“As you say.”
“Just one minute, gentlemen. I do not consent! I’m sure Mr. Derek will adhere to my wishes.”
“Terribly sorry, madame. My instructions are to take orders from Mr. Canfield.”
“And we have an agreement, Madame Scarlatti, or do you want to tear it up?”
“What can I possibly say to such people? I simply can not stand that voodoo mumbo jumbo coming from Rome!”
“You’ll be spared that discomfort, madame,” said Mr. Derek. “There’s a vow of silence. You’ll not hear from anyone.”
“Contemplate,” added the field accountant “Good for the immortal soul.”
CHAPTER 23
YORK, ENGLAND, August 12, 1926— The famed Abbey of York sustained a damaging explosion and fire at dawn this morning in its west wing, the residential quarters of the religious order. An undisclosed number of sisters and novices were killed in the tragic occurrence. It was believed that the explosion was due to a malfunction in the heating system recently installed by the order.
Canfield read the story in the ship’s newspaper one day before arriving in New York.
They do their homework well, he thought. And although the price was painfully high, it proved two points conclusively: the press releases were read and Madame Scarlatti was marked.
The field accountant reached into his pocket and took out the old woman’s letter to Janet Scarlett. He’d read it many times and thought it effective. He read it once more.
My dear Child:
I am aware that you are not particularly fond of me and I accept the fact as my loss. You have every right to feel as you do—the Scarlattis have not been pleasant people with whom to be associated. However, for whatever reasons and regardless of the pain you have been caused, you are now a Scarlatti and you have borne a Scarlatti into this world. Perhaps you will be the one who will make us better than we are.
I do not make this statement lightly or out of sentiment. History has shown that the least expected among us often emerge splendidly because of the grave responsibilities placed upon them. I ask you to consider this possibility.
I further ask you to give deep consideration to what Mr. Matthew Canfield will tell you. I trust him. I do so because he has saved my life and nearly lost his own in so doing. His interests and ours are inextricably bound together. He will tell you what he can and he will ask of you a great deal.
I am a very, very old woman, my dear, and do not have much time. What months or years I do have (precious perhaps only to me) may well be cut short in a fashion I’d like to believe is not the will of God. Naturally, I accept this risk gladly as the head of the house of Scarlatti, and if I can spend what time I have left preventing a great dishonor upon our family, I will join my husband with a grateful heart.
Through Mr. Canfield, I await your answer. If it is as I suspect, we will be together shortly and you will have gladdened me far beyond that which I deserve. If it is not, you still have my affection and, believe me when I say, my understanding.
Elizabeth Wyckham Scarlatti
Canfield replaced the letter in the envelope. It was quite good, he thought again. It explained nothing and asked for implicit trust that the unsaid explanation was vitally urgent. If he did his job, the girl would be coming back to England with him. If he failed to persuade her, an alternative would have to be found.
The Ulster Scarlett brownstone on Fifty-fourth Street was being repainted and sandblasted. There were several scaffolds lowered from the roof and a number of workmen diligently at their crafts. The heavy Checker cab pulled up in front of the entrance and Matthew Canfield walked up the steps. He rang the bell; the door was opened by the obese housekeeper.
“Good afternoon, Hannah. I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Canfield. Matthew Canfield to see Mrs. Scarlett.”
Hannah did not budge or offer entrance. “Does Mrs. Scarlett expect you?”
“Not formally, but I’m sure she’ll see me.” He had had no intention of phoning. It would have been too easy for her to refuse.
“I don’t know if madame is in, sir.”
“Then I’ll just have to wait. Shall it be here on the stairs?”
Hannah reluctantly made way for the field accountant to step into the hideously colored hallway. Canfield was struck again by the intensity of the red wallpaper and the black drapes.
“I’ll inquire, sir,” said the housekeeper as she started toward the stairs.
In a few minutes Janet came down the long staircase, followed by a waddling Hannah. She was very much composed. Her eyes were clear, aware, and devoid of the panic he had remembered. She was in command and without question a beautiful woman.
Canfield felt a sudden sting of inferiority. He was outclassed.
“Why, Mr. Canfield, this is a surprise.”
He could not determine whether her greeting was meant to be pleasant or not. It was friendly, but cool and reserved. This girl had learned the lessons of the old money well.
“I hope not an unwelcome one, Mrs. Scarlett.”
“Not at all.”
Hannah had reached the bottom step and walked toward the dining room doors. Canfield quickly spoke again. “During my trip I ran across a fellow whose company makes dirigibles. I knew you’d be interested.” Canfield watched Hannah out of the corner of his eye without moving his head. Hannah had turned abruptly and looked at the field accountant.
“Really, Mr. Canfield? Why would that concern me?” The girl was mystified.
“I understood your friends on Oyster Bay were determined to buy one for their club. Here, I’ve brought all the information. Purchase price, rentals, specifications, the works.… Let me show you.”
The field accountant took Janet Scarlett’s elbow and led her swiftly toward the living room doors. Hannah hesitated ever so slightly but, with a glance from Canfield, retreated into the dining room. Canfield then closed the living room doors.
“What are you doing? I don’t want to buy a dirigible.”
The field accountant stood by the doors, motioning the girl to stop talking.
“What?”
“Be quiet for a minute. Please.” He spoke softly.
Canfield waited about ten seconds and then opened the doors in one swinging motion.
Directly across the hallway, standing by the dining room table, was Hannah and a man in white overalls, obviously one of the painters. They were talking while looking over toward the living room doors. They were now in full view of Canfield’s stare. Embarrassed, they moved away.
Canfield shut the door and turned to Janet Scarlett. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“What are you doing?”
“Just interesting that your help should be so curious.”
“Oh, that.” Janet turned and picked up a cigarette from a case on the coffee table. “Servants will talk and I think you’ve given them cause.”
Canfield lit her cigarette. “Including the painters?”
“Hannah’s friends are her own business. They’re no concern of mine. Hannah’s barely a concern of mine.…”
“You don’t find it curious that Hannah nearly tripped when I mentioned a dirigible?”
“I simply don’t understand you.”
“I admit I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“Why didn’t you telephone?”
“If I had, would you have seen me?”
Janet thought for a minute. “Probably.… Whatever recriminations I had over your last visit wouldn’t be any reason to insult you.”
“I didn’t want to take that gamble.”
“That’s sweet of you and I’m touched. But why this very odd behavior?”
There was no point in delaying any longer. He took the envelope out of his pocket “I’ve been asked to give you this. May I sit down while you read it?”
Janet, startled, took the envelope and immediately recognized her mother-in-law’s handwriting. She opened the envelope and read the letter.
If she was
astonished or shocked, she hid her emotions well.
Slowly she sat down on the sofa and put out her cigarette. She looked down at the letter and up at Canfield, and then back to the letter. Without looking up, she asked quietly, “Who are you?”
“I work for the government. I’m an official … a minor official in the Department of the Interior.”
“The government? You’re not a salesman, then?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You wanted to meet me and talk with me for the government?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you tell me you sold tennis courts?”
“We sometimes find it necessary to conceal our employment. It’s as simple as that.”
“I see.”
“I assume you want to know what your mother-in-law means in the letter?”
“Don’t assume anything.” She was cold as she continued. “It was your job to meet me and ask me all those amusing questions?”
“Frankly, yes.”
The girl rose, took the necessary two steps toward the field accountant, and slapped him across the face with all her strength. It was a sharp and painful blow. “You son of a bitch! Get out of this house!” She still did not raise her voice. “Get out before 1 call the police!”
“Oh, my God, Janet, will you stop it!” He grabbed her shoulders as she tried to wriggle away. “Listen to me! I said listen or I’ll slap you right back!”
Her eyes shone with hatred and, Canfield thought, a touch of melancholy. He held her firmly as he spoke. “Yes, I was assigned to meet you. Meet you and get whatever information I could.”
She spat in his face. He did not bother to brush it away.
“I got the information I needed and I used that information because that’s what I’m paid for! As far as my department is concerned, I left this house by nine o’clock after you served me two drinks. If they want to pick you up for illegal possession of alcohol, that’s what they can get you for!”
“I don’t believe you!”
“I don’t give a good God damn whether you do or not! And for your further information I’ve had you under surveillance for weeks! You and the rest of your playmates.… It may interest you to know that I’ve omitted detailing the more … ludicrous aspects of your day-to-day activities!”
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 we let out a story to the newspapers saying she’d gone to a retreat in a place called York, in England. Two days ago the heating system blew up and killed Christ knows how many people! An accident, of course!”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Do you want me to finish, or do you still want me to go?”
There was a sadness about Ulster Scarlett’s wife as she tried to smile. “I guess you’d better stay and … finish.”
They sat on the sofa and Canfield talked.
He talked as he had never talked before.
CHAPTER 24
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 “sportingoods 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-Bowen, 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 Schritzler, 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.”
CHAPTER 25
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.
The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 20