The Scarlatti Inheritance (11 page)

Don Vitone Genovese began chattering in Italian while Scarlett held the receiver several inches from his ear. The only word Scarlett really understood was the repeated, “Grazie, grazie, grazie.”

He hung up the receiver and closed the leather-bound notebook. He sat for a moment and then opened the top drawer in the center of the desk. He took out the last letter he had received from Gregor Strasser. He reread it for the twentieth time. Or was it the hundred and twentieth?

“A fantastic plan … a bold plan … the Marquis Jacques Louis Bertholde … London … by mid-April …”

Was the time really here? At last!

If it was, Heinrich Kroeger had to have his own plan for Ulster Scarlett.

It wasn’t so much bold as it was respectable. Immensely, thoroughly respectable. So proper, in fact, that Ulster Stewart Scarlett burst out laughing.

The scion of Scarlatti—the charming, handsome graduate of the cotillions, the hero of the Meuse-Argonne, New York society’s most eligible bachelor—was going to be married.

“You presume, Mr. Reynolds!” Elizabeth Scarlatti was seething. Her vehemence was directed at the old man who stood calmly in front of her, peering over his glasses. “I do not countenance presumptuous people and I will not abide liars!”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

“You got this appointment under false pretenses. Senator Brownlee told me you represented the Land Acquisition Agency and your business concerned the transactions between Scarlatti and the Department of the Interior.”

“That’s exactly what he believes.”

“Then he’s a bigger fool than I think he is. And now you threaten me! Threaten me with secondhand inflammatory gossip about my son! I trust you’re prepared to be cross-examined in court.”

“Is that what you want?”

“You may force me to it!… I don’t know your position, but I do know a great many people in Washington and I’ve never heard of you. I can only conclude that if someone like you can carry such tales, others must have heard them too. Yes, you may force me into court. I won’t tolerate such abuse!”

“Suppose it’s true?”

“It isn’t true and you know it as well as I do! There’s no reason on earth why my son would involve himself in … in such activities. He’s wealthy in his own right! Both my sons have trust funds that return annual incomes of—let’s be honest—preposterous sums.”

“Then we have to eliminate profit as a motive, don’t we?” Benjamin Reynolds wrinkled his brow.

“We eliminate nothing for there
is
nothing! If my son has caroused a bit, he’s to be criticized—not branded a criminal! And if you’re using the gutter tactic of maligning the name Scarlatti because of its origin, you’re contemptible and I’ll have you dismissed!”

Benjamin Reynolds, slow to anger, was reaching a dangerous level of irritation. He had to remind himself that this old woman was guarding her house and was more difficult than she would have been in other circumstances.

“I wish you wouldn’t think of me as an enemy. I’m neither an enemy nor a bigot. Frankly, I resent the second implication more than I do the first.”

“Again you presume,” interrupted Elizabeth Scarlatti. “I don’t grant you the stature of an enemy. I think you’re a little man using malicious slander for your own ends.”

“Ordering a man’s murder is not malicious slander!”

“What did you say?”

“It’s the most serious charge we have.… But there are mitigating circumstances if it’s any comfort to you.”

The old woman stared at Benjamin Reynolds in contempt. He ignored the look.

“The man who was murdered—the one whose death your son ordered—was a known killer himself.… A captain of a freighter who worked with the worst elements on the waterfront. He was responsible for a great deal of killing.”

Elizabeth Scarlatti rose from her chair. “I won’t tolerate this,” she said quietly. “You make the most damaging accusation possible and then you retreat behind a wall of implied judgment.”

“These are strange times, Madame Scarlatti. We can’t be everywhere. We don’t want to be, frankly. We don’t lament the gangster wars. Let’s face it. Often they accomplish more than we can.”

“And you put my son in this … this category?”

“I didn’t put him anywhere. He did it himself.”

Elizabeth walked slowly from her desk to a front window overlooking the street. “How many other people in Washington know about this outrageous gossip?”

“Everything I’ve told you?”

“Anything.”

“There were a few rumors at Treasury. Nothing anyone wanted to run down. About the rest, only my immediate subordinate and the man who was the witness.”

“Their names?”

“Oh, no.”

“I can easily find out.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good.”

Elizabeth turned. “I see.”

“I wonder if you do?”

“Whatever you think, I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe a word of this. But I don’t want the name of Scarlatti impugned.… How much, Mr. Reynolds?”

Group Twenty’s director returned Elizabeth’s stare without giving quarter. “Nothing. Not a penny, thank you.… I’ll go further. You tempt me to bring charges against you.”

“You stupid old man!”

“Damn it to hell, cut it out!… All I want is the truth!… No, that’s not all I want. I want it stopped. Before anyone else gets hurt. That much is due a decorated hero. Especially in these crazy times.… And I want to know why!”

“To speculate would be to grant your premise. I refuse to do that!”

“By Jesus! You’re a rough bird.”

“More than you realize!”

“Can’t you understand?… It’s not going any further! It ends here! That is, it will if you can stop any future … activity, as you call it. We figure you can do that … But I’d think
you’d
want to know why. Since we both know your son is rich—why?”

Elizabeth simply stared at him and Reynolds knew she wouldn’t answer. He’d done what he could, said what he had to say. The rest was up to her.

“Good day, Madame Scarlatti.… I should tell you. I’ll be watching the Scarlatti
padrone.
”

“The who?”

“Ask your son.”

Reynolds trudged out of the room. People like Elizabeth Scarlatti tired him out. Probably, he thought, because he didn’t believe they were worth it all. The giants never were.

Elizabeth—still by the window—watched the old man close the door behind him. She waited until she saw him
descend the front steps and walk west toward Fifth Avenue.

The old man looked up at the figure in the window and their eyes met.

Neither acknowledged.

Chancellor Drew Scarlett paced the thick oriental rug of his office at 525 Fifth Avenue. He kept breathing deeply, pushing his stomach out as he inhaled—the proper way—because the masseur at his club told him it was one method of calming down under pressure.

It wasn’t working.

He would change masseurs.

He stopped in front of the mahogany-paneled wall between the two large windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. On the wall were various framed newspaper articles, all of them about the Scarwyck Foundation. Each prominently mentioned him—some with his name in bold print above the stories.

Whenever he was upset, which was quite often, he looked at these framed records of achievement. It always had a calming effect.

Chancellor Scarlett had assumed the role of husband to a dull wife as a matter of course. The conjugal bed had produced five children. Surprisingly—especially to Elizabeth—he had also become interested in the family enterprises. As if in answer to his celebrated brother’s behavior, Chancellor retreated into the secure world of the quasi-inspired businessman. And he did have ideas.

Because the annual income from the Scarlatti holdings far exceeded the needs of a small nation, Chancellor convinced Elizabeth that the intelligent tax course was to establish a philanthropic foundation. Impressing his mother with irrefutable data—including the potential for antitrust suits—Chancellor won Elizabeth’s consent for the
Scarwyck Foundation. Chancellor was installed as president and his mother as chairman of the board. Chancellor might never be a war hero, but his children would recognize his economic and cultural contributions.

The Scarwyck Foundation poured money into war memorials; preservation of Indian reservations; a
Dictionary of Great Patriots
to be distributed throughout selected prep schools; the Roland Scarlett Field Clubs, a chain of Episcopal youth camps dedicated to the outdoor life and high Christian principles of their democratic—but Episcopalian—patron. And scores of similar endeavors. One couldn’t pick up a newspaper without noticing some new project endowed by Scarwyck.

Looking at the articles shored up Chancellor’s undermined confidence, but the effect was short-lived. He could hear faintly through the office door the ring of his secretary’s telephone and it immediately brought back the memory of his mother’s angry call to him. She’d been trying to find Ulster since yesterday morning.

Chancellor picked up the intercom.

“Try my brother’s home again, Miss Nesbit.”

“Yes, sir.”

He had to find Ulster: His mother was adamant. She insisted on seeing him before the afternoon was over.

Chancellor sat down in his chair and tried to breathe properly again. The masseur had told him it was good exercise while sitting down.

He took a deep breath, pushing his stomach out as far as possible. The middle button of his suit coat broke from the thread and fell on the soft carpet, bouncing first on the chair between his legs.

Damn!

Miss Nesbit rang him on the intercom.

“Yes!”

“The maid at your brother’s house said he was on his way over to see you, Mr. Scarlett.” Miss Nesbit’s voice conveyed her pride in accomplishment.

“You mean he was there all the time?”

“I don’t know, sir.” Miss Nesbit was hurt.

Twenty agonizing minutes later Ulster Stewart Scarlett arrived.

“Good God! Where have you been? Mother’s been trying to reach you since yesterday morning! We’ve called everywhere!”

“I’ve been out at Oyster Bay. Did any of you think of calling there?”

“In February? Of course not!… Or maybe she did, I don’t know.”

“You couldn’t have reached me anyway. I was in one of the cottages.”

“What the hell were you doing there? I mean, in February!”

“Let’s say taking stock, brother mine.… Nice office, Chance. I can’t remember when I was here last.”

“About three years ago.”

“What are all those gadgets?” asked Ulster, pointing at the desk.

“Newest equipment. See.… Here’s an electric calendar that lights up on specific days to remind me of meetings. This is an intercommunicator setup with eighteen offices in the building. Now, right here a private wire to …”

“Never mind. I’m impressed. I haven’t much time. I thought you might like to know.… I may get married.”

“What!… Ulster, my God in heaven! You! Married! You’re going to get married?”

“Seems to be a general request.”

“Who, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, I’ve whittled the numbers down, sport. Don’t fret. She’ll be acceptable.”

Chancellor eyed his brother coldly. He was prepared to be told that Ulster had chosen some Broadway trollop from a Ziegfeld show, or, perhaps, one of those weird female writers in black sweaters and men’s haircuts who were always at Ulster’s parties.

“Acceptable to whom?”

“Well, let’s see, I’ve tried out most of them.”

“I’m not interested in your sex life! Who?”

“Oh, but you should be. Most of your wife’s friends—married and otherwise—are lousy lays.”

“Just tell me who you intend honoring, if you don’t mind?”

“What would you say to the Saxon girl?”

“Janet!… Janet Saxon!” Chancellor cried out with delight.

“I think she’d do,” murmured Ulster.

“Do! Why, she’s wonderful! Mother will be so pleased! She’s just terrific!”

“She’ll do.” Ulster was strangely quiet.

“Ulster, I can’t tell you how pleased I am. You’ve asked her, of course.” It was a statement.

“Why, Chance, how can you think that?… I wasn’t sure she’d pass inspection.”

“I see what you mean. Of course.… But I’m sure she will. Have you told Mother? Is that why she’s calling so hysterically?”

“I’ve never seen Mother hysterical. That should be quite a sight.”

“Really, you should phone her right away.”

“I will. Give me a minute.… I want to say something. It’s quite personal.” Ulster Scarlett sat carelessly down in a chair in front of his brother’s desk.

Chancellor, knowing that his brother rarely wanted to be personal, took his seat apprehensively. “What is it?”

“I was pulling your leg a few minutes ago. I mean about the lays.”

“I’m relieved to hear that!”

“Oh, don’t mistake me—I’m not saying it isn’t true—just tasteless of me to discuss it.… I wanted to see you get upset. Take it easy, I had a reason.… I think it makes my case stronger.”

“What case?”

“It’s why I went out to the island.… To do a lot of thinking.… The aimless, crazy days are coming to an end. Not overnight, but they’re slowly fading out.”

Chancellor looked intently at his brother. “I’ve never heard you talk like this before.”

“You do a lot of thinking in a cottage by yourself. No telephones, no one barging in on you.… Oh, I’m not making any big promises I can’t keep. I don’t have to do that. But I want to try.… I guess you’re the only person I can turn to.”

Chancellor Scarlett was touched. “What can I do?”

“I’d like to get some kind of position. Informal, at first. Nothing regimented. See if I can’t get interested in something.”

“Of course! I’ll get you a job here! It’ll be simply great working together.”

“No. Not here. That’d be just another gift. No. I want to do what I should have done a long time ago. Do what you did. Start right at home.”

“At home. What kind of position is that?”

“Figuratively speaking, I want to learn everything I

can about us. The family. Scarlatti. Its interests, businesses, that sort of thing.… That’s what you did and I’ve always admired you for it.”