the United States government. It would not have been difficult… Now, it seemed, Canfield’s relatively unimportant department had grown in significance. Or perhaps her son had involved himself in an undertaking far more ominous than she had conceived.
Was the answer in the Bertholde dossier? Elizabeth wondered. ‘I gather from your tone that this full clearance is a new development.’
‘I was informed this morning.’
Then it must be in the Bertholde dossier, thought Elizabeth—Of course it was! Even Matthew Canfield had begun to perceive it! Only his perception had been based solely on the recognition of certain words, names. He had marked the pages. Elizabeth picked up the file.
‘Following the war, the Ruhr Valley interests repurchased… Offices in Stuttgart and Tassing…’
Tassing.
Germany.
An economic crisis.
The Weimar Republic.
A series of economic crises! A major and constant political crisis!
‘… partners in the importing firm are Mr. Sydney Masterson and Mr. Harold Leacock…’
Masterson and Leacock. Zurich!
Tassing!
‘Does the city of Tassing mean anything to you?’
‘It’s not a city. It is an outlying district of Munich. In Bavaria. Why do you ask?’
‘My son spent a good deal of time and money there… among other places. Does it have any special meaning for you?’
‘Munich?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Hotbed of radicalism. Breeding ground of malcontents.’
‘Malcontents?… Communists?’
‘Hardly. They’d shoot a Red on sight. Or a Jew. Call themselves Schutzstaffel. Go around clubbing people. Consider themselves a race apart from the rest of the world.’
A race apart.
Oh, God!
Elizabeth looked at the dossier in her hands. Slowly she replaced it in the manila envelope and stood up. Without saying a word to the Englishman, she crossed to her bedroom door and let herself in. She closed the door behind her.
James Derek remained in the center of the room. He didn’t understand.
Inside her bedroom Elizabeth went
to her writing desk where papers were scattered across the top. She sorted them out until she found the Zurich list.
She read each name carefully.
AVERY LANDOR, U.S.A.—Oil.
Louis GIBSON, USA.—Oil.
THOMAS RAWLINS, U.S.A.—Securities.
HOWARD THORNTON, U.S.A.—Industrial Construction.
SYDNEY MASTERSON, GREAT BRITAIN—Imports.
DAVID INNES-BOWEN, GREAT BRITAIN—Textiles.
HAROLD LEACOCK, GREAT BRITAIN—Securities.
Louis FRANCOIS D’ALMEIDA, FRANCE—Railroads.
PIERRE DAUDET, FRANCE—Ship lines.
INGMAR MYRDAL, SWEDEN—Securities.
CHRISTIAN OLAFFSEN, SWEDEN—Steel.
OTTO VON SCHNITZLER, GERMANY—I.G. Farben.
FRITZ THYSSEN, GERMANY—Steel.
ERICH KINDORF, GERMANY—Coal.
One might say that the Zurich list was a cross-section of the most powerful men in the Western hemisphere.
Elizabeth put the list down and reached for a leather-bound notebook in which she kept telephone numbers and addresses. She thumbed to the letter O.
Ogilvie and Storm, Ltd., Publishers, Bays-water Road, London.
She would phone Thomas Ogilvie and have him send her whatever information he could unearth on the Schutzstaffel.
She knew something about it already. She remembered reading its political name was the National Socialists and they were led by a man named Adolf Hitler.
The Scarletti Inheritance
Chapter Thirty-three
The man’s name was Basil Hawkwood, and Canfield quickly pictured the trademark hawkwood small letter h—as it appeared on a variety of leather goods. Hawkwood Leather was one of the largest firms in England, only a short distance behind Mark Cross.
The nervous Basil led Canfield into the huge reading room of his club. Knights. They chose two chairs by the Knightsbridge window, where there were no other members within earshot.
Basil’s fear caused him to stutter, and when his words came, the phrases tumbled over one another. He assumed, because he wanted to assume, that the young man facing him would help him.
Canfield sat back in the comfortable chair and listened with incredulity to Hawkwood’s story.
The Scarletti Inheritance Page 25