The Scarlatti Inheritance

  “Kill him.”

  “Monsieur!”

  “Kill him! Kill the Marquis de Bertholde and do it today!”

  “Monsieur! I do not believe what I hear!”

  “Listen to me! I don’t give explanations! By the time I reach Munich I want a cable waiting for me telling me that stupid son of a bitch is dead!… And, Labishe! Do it so there’s no mistake who killed him. You! We can’t have any investigations now!… Get back here to the field. We’ll fly you out of the country.”

  “Monsieur! I have been with le marquis for fifteen years! He has been good to me!… I can not …”

  “You what?”

  “Monsieur …” The Frenchman sunk to one knee. “Do not ask me.…”

  “I don’t ask. I command! Munich commands!”

  The foyer on the third floor of Bertholde et Fils was enormous. In the rear was an impressive set of white Louis XIV doors that obviously led to the sanctum sanctorum of the Marquis de Bertholde. On the right side were six brown leather armchairs in a semicircle—the sort that might be found in the study of a wealthy country squire—with a thick rectangular coffee table placed in front. On the table were neatly stacked piles of chic magazines—chic socially and chic industrially. On the left side of the room was a large white desk trimmed in gold. Behind the desk sat a most attractive brunet with spit curls silhouetted against her forehead. All this Canfield took in with his second impression. It took him several moments to get over his first.

  Opening the elevator door, he had been visually overpowered by the color scheme of the walls.

  They were magenta red and sweeping from the ceiling moldings were arcs of black velvet.

  Good Christ! he said to himself. I’m in a hallway thirty-five hundred miles away!

  Seated in the chairs beside one another were two middle-aged gentlemen in Savile Row clothes reading magazines. Standing off to the right was a man in a chauffeur’s uniform, his hat off, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Canfield approached the desk. The spit-curled secretary greeted him before he could speak. “Mr. Canfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “The marquis would like you to go right in, sir.” The girl spoke as she rose from the chair and started toward the large white doors. Canfield saw that the man seated on the left was upset. He uttered a few “Damns!” and went back to his magazine.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Canfield.” The fourth marquis of Chatellerault stood behind his large white desk and extended his hand. “We have not met, of course, but an emissary from Elizabeth Scarlatti is a welcome guest. Do sit down.”

  Bertholde was almost what Canfield expected him to be, except, perhaps, shorter. He was well-groomed, relatively handsome, very masculine, with a voice resonant enough to fill an opera house. However, in spite of his exuding virility—bringing to mind the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau—there was something artificial, slightly effete about the man. Perhaps the clothing. It was almost too fashionable.

  “How do you do?” Canfield smiled, shaking the Frenchman’s hand. “Is it Monsieur Bertholde? Or Monsieur le Marquis? I’m not sure which I should use.”

  “I could tell you several unflattering names given me by your countrymen.” The marquis laughed. “But please, use the French custom—so scorned by our proper Anglicans. Plain Bertholde will do. Marquises are such an out-of-date custom.” The Frenchman smiled ingenuously and waited until Canfield sat in the chair in front of his desk before returning to his seat. Jacques Louis Aumont Bertholde, fourth marquis of Chatellerault, was immensely likable and Canfield recognized the fact.

  “I appreciate your interrupting your schedule.”

  “Schedules are made to be broken. Such a dull existence otherwise, yes?”

  “I won’t waste time, sir. Elizabeth Scarlatti wants to negotiate.”

  Jacques Bertholde leaned back in his chair and looked startled. “Negotiate?… I’m afraid I don’t comprehend, monsieur.… Negotiate what?”

  “She knows, Bertholde.… She knows as much as she needs to know. She wants to meet you.”

  “I’d be delighted—at any time—to meet Madame Scarlatti but I can’t imagine what we have to discuss. Not in a business sense, monsieur, which I presume to be your … errand.”

  “Maybe the key is her son. Ulster Scarlett.”

  Bertholde leveled his gaze intently on the field accountant. “It is a key for which I have no lock, monsieur. I have not had the pleasure.… I know, as most who read newspapers know, that he vanished a number of months ago. But that is all I know.”

  “And you don’t know a thing about Zurich?”

  Jacques Bertholde abruptly sat up in his chair. “Quoi? Zurich?”

  “We know about Zurich.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No. Fourteen men in Zurich. Maybe you’ve got the fifteenth.… Elizabeth Scarlatti.”

  Canfield could hear Bertholde’s breathing. “Where did you get this information? What do you refer to?”

  “Ulster Scarlett! Why do you think I’m here?”

  “I don’t believe you! I don’t know what you are talking about!” Bertholde got out of his chair.

  “For God’s sake! She’s interested.… Not because of him! Because of you! And the others! She’s got something to offer, and if I were you, I’d listen to her.”

  “But you are not me, monsieur! I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. There is no business between Madame Scarlatti and the Bertholde companies.”

  Canfield did not move. He remained in the chair and spoke quietly. “Then I’d better put it another way. I think you’ll have to see her. Talk with her.… For your own good. For Zurich’s good.”

  “You threaten me?”

  “If you don’t, it’s my opinion that she’ll do something drastic. I don’t have to tell you she’s a powerful woman.… You’re linked with her son.… And she met with her son last night!”

  Bertholde stood motionless. Canfield couldn’t decide whether the Frenchman’s look of disbelief was over the revelation of Scarlett’s visit or his—the field accountant’s—knowledge of it.

  After a few moments Bertholde replied, “I know nothing of what you speak. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Oh, come on! I found the rig! The Alpine rig! I found it at the bottom of a closet in your conference suite at the Savoy!”

  “You what?”

  “You heard me! Now, let’s stop kidding each other!”

  “You broke into my firm’s private quarters?”

  “I did! And that’s just the beginning. We’ve got a list. You might know some of the names on it.… Daudet and D’Almeida, fellow countrymen, I think.… Olaffsen, Landor, Thyssen, von Schnitzler, Kindorf.… And, oh yes! Mr. Masterson and Mr. Leacock! Current partners of yours, I believe! There are several others, but I’m sure you know their names better than I do!”

  “Enough! Enough, monsieur!” The Marquis de Bertholde sat down again, slowly, deliberately. He stared at Canfield. “I will clear my office and we will talk further. People have been waiting. It does not look good. Wait outside. I will dispense with them quickly.”

  The field accountant got out of the chair as Bertholde picked up the telephone and pressed the button for his secretary.

  “Monsieur Canfield will remain. I wish to finish the afternoon’s business as rapidly as possible. With each person interrupt me in five minutes if I have not concluded by then. What? Labishe? Very well, send him in. I’ll give them to him.” The Frenchman reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys.

  Canfield crossed to the large white double doors. Before his hand touched the brass knob, the door on his left opened swiftly, with great force.

  “So sorry, monsieur,” the man in uniform said.

  “Voici les clefs, Labishe.”

  “Merci, Monsieur le Marquis! Je regrette.… J’ai un billet …”

  The chauffeur closed the door and Canfield smiled at the secretary.

  He wandered over to the semicircle of chairs,
and as the two gentlemen looked up, he nodded pleasantly. He sat down on the end chair nearest the entrance to Bertholde’s office and picked up the London Illustrated News. He noted that the man nearest him was fidgeting, irritable, quite impatient. He was turning the pages of Punch, but he was not reading. The other man was engrossed in an article in the Quarterly Review.

  Suddenly, Canfield was diverted by an insignificant action on the part of the impatient man. The man extended his left hand through his coat sleeve, turned his wrist, and looked at the watch. A perfectly normal occurrence under the circumstances. What startled the field accountant was the sight of the man’s cuff link. It was made of cloth and it was square with two stripes running diagonally from corner to corner. The small stripes were deep red and black. It was a replica of the cuff link that had identified the hulking, masked Charles Boothroyd in Elizabeth Scarlatti’s stateroom on board the Calpurnia. The colors were the same as the paper on the marquis’ walls and the black velvet drapes arcing from the ceiling.

  The impatient man noticed Canfield’s stare. He abruptly withdrew his hand into his jacket and placed his arm at his side.

  “I was trying to read the time on your watch. Mine’s been running fast.”

  “Four twenty.”

  “Thanks.”

  The impatient gentleman folded his arms and leaned back, looking exasperated. The other man spoke.

  “Basil, you’ll have a stroke if you don’t relax.”

  “Well and good for you, Arthur! But I’m late for a meeting! I told Jacques it was a hectic day, but he insisted I come over.”

  “He can be insistent.”

  “He can be bloody rude, too!”

  There followed five minutes of silence except for the rustling of papers at the secretary’s desk.

  The large left panel of the white double doors opened and the chauffeur emerged. He closed the door, and Canfield noticed that once it was shut, the chauffeur twisted the knob to make sure it was secure. It was a curious motion.

  The uniformed man went to the secretary and leaned over her desk, whispering. She reacted to his information with resigned annoyance. He shrugged his shoulders and walked quickly to a door to the right of the elevator. Canfield saw through the slowly closing door the flight of stairs he had presumed to be there.

  The secretary placed some papers into a manila folder and looked over at the three men. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, the Marquis de Bertholde can not 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 pin-stripe 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 give
n 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 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.