“For heaven’s sake try to understand. Chancellor and Allison will be here soon. I need you, my dear.”
The girl raced to the door, forgetting the lock. She could not open it. Her voice was low in her panic. “What more could you possibly want?”
And Elizabeth knew she had won.
CHAPTER 16
Matthew Canfield leaned against the building on the southeast corner of Fifth Avenue at Sixty-third Street, about forty yards from the imposing entrance to the Scarlatti residence. He pulled his raincoat tightly around him to ward off the chill brought by the autumn rain and glanced at his watch: ten minutes to six. He had been at his post for over an hour. The girl had gone in at a quarter to five; and for all he knew, she would be there until midnight or, God forbid, until morning. He had arranged for a relief at two o’clock if nothing had happened by then. There was no particular reason for him to feel that something would happen by then, but his instincts told him otherwise. After five weeks of familiarizing himself with his subjects, he let his imagination fill in what observation precluded. The old lady was boarding ship the day after tomorrow, and not taking anyone with her. Her lament for her missing or dead son was international knowledge. Her grief was the subject of countless newspaper stories. However, the old woman hid her grief well and went about her business.
Scarlett’s wife was different. If she mourned her missing husband, it was not apparent. But what was obvious was her disbelief in Ulster Scarlett’s death. What was it she had said in the bar at the Oyster Bay Country Club? Although her voice was thick from whiskey, her pronouncement was clear.
“My dear mother-in-law thinks she’s so smart. I hope the boat sinks! She’ll find him.”
Tonight there was a confrontation between the two women, and Matthew Canfield wished he could be a witness.
The drizzle was letting up. Canfield decided to walk across Fifth Avenue to the park side of the street. He took a newspaper out of his raincoat pocket, spread it on the slatted bench in front of the Central Park wall, and sat down. A man and a woman stopped before the old lady’s steps. It was fairly dark now, and he couldn’t see who they were. The woman was animatedly explaining something, while the man seemed not to listen, more intent on pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time. Canfield looked again at his own watch and noted that it was two minutes to six. He slowly got up and began to saunter back across the avenue. The man turned toward the curb to get the spill of the streetlight on his watch. The woman kept talking.
Canfield saw with no surprise that it was the older brother Chancellor Drew Scarlett and his wife Allison.
Canfield kept walking east on Sixty-third as Chancellor Scarlett took his wife’s elbow and marched her up the steps to the Scarlatti door. As he reached Madison Avenue, Canfield heard a sharp crash. He turned and saw that the front door of Elizabeth Scarlatti’s house had been pulled open with such force that the collision against an unseen wall echoed throughout the street.
Janet Scarlett came running down the brick stairs, tripped, got up, and hobbled toward Fifth Avenue. Canfield started back toward her. She was hurt and the timing might just be perfect.
The field accountant was within thirty yards of Ulster Scarlett’s wife when a roadster, a shiny black Pierce-Arrow, came racing down the block. The car veered close to the curb near the girt.
Canfield slowed down and watched. He could see the man in the roadster leaning forward toward the far window. The light from the overhead streetlamp shone directly on his face. He was a handsome man in his early fifties perhaps, with a perfectly groomed matted moustache. He appeared to be the sort of man Janet Scarlett might know. It struck Canfield that the man had been waiting—as he had been waiting—for Janet Scarlett.
Suddenly the man stopped the car, threw his door open, and quickly got out onto the street. He rapidly walked around the car toward the girl.
“Here, Mrs. Scarlett. Get in.”
Janet Scarlett bent down to hold her injured knee. She looked up, bewildered, at the approaching man with the matted moustache. Canfield stopped. He stood in the shadows by a doorway.
“What? You’re not a taxi.… No. I don’t know you.…”
“Get in! I’ll, drive you home. Quickly, now!” The man spoke peremptorily. A disturbed voice. He grabbed Janet Scarlett’s arm.
“No! No, I won’t!” She tried to pull her arm away.
Canfield came out of the shadows. “Hello, Mrs. Scarlett. I thought it was you. Can I be of help?”
The well-groomed man released the girl and stared at Canfield. He seemed confused as well as angry. Instead of speaking, however, he suddenly ran back into the street and climbed into the car.
“Hey, wait a minute, mister!” The field accountant rushed to the curb and put his hand on the door handle. “We’ll take you up on the ride.…”
The engine accelerated and the roadster sped off down the street throwing Canfield to the ground, his hand lacerated by the door handle wrenched from his grip.
He got up painfully and spoke to Janet Scarlett.
“Your friend’s pretty damned chintzy.”
Janet Scarlett looked at the field accountant with gratitude.
“I never saw him before.… At least, I don’t think so.… Maybe.… I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember your name. I am sorry and I do thank you.”
“No apologies necessary. We’ve only met once. Oyster Bay club a couple of weeks ago.”
“Oh!” The girl seemed not to want to recall the evening.
“Chris Newland introduced us. The name’s Canfield.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Matthew Canfield. I’m the one from Chicago.”
“Yes, I remember now.”
“Come on. I’ll get us a taxi.”
“Your hand is bleeding.”
“So’s your knee.”
“Mine’s only a scratch.”
“So’s mine. Just scraped. Looks worse than it is.”
“Perhaps you should see a doctor.”
“All I need is a handkerchief and some ice. Handkerchief for the hand, ice for a Scotch.” They reached Fifth Avenue and Canfield hailed a taxi. “That’s all the doctoring I need, Mrs. Scarlett.”
Janet Scarlett smiled hesitantly as they got into the cab. “That doctoring I can provide.”
The entrance hall of the Scarlett home on Fifty-fourth Street was about what Canfield had imagined it would be. The ceilings were high, the main doors thick, and the staircase facing the entrance rose an imposing two stories. There were antique mirrors on either side of the hallway, double french doors beside each mirror facing each other across the foyer. The doors on the right were open and Canfield could see the furniture of a formal dining room. The doors on the left were closed and he presumed they led into a living room. Expensive oriental throw rugs were placed on the parquet floors.… This was all as it should be. However, what shocked the field accountant was the color scheme of the hallway itself. The wallpaper was a rich—too rich—red damask, and the drapes covering the french doors were black—a heavy black velvet that was out of character with the ornate delicacy of the French furniture.
Janet Scarlett noticed his reaction to the colors and before Canfield could disguise it, said, “Rather hits you in the eye, doesn’t it?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said politely.
“My husband insisted on that hideous red and then replaced all my pink silks with those awful black drapes. He made a terrible scene about it when I objected.” She parted the double doors and moved into the darkness to turn on a table lamp.
Canfield followed her into the extraordinarily ornate living room. It was the size of five squash courts, and the number of settees, sofas, and armchairs was staggering. Fringed lamps were silhouetted atop numerous tables placed conveniently by the seating places. The arrangement of the furniture was unrelated except for a semicircle of divans facing an enormous fireplace. In the dim light of the single lamp, Canfield’s eyes were immediately drawn to a p
anoply of dull reflections above the mantel. They were photographs. Dozens of photographs of varying sizes placed in thin black frames. They were arranged as a floral spray, the focal point being a scroll encased in gold borders at the center of the mantel.
The girl noticed Canfield’s stare but did not acknowledge it.
“There’re drinks and ice over there,” she said, pointing to a dry bar. “Just help yourself. Will you pardon me for a minute? I’ll change my stockings.” She disappeared into the main hall.”
Canfield crossed to the glass-topped wheel cart and poured two small tumblers of Scotch. He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his trousers, doused it in ice water, and wrapped it around his slightly bleeding hand. Then he turned on another lamp to illuminate the display above the mantel. For the briefest of moments, he was shocked.
It was incredible. Over the mantel was a photographic presentation of Ulster Stewart Scarlett’s army career. From officer’s candidate school to embarkation; from his arrival in France to his assignments to the trenches. In some frames there were maps with heavy red and blue lines indicating positions. In a score of pictures Ulster was the energetic center of attraction.
He had seen photographs of Scarlett before, but they were generally snapshots taken at society parties or single shots of the socialite in his various athletic endeavors—polo, tennis, sailing—and he had looked precisely the way Brooks Brothers expected their clients to look. However, here he was among soldiers, and it annoyed Can-field to see that he was nearly a half a head taller than the largest soldier near him. And there were soldiers everywhere, of every rank and every degree of military bearing. Awkward citizen corporals having their weapons inspected, weary sergeants lining up wearier men, experienced-looking field officers listening intently—all were doing what they were doing for the benefit of the vigorous, lean lieutenant who somehow commanded their attention. In many pictures the young officer had his arms slung around half-smiling companions as if assuring them that happy days would soon be here again.
Judging by the expressions of those around him, Scarlett was not notably successful. However, his own countenance radiated optimism itself. Cool, and intensely self-satisfied as well, thought Canfield. The centerpiece was, indeed, a scroll. It was the Silver Star citation for gallantry at the Meuse-Argonne. To judge from the exhibition, Ulster Scarlett was the best-adjusted hero ever to have the good fortune to go to war. The disturbing aspect was the spectacle itself. It was grotesquely out of place. It belonged in the study of some celebrated warrior whose campaigns spanned half a century, not here on Fifty-fourth Street in the ornate living room of a pleasure-seeker.
“Interesting, aren’t they?” Janet had reentered the room.
“Impressive, to say the least. He’s quite a guy.”
“You have no argument there. If anyone forgot, he just had to walk into this room to be reminded.”
“I gather that this … this pictorial history of how the war was won wasn’t your idea.” He handed Janet her drink, which, he noted, she firmly clasped and brought immediately to her lips.
“It most certainly was not.” She nearly finished the short, straight Scotch. “Sit down, won’t you?”
Canfield quickly downed most of his own drink. “First let me freshen these.” He took her glass. She sat on the large sofa facing the mantel while he crossed to the bar.
“I never thought your husband was subject to this kind of”—he paused and nodded to the fireplace—“hangover.”
“That’s an accurate analogy. Aftermath of a big binge. You’re a philosopher.”
“Don’t mean to be. Just never thought of him as the type.” He brought over the two drinks, handed one to her, and remained standing.
“Didn’t you read his accounts of what happened? I thought the newspapers did a splendid job of making it perfectly clear who was really responsible for the Kaiser’s defeat.” She drank again.
“Oh, hell, that’s the publishing boys. They have to sell papers. I read thorn but I didn’t take them seriously. Never thought he did either.”
“You talk as if you knew my husband.”
Canfield purposely looked startled and took his glass away from his lips. “Didn’t you know?”
“What?”
“Well, of course, I knew him. I knew him quite well. I just took it for granted that you knew. I’m sorry.”
Janet concealed her surprise. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Ulster had a large circle of friends. I couldn’t possibly know them all. Were you a New York friend of Ulster’s? I don’t remember his mentioning you.”
“No, not really. Oh, we met now and then when I came east.”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re from Chicago. It is Chicago?”
“It is. But to be honest with you, my job takes me all over the place.” And certainly, he was honest about that.
“What do you do?”
Canfield returned with the drinks and sat down.
“Stripped of its frills, I’m a salesman. But we never strip the frills that obviously.”
“What do you sell? I know lots of people who sell things. They don’t worry about frills.”
“Well, I don’t sell stocks or bonds or buildings or even bridges. I sell tennis courts.”
Janet laughed. It was a nice laugh. “You’re joking!”
“No, seriously, I sell tennis courts.”
He put his drink down and pretended to look in his pockets. “Let’s see if I’ve got one on me. They’re really very nice. Perfect bounce. Wimbledon standards except for the grass. That’s the name of our company. Wimbledon. For your information, they’re excellent courts. You’ve probably played on dozens of them and never knew who to give the credit to.”
“I think that’s fascinating. Why do people buy your tennis courts? Can’t they just build their own?”
“Sure. We encourage them to. We make more money when we rip one out and replace it with ours.”
“You’re teasing me. A tennis court’s a tennis court.”
“Only the grass ones, my dear. And they’re never quite ready by spring and they’re always brown in the fall. Ours are year-round.”
She laughed again.
“It’s really very simple. My company’s developed an asphalt composition that duplicates the bounce of a grass court. Never melts in heat. Never expands when frozen. Would you like the full sales pitch? Our trucks will be here in three days and during that time we’ll contract for the first layer of gravel. We’ll do that locally. Before you know it, you’ll have a beautiful court right out there on Fifty-fourth Street.”
They both laughed.
“And I assume you’re a champion tennis player.”
“No. I play. Not well. I don’t particularly like the game. Naturally we have several internationally known whizzes on the payroll to vouch for the courts. Incidentally, we guarantee an exhibition match on yours the day we complete the job. You can ask your friends over and have a party. Some magnificent parties have been held on our courts. Now, that’s generally the close that sells the job!”
“Very impressive.”
“From Atlanta to Bar Harbor. Best courts, best parties.” He raised his glass.
“Oh, so you sold Ulster a tennis court?”
“Never tried. I imagine I could have. He bought a dirigible once, and after all, what’s a tennis court compared to that?”
“It’s flatter.” She giggled and held her glass out to him. He rose and went to the bar, unwrapping the handkerchief from his hand and putting it in his pocket. She slowly extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray in front of her.
“If you’re not in the New York crowd, where did you know my husband?”
“We first met in college. Briefly, very briefly. I left in the middle of my first year.” Canfield wondered if Washington had placed the proper records of a long-forgotten freshman down at Princeton University.
“Aversion to books?”
“Aversion to money. The wrong branch of the fa
mily had it. Then we met later in the army, again briefly.”
“The army?”
“Yes. But in no way like that, I repeat, no way like that!” He gestured toward the mantel and returned to the sofa.
“Oh?”
“We parted company after training in New Jersey. He to France and glory. Me to Washington and boredom. But we had a helluva time before that.” Canfield leaned ever so slightly toward her, permitting his voice the minor intimacy usually accompanying the second effects of alcohol. “All prior to his nuptials, of course.”
“Not so prior, Matthew Canfield.”
He looked at her closely, noting that the anticipated response was positive but not necessarily liking the fact. “If that’s the case, he was a bigger fool than I thought he was.”
She looked into his eyes as one scans a letter, trying to read, not between the lines, but instead, beyond the words.
“You’re a very attractive man.” And then she rose quickly, a bit unsteadily, and put her drink down on the small table in front of the settee. “I haven’t had dinner and if I don’t eat soon I’ll be incoherent. I don’t like being incoherent.”
“Let me take you out.”
“And have you bleed all over some poor unsuspecting waiter?”
“No more blood.” Canfield held out his hand. “I would like to have dinner with you.”
“Yes, I’m sure you would.” She picked up her drink and walked with ever so slight a list to the left side of the fireplace, “Do you know what I was about to do?”
“No.” He remained seated, slouched deeply into the sofa.
“I was about to ask you to leave.”
Canfield began to protest.
“No, wait. I wanted to be all by myself and nibble something all by myself and perhaps that’s not such a good idea.”
“I think that’s a terrible idea.”
“So I won’t.”
“Good.”
“But I don’t want to go out. Will you have, as they say, potluck with me here?”
“Won’t that be a lot of trouble?”
Janet Scarlett yanked at a pull cord, which hung on the wall at the side of the mantel. “Only for the housekeeper, And she hasn’t been overworked in the least since my husband—left.”
The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 15