The Scarlatti Inheritance

  “He was alone. His wife remained in London. That’s out of the ordinary.”

  Elizabeth rose from the chaise longue. “It was over a year ago. The money was only pledged.…”

  Ambassador Pond has confirmed that the transaction was concluded.”

  “When?”

  “Two months ago. Just after your son disappeared.”

  Elizabeth stopped pacing and looked at Canfield. “I asked you a question before you went after that man.”

  “I remember. You offered me a job.”

  “Could I receive cooperation from your agency on your approval alone? We have the same objective. There’s no conflict.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Is it possible for you to report that I voluntarily offered to cooperate with you? The truth, Mr. Canfield, merely the truth. An attempt was made on my life. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead. I’m a frightened old woman.”

  “It’ll be assumed that you know your son’s alive.”

  “Not know. Suspect.”

  “Because of the securities?”

  “I refuse to admit that.”

  “Then why?”

  “First answer me. Could I use the influence of your agency without being questioned further?… Responsible only to you.”

  “Which means I’m responsible to you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “In Europe as well?”

  “We have reciprocal agreements with most—”

  “Then here’s my offer,” interrupted Elizabeth. “I add that it’s nonnegotiable.… One hundred thousand dollars. Paid in installments mutually agreeable.”

  Matthew Canfield stared at the confident old woman and suddenly found himself frightened. There was something terrifying about the sum Elizabeth Scarlatti had just mentioned. He repeated her words almost inaudibly. “One hundred thousand—”

  “ ‘Dust thou wert,’ Mr. Canfield. Take my offer and enjoy your life.”

  The field accountant was perspiring and it was neither warm nor humid in the suite. “You know my answer.”

  “Yes, I thought so.… Don’t be overwhelmed. The transition to money takes but minor adjustments. You’ll have enough to be comfortable, but not so much for responsibility. That would be uncomfortable.… Now, where were we?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yes. Why do I suspect my son may be alive? Separate and apart from the securities you speak of.”

  “Why do you?”

  “From April to December of the past year, my son had hundreds of thousands of dollars transferred to banks throughout Europe. I believe he intends to live on that money. I’m tracing those deposits. I’m following the trail of that money.” Elizabeth saw that the field accountant did not believe her. “It happens to be the truth.”

  “But so are the securities, aren’t they?”

  “Speaking to someone on my payroll and knowing that I’ll deny any knowledge of them outside of this stateroom … yes.”

  “Why deny it?”

  “A fair question. I don’t think you’ll understand but I’ll try. The missing securities won’t be discovered for nearly a year. I have no legal right to question my son’s trust—no one has—until the bonds mature. To do so would be to publicly accuse the Scarlatti family. It would tear the Scarlatti Industries apart. Make suspect all Scarlatti transactions in every banking institution in the civilized world. It’s a heavy responsibility. Considering the amount of money involved, it could create panics in a hundred corporations.”

  Canfield reached the limits of his concentration. “Who was Jefferson Cartwright?”

  “The only other person who knew about the securities.”

  “Oh, my God!” Canfield sat up in the chair.

  “Do you really think he was killed for the reasons given?”

  “I didn’t know there were any.”

  “They were indirect. He was a notorious philanderer.”

  The field accountant looked into the old woman’s eyes. “And you say he was the only other one who knew about the securities?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I think that was why he was killed. In your section of town, you don’t kill a man for sleeping with your wife. You simply use it as an excuse to sleep with his.”

  “Then I do need you, don’t I, Mr. Canfield?”

  “What had you planned to do when we reach England?”

  “Prescisely what I said I was going to do. Start with the banks.”

  “What would that tell you?”

  “I’m not sure. But there were considerable sums of money by ordinary standards. This money had to go somewhere. It certainly wasn’t going to be carried around in paper bags. Perhaps other accounts under false names; perhaps small businesses quickly established—I don’t know. But I do know this is the money that will be used until the payments for the securities are liquid.”

  “Christ, he’s got thirty million dollars in Stockholm!”

  “Not necessarily. Accounts could be opened in Switzerland totaling thirty million—probably paid in bullion—but not released for a considerable length of time.”

  “How long?”

  “As long as it takes to certify the authenticity of every document. Since they were sold on a foreign exchange that could take months.”

  “So you’re going to trace the accounts in the banks.”

  “That would appear to be the only starting point.” Elizabeth Scarlatti opened the drawer of a writing desk and took out a vanity case. Unlocking it she took out a single sheet of paper.

  “I assume you have a copy of this. I’d like you to read it over and refresh your memory.” She handed him the paper. It was the list of foreign banks where monies had been deposited by Waterman Trust for Ulster Stewart Scarlett. Canfield remembered it from the material sent from the Justice Department.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it, but I haven’t got a copy.… Something less than a million dollars.”

  “Have you noticed the dates of the withdrawals?”

  “I remember the last one was about two weeks before your son and his wife returned to New York. A couple of accounts are still open, aren’t they? Yes, here …”

  “London and The Hague.” The old woman interrupted and continued without stopping. “That’s not what I mean, but it could be valuable. What I’m referring to is the geographic pattern.”

  “What geographic pattern?”

  “Starting with London, then north to Norway; then south again to England—Manchester; then east to Paris; north again to Denmark; south to Marseilles; west into Spain, Portugal; northeast to Berlin; south again into North Africa—Cairo; northwest through Italy—Rome; then the Balkans; reversing west back to Switzerland—it goes on. A patchwork.” The old lady had recited by rote as Canfield tried to follow the list of dates.

  “What’s your point, Madame Scarlatti?”

  “Nothing strikes you as unusual?”

  “Your son was on his honeymoon. I don’t know how you people go on honeymoons. All I know about is Niagara Falls.”

  “This is not a normal itinerary.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Let me put it this way.… You wouldn’t take a pleasure trip from Washington, D.C., to New York City, then return to Baltimore with your next stop Boston.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “My son crisscrossed within a semicircle. The final destination, the last and largest withdrawal was made at a point more logically reached months earlier.”

  Canfield was lost trying to follow the banks and dates.

  “Don’t bother, Mr. Canfield. It was Germany. An obscure town in southern Germany. It’s called Tassing.… Why?”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 22

  The second and third days of the Calpurnia voyage were calm, both the weather and the first-class section of the ship. The news of the death of a passenger cast a pall over the voyagers. Mrs. Charles Boothroyd was confined to quarters u
nder the constant supervision of the ship’s doctor and attending nurses. She had gone into hysterics upon hearing the news of her husband and it had been necessary to administer large doses of sedatives.

  By the third day, with revived health, the optimism of most passengers revived.

  Elizabeth Wyckham Scarlatti and her young table escort made it a point to part company after each meal. By ten thirty every night, however, Matthew Canfield let himself into her quarters to take up his post lest there be a recurrence of the Boothroyd attempt. It was an unsatisfactory arrangement.

  “If I were a hundred years younger, you might pass yourself off as one of those distasteful men who perform services for middle-aged adventuresses.”

  “If you used some of your well-advertised money to buy your own ocean liner, I might get some sleep at night.”

  These late-hour conversations served one good purpose, however. Their plans began to take shape. Also Canfield’s responsibilities as an employee of Elizabeth Scarlatti were diplomatically discussed.

  “You understand,” said Elizabeth, “I wouldn’t expect you to do anything detrimental to the government. Or against your own conscience. I do believe in a man’s conscience.”

  “But I gather you’d like to make the decision about what’s detrimental and what isn’t?”

  “To a degree, yes. I believe I’m qualified.”

  “What happens if I don’t agree with you?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Oh, that’s great!”

  In essence, Matthew Canfield would continue submitting his reports to Washington’s Group Twenty with one alteration—they first would be approved by Elizabeth Scarlatti. Together they would, through the field accountant, make certain requests of his office they both felt necessary. In all matters of physical well-being, the old woman would follow the instructions of the young man without argument.

  Matthew Canfield would receive ten payments of ten thousand dollars each commencing with the first day in London. In small American bills.

  “You realize, Mr. Canfield, that there’s another way to look at this arrangement.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your office is getting the benefit of my not inconsiderable talents for absolutely nothing. Extremely beneficial to the taxpayers.”

  “I’ll put that in my next report.”

  The basic problem of the arrangement had not been resolved, however. For the field accountant to fulfill his obligations to both employers, a reason had to be found explaining his association with the old woman. It would become obvious as the weeks went by and it would be foolish to try to pass it off as either companionship or business. Both explanations would be suspect.

  With a degree of self-interest, Matthew Canfield asked, “Can you get along with your daughter-in-law?”

  “I assume you mean Ulster’s wife. No one could stand Chancellor’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “I like her. However, if you’re thinking about her as a third party, I must tell you that she’ despises me. There are many reasons, most of them quite valid. In order to get what I want I’ve had to treat her quite badly. My only defense, if I felt I needed one—which I don’t—is that what I wanted was for her benefit.”

  “I’m deeply moved, but do you think we could get her coopperation? I’ve met her on several occasions.”

  “She’s not very responsible. But I suppose you know that.”

  “Yes. I also know that she suspects you of going to Europe on your son’s account.”

  “I realize that. It would help to enlist her, I imagine. But I don’t think I could manage it by cable, and I certainly wouldn’t want to spell it out in a letter.”

  “I’ve a better way. I’ll go back for her and I’ll take a written … explanation from you. Not too involved, not too specific. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “You must know her very well.”

  “Not so. I just think that if I can convince her that you—and I—are on her side … if someone’s on her side, she’ll help.”

  “She might be able to. She could show us places.…”

  “She might recognize people.…”

  “But what will I do while you’re in America? I’ll no doubt be dead when you come back.”

  Canfield had thought of that. “When we reach England, you should go into retreat.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “For your immortal soul. And your son’s as well, of course.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “A convent. The whole world knows of your bereavement. It’s a logical thing to do. We’ll issue a statement to the press to the effect that you’ve gone to an undisclosed retreat in the north of England. Then send you somewhere down south. My office will help.”

  “It sounds positively ridiculous!”

  “You’ll be fetching in your black robes!”

  The veiled, grieving Mrs. Boothroyd was led off with the first contingent of passengers. She was met by a man at customs who hurried her through the procedures and took her to a Rolls-Royce waiting on the street. Canfield followed the couple to the car.

  Forty-five minutes later Canfield checked into the hotel. He had called his London contact from a public phone and they had agreed to meet as soon as the Londoner could drive down. The field accountant then spent a half hour enjoying the stability of a dry-land bed. He was depressed at the thought of going right back on board ship but he knew there was no other solution. Janet would supply the most reasonable explanation for his accompanying the old lady and it was logical that the wife and mother of the missing Ulster Scarlett should travel together. And certainly Canfield was not unhappy at the prospect of a continued association with Janet Scarlett. She was a tramp, no question; but he had begun to doubt his opinion that she was a bitch.

  He was about to doze off when he looked at his watch and realized that he was late for his meeting. He picked up the phone and was delighted by the crisp British accent answering him.

  “Madame Scarlatti is in suite five. Our instructions are to ring through prior to callers, sir.”

  “If you’ll do that, please, I’ll just go right up. Thank you.”

  Canfield said his name quite loudly before Elizabeth Scarlatti would open the door. The old woman motioned the young man inside to a chair while she sat on a huge Victorian sofa by the window.

  “Well, what do we do now?”

  “I phoned our London man nearly an hour ago. He should be here shortly.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He said his name is James Derek.”

  “Don’t you know him?”

  “No. We’re given an exchange to call and a man is assigned to us. It’s a reciprocal arrangement.”

  “Isn’t that convenient.” A statement.

  “We’re billed for it.”

  “What will he want to know?”

  “Only what we want to tell him. He won’t ask any questions unless we request something either inimical to the British government or so expensive he’d have to justify it; that’s the point he’ll be most concerned with.”

  “That strikes me as very amusing.”

  “Taxpayers’ money.” Canfield looked at his watch. “I asked him to bring along a list of religious retreats.”

  “You’re really serious about that, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Unless he has a better idea. I’ll be gone for about two and half weeks. Did you write the letter for your daughter-in-law?”

  “Yes.” She handed him an envelope.

  Across the room on a table near the door, the telephone rang. Elizabeth walked rapidly to the table and answered it.

  “Is that Derek?” asked Canfield, when she had hung up.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now, please, Madame Scarlatti, let me do most of the talking. But if I ask you a question, you’ll know I want an honest answer.”

  “Oh? We don’t have signals?”

  “No. He doesn’t want to kn
ow anything. Believe that. Actually, we’re a source of embarrassment to each other.”

  “Should I offer him a drink, or tea, or isn’t that allowed?”

  “I think a drink would be very much appreciated.”

  “I’ll call room service and have a bar sent up.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Elizabeth Scarlatti picked up the phone and ordered a complete selection of wines and liquors. Canfield smiled at the ways of the rich and lit one of his thin cigars.

  James Derek was a pleasant-looking man in his early fifties, somewhat rotund, with the air of a prosperous merchant. He was terribly polite but essentially cool. His perpetual smile had a tendency to curve slowly into a strained straight line as he spoke.

  “We traced the license of the Rolls at the pier. It belongs to a Marquis Jacques Louis Bertholde. French resident alien. We’ll get information on him.”

  “Good. What about the retreats?”

  The Britisher took out a paper from his inside coat pocket. “There’re several we might suggest depending upon Madame Scarlatti’s wishes to be in touch with the outside.”

  “Do you have any where contact is completely impossible? On both sides?” asked the field accountant.

  “That would be Catholic, of course. There’re two or three.”

  “Now, see here!” interrupted the imposing old lady.

  “What are they?” asked Canfield.

  “There’s a Benedictine order and a Carmelite. They’re in the southwest, incidentally. One, the Carmelite, is near Cardiff.”

  “There are limits, Mr. Canfield, and I propose to establish them. I will not associate with such people!”

  “What is the most fashionable, most sought after retreat in England, Mr. Derek?” asked the field accountant.

  “Well, the duchess of Gloucester makes a yearly trek to the Abbey of York. Church of England, of course.”

  “Fine. We’ll send out a story to all the wire services that Madame Scarlatti has entered for a month.”

  “That’s far more acceptable,” said the old woman.

  “I haven’t finished.” He turned to the amused Londoner. “Then book us into the Carmelites. You’ll escort Madame Scarlatti there tomorrow.”