The Scarlatti Inheritance

by Robert Ludlum

  “How do you know?”

  “The way she looked at me when she was talking to you. She was trying to tell me something.”

  “Like what?”

  The girl shrugged impatiently and continued in a hushed whisper. “Oh, I don’t know, but you know what I mean. You’re with a group of people, and you start to tell a whopper or exaggerate something, and while you do, you look at your husband or a friend who knows better … and they know they shouldn’t correct you.…”

  “Was she lying about that company she spoke of?”

  “Oh, no. That’s the truth. Chancellor Drew’s been trying to persuade her to buy that firm for months.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s already turned it down.”

  “Then why did she lie?”

  As Canfield started to sit down, his attention was drawn to the linen antimacassar on the back of the chair. At first he dismissed it and then he looked again. The material was crumpled as if it had been mangled or bunched together. It was out of place in an immaculate suite. He looked closer. There were breaks in the threads and the imprint of fingertips was unmistakable. Whoever had gripped the chair had done so with considerable force.

  “What is it, Matthew?”

  “Nothing. Get me a drink, will you?”

  “Of course, darling.” She went to the dry bar as Canfield walked around the chair in front of the french window. For no particular reason, he pulled apart the curtains and inspected the window itself. He turned the latch and pulled the left side open. He saw what he had begun to look for. The wood around the clasp was scratched. On the sill he could see where the paint had been discolored by the impression of a heavy coarse object, probably a rubber-soled boot or a crepe-soled shoe. Not leather; there were no scratches on the enamel. He opened the right side and looked out. Below were six stories straight down; above two floors to what he recalled was an acutely slanting roof. He pushed the window shut and locked it.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “We’ve had a visitor. An uninvited guest, you might say.”

  The girl stood absolutely still. “Oh, my God!”

  “Don’t be frightened. Your mother-in-law wouldn’t do anything foolish. Believe that.”

  “I’m trying to. What are we going to do?”

  “Find out who it was. Now get hold of yourself. I’ll need you.”

  “Why didn’t she say something?”

  “I don’t know, but you may be able to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Tomorrow morning she’ll probably bring up the Sheffield business. If she does, tell her you remember she refused to buy it for Chancellor. She’ll have to give you an explanation of some kind.”

  “If Mother Scarlatti doesn’t want to talk, she just won’t. I know.”

  “Then don’t press it. But she’ll have to say something.”

  Although it was nearly three o’clock, the lobby had a flow of stragglers from late parties. They were mostly in evening dress, a great many were unbalanced and giggling, all were happily tired.

  Canfield went to the desk clerk and spoke in a gentle, folksy tone. “Say, fella, I’ve got a little problem.”

  “Yes, sir. May we be of service?”

  “Well, it’s a bit touchy.… I’m traveling with Madame Elizabeth Scarlatti and her daughter.…”

  “Oh, yes indeed. Mr.… Canfield, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. Well, the old girl’s getting on, you know, and the people above her keep pretty late hours.”

  The clerk, who knew the legend of the Scarlatti wealth, was abject in apology. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Canfield. I’ll go up myself at once. This is most embarrassing.”

  “Oh, no, please, everything’s quiet now.”

  “Well, I can assure you it won’t happen again. They must be loud, indeed. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Savoy is the soundest of structures.”

  “Well, I guess they keep the windows open, but, please, don’t say anything. She’d be pretty sore at me if she thought I talked to you about it.…”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Just tell me who they are and I’ll talk to them myself. You know, friendly-like, over a drink.”

  The clerk couldn’t have been happier with the American’s solution. “Well, if you insist, sir.… In eight west one is the Viscount and Viscountess Roxbury, charming couple and quite elderly, I believe. Most unusual. However, they could be entertaining.”

  “Who’s above them?”

  “Above them, Mr. Canfield? I don’t think …”

  “Just tell me, please.”

  “Well in nine west one is …” The clerk turned the page. “It’s not occupied, sir.”

  “Not occupied? That’s unusual for this time of year, isn’t it?”

  “I should say unavailable, sir. Nine west one has been leased for the month for business conferences.”

  “You mean no one stays there at night?”

  “Oh, they’re certainly entitled to but that hasn’t been the case.”

  “Who leased it?”

  “The firm is Bertholde et Fils.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The telephone beside James Derek’s bed rang harshly, waking him.

  “It’s Canfield. I need help and it can’t wait.”

  “That may possible be only your judgment. What is it?”

  “Scarlatti’s suite was broken into.”

  “What! What does the hotel say?”

  “They don’t know about it.”

  “I do think you should tell them.”

  “It’s not that simple. She won’t admit it.”

  “She’s your problem. Why call me?”

  “I think she’s frightened.… It was a second-story.”

  “My dear fellow, her rooms are on the seventh floor! You’re too fantastic! Or do the nasty men fly by themselves?”

  The American paused just long enough to let the Englishman know he wasn’t amused. “They figured she wouldn’t open the door, which, in itself, is interesting. Whoever it was, was lowered from one of the rooms above and used a blade. Did you learn anything about Bertholde?”

  “One thing at a time.” Derek began to take Canfield seriously.

  “That’s the point. I think they are the same thing. Bertholde’s company leased the rooms two floors above.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s right. For a month. Daily business conferences, no less.”

  “I think we’d better have a talk.”

  “The girl knows about it and she’s frightened. Can you put a couple of men on?”

  “You think it’s necessary?”

  “Not really. But I’d hate to be wrong.”

  “Very well. The story will be anticipated jewel theft. Not uniformed, of course. One in the corridor, one in the street.”

  “I appreciate it. You beginning to wake up?”

  “I am, confound you. I’ll be with you in a half hour. With everything I’ve been able to dig up on Bertholde. And I think we’d better get at look at their suite.”

  Canfield left the phone booth and started back to the hotel. His lack of sleep was beginning to take effect and he wished he was in an American city where such institutions as all-night diners provided coffee. The English, he thought, were wrong in thinking themselves so civilized. No one was civilized without all-night diners.

  He entered the opulent lobby and noted that the clock above the desk read quarter to four. He walked toward the ancient elevators.

  “Oh, Mr. Canfield, sir!” The clerk rushed up.

  “What is it?” Canfield could only think of Janet and his heart stopped.

  “Just after you left, sir! Not two minutes after you left!… Most unusual this time of night.…”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This cablegram arrived for you.” The clerk handed Canfield an envelope.

  “Thank you,” said a relieved Canfield as he took the cableg
ram and entered the open-grill elevator. As he rose from the ground floor he pressed the cable between his thumb and forefinger. It was thick. Benjamin Reynolds had either sent a long abstract lecture or there would be a considerable amount of decoding to be done. He only hoped he could finish it before Derek arrived.

  Canfield entered his room, sat down in a chair near a floor lamp, and opened the cable.

  No decoding was necessary. It was all written in simple business language and easily understood when applied to the current situation. Canfield separated the pages. There were three.

  SORRY TO INFORM YOU RAWLINS THOMAS AND LILLIAN IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT REPEAT ACCIDENT POCONO MOUNTAINS STOP BOTH ARE DEAD STOP KNOW THIS WILL UPSET YOUR DEAR FRIEND E S STOP SUGGEST YOU CARE FOR HER IN HER DISTRESS STOP TO WIMBLEDON BUSINESS STOP WE HAVE SPARED NO EXPENSE AGAIN SPARED NO EXPENSE WITH OUR ENGLISH SUPPLIERS TO OBTAIN MAXIMUM QUOTAS OF MERCHANDISE STOP THEY ARE SYMPATHETIC WITH OUR PROBLEMS OF SCANDINAVIAN EXPORTS STOP THEY ARE PREPARED TO AID YOU IN YOUR NEGOTIATIONS FOR FAIR REDUCTIONS ON MAXIMUM PURCHASES STOP THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD OF OUR COMPETITORS IN SWITZERLAND AGAIN SWITZERLAND AND THE COMPANIES REPEAT COMPANIES INVOLVED STOP THEY KNOW OF THE THREE BRITISH FIRMS IN COMPETITION STOP THEY WELL GIVE YOU ALL ASSISTANCE AND WE EXPECT YOU TO CONCENTRATE AGAIN CONCENTRATE ON OUR INTERESTS IN ENGLAND STOP DO NOT AGAIN DO NOT ATTEMPT TO UNDERBID OUR COMPETITORS IN SWITZERLAND STOP STAY OUT OF IT STOP NOTHING CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED STOP

  J. HAMMER WIMBLEDON NEW YORK

  Canfield lit a thin cigar and placed the three pages on the floor between his outstretched legs. He peered down at them.

  Hammer was Reynolds’s code name for messages sent to field accountants when he considered the contents to be of the utmost importance. The word again was for positive emphasis. The word repeat a simple inversion. It denoted the negative of whatever it referred to.

  So the Rawlinses—Canfield had to think for a minute before he remembered that the Rawlinses were Boothroyd’s in-laws—had been murdered. Not an accident. And Reynolds feared for Elizabeth Scarlatti’s life. Washington had reached an agreement with the British government to gain him unusual cooperation—no expense spared—and in return had told the English of the Swedish securities and the land purchases in Switzerland, which were presumed to be related. However, Reynolds did not specify who the men in Zurich were. Only that they existed and three upstanding Englishmen were on the list. Canfield recalled their names—Masterson of India fame; Leacock of the British Stock Exchange; and Innes-Bowen, the textile magnate.

  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’m 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 reconnoitering.”

  The field accountant paused. There was merit 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.”

&nb
sp; “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 there be 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.”