The Scarlatti Inheritance (21 page)

“He’s associated with a sporting goods concern and crosses rather regularly. Wimbledon, I believe.”

And then, if Elizabeth’s memory served her well, the captain had added. “Priority request from the ship line. Probably the son of an old boy. School tie and that sort of thing. Had to drop Dr. Barstow for him.”

Elizabeth had given her approval without any questions.

So the young man had a priority request for the captain’s table from the owners of an English steamship company. And a fatuous captain, accustomed to associating with the social and professional leaders of both continents, had felt obliged to drop a highly regarded surgeon in his favor.

If for no other reason than to quell an inexhaustible imagination, Elizabeth picked up the stateroom phone and asked for the wireless room.

“
Calpurnia
radio, good evening.” The British accent trailed off the word
evening
to a hum.

“This is Elizabeth Scarlatti, suite double A, three. May I speak with the officer in charge, if you please.”

“This is Deck Officer Peters. May I help you?”

“Were you the officer who was on duty earlier this evening?”

“Yes, madame. Your wires to New York went out immediately. They should be delivered within the hour.”

“Thank you. However, that’s not why I’m calling.… I’m afraid I’ve missed someone I was to meet in the radio room. Has anyone asked for me?” She listened carefully for even the slightest hesitation. There was none.

“No, madame, no one’s asked for you.”

“Well, he might have been somewhat embarrassed. I really feel quite guilty.”

“I’m sorry, Madame Scarlatti. Outside of yourself there’ve been only three passengers here all evening. First night out, y’know.”

“Since there were only three, would you mind terribly describing them to me?”

“Oh, not at all.… Well, there was an elderly couple from tourist and a gentleman, a bit squiffed, I’m afraid, who wanted the wireless tour.”

“The what?”

“The tour, madame. We have three a day for the first
class. Ten, twelve, and two. Nice chap, really. Just a pint too many.”

“Was he a young man? In his late twenties, perhaps?
Dressed
in a dinner jacket?”

“That description would apply, madame.”

“Thank you, Officer Peters. It’s an inconsequential matter, but I’d appreciate your confidence.”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth rose and walked to the sitting room. Her bridge partner might not be very skilled at cards, but he was a superb actor.

Matthew Canfield hurried down the corridor for the simple reason that his stomach was upset. Maybe the bar—and the crowd—on B deck would make him feel better. He found his way and ordered a brandy.

“Hell of a party, isn’t it?”

A huge, broad-shouldered fullback-type crowded Can-field against the adjacent stool.

“Certainly is,” Canfield replied with a. meaningless grin.

“I know you! You’re at the captain’s table. We saw you at dinner.”

“Good food there.”

“Y’know something? I could have been at the captain’s table, but I said shit on it.”

“Well, that would have made an interesting hors d’oeuvre.”

“No, I mean it.” The accent, Canfield determined, was Tiffany-edged Park Avenue. “Uncle of mine owns a lot of stock. But I said shit on it.”

“You can take my place, if you want to.”

The fullback reeled slightly backward and grasped the bar for support. “Much too dull for us. Hey, barkeep! Bourbon and ginger!”

The fullback steadied himself and swayed back toward Canfield. His eyes were glazed and almost without muscular control. His very blond hair was falling over his forehead.

“What’s your line, chum? Or are you still in school?”

“Thanks for the compliment. No, I’m with Wimbledon Sporting Goods. How about you?” Canfield backed himself
into the stool, turning his head to continue surveying the crowd.

“Godwin and Rawlins. Securities. Father-in-law owns it. Fifth largest house in town.”

“Very impressive.”

“What’s your drag?”

“What?”

“Drag. Pull. How come you’re at the big table?”

“Oh, friends of the company, I guess. We work with English firms.”

“Wimbledon. That’s in Detroit.”

“Chicago.”

“Oh, yeah. Abercrombie of the sticks. Get it? Abercrombie’ of the sticks.”

“We’re solvent.”

Canfield addressed this last remark directly to the drunken blond Adonis. He did not say it kindly.

“Don’t get touchy. What’s your name?”

Canfield was about to answer when his eyes were attracted to the drunk’s tie. He didn’t know why. Then Canfield noticed the man’s cuff links. They, too, were large and striped with colors as intense as those of the tie. The colors were deep red and black.

“Cat got you?”

“What?”

“What’s your name? Mine’s Boothroyd. Chuck Boothroyd.” He grasped the mahogany molding once again to steady himself. “You hustle for Abercrombie and … Oops, pardon me, Wimbledon?” Boothroyd seemed to lapse into a semistupor.

The field accountant decided that the brandy wasn’t doing a thing for him, either. He really felt quite ill.

“Yeah, I hustle. Look, friend, I don’t feel so good. Don’t take offense, but I think I’d better get going before I have an accident. Good night, Mr.…”

“Boothroyd.”

“Right. Good night.”

Mr. Boothroyd half opened his eyes and made a gesture of salute while reaching for his bourbon. Canfield made a swift but unsteady exit.

“Chucksie, sweetie!” A dark-haired woman slammed herself against the inebriated Mr. Boothroyd. “You disappear every God damn time I try to find you!”

“Don’t be a bitch, love.”

“I will be every time you do this!”

The bartender found unfinished business and walked rapidly away.

Mr. Boothroyd looked at his wife and for a few brief moments his wavering stopped. He fixed his eyes on her and his gaze was no longer unsteady, but very much alert. To the observer the two appeared to be nothing more than a husband and wife arguing over the former’s drinking but with that quiet violence that keeps intruders away. Although he still maintained his bent-over posture, Chuck Boothroyd spoke clearly under the noise of the party. He was sober.

“No worries, pet.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Who is he?”

“Glorified salesman. Just sucking up for business is my guess.”

“If he’s a salesman, why was he put at a table next to her?”

“Oh, come on, stop it. You’re jittery.”

“Just careful.”

“I’ll spell it out for you. He’s with that sports store in Chicago. Wimbledon. They import half their stuff from a bunch of English companies.” Boothroyd stopped as if explaining a simple problem to a child. “This is a British ship. The old lady’s a hell of a contact and somebody’s in on the take. Besides, he’s drunk as a hoot owl and sick as a dog.”

“Let me have a sip.” Mrs. Boothroyd reached for her husband’s glass.

“Help yourself.”

“When are you going to do it?”

“In about twenty minutes.”

“Why does it have to be tonight?”

“The whole ship’s ginned up and there’s some nice, lovely rotten weather. Anybody who isn’t drunk is throwing up. Maybe both.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Slap me in the face good and hard. Then go back to whomever you were with and laugh it off. Tell them when I’ve gone this far, the end’s in sight, or something like that. In a few minutes I’ll pass out on the floor. Make sure two guys carry me to the stateroom. Three maybe.”

“I don’t know if anyone’s sober enough.”

“Then get the steward. Or the bartender, that’s even better. The bartender. I’ve been giving him a hard time.”

“All right. You’ve got the key?”

“Your daddy gave it to me on the pier this morning.”

Canfield reached his stateroom thinking he was going to be sick. The interminable and now violent motion of the ship had its effect on him. He wondered why people made jokes about seasickness. It was never funny to him. He never laughed at the cartoons.

He fell into bed removing only his shoes. Gratefully he realized that sleep was coming on. It had been twenty-four hours of never-ending pressure.

And then the knocking began.

At first quietly. So quietly it simply made Canfield shift his position. Then louder and louder and more rapid. It was a sharp knock, as if caused by a single knuckle and because of its sharpness it echoed throughout the stateroom.

Canfield, still half asleep, called out. “What is it?”

“I think you’d better open the door, mate.”

“Who is it?” Canfield tried to stop the room from turning around.

The intense knocking started all over again.

“For Christ’s sake, all right! All right!”

The field accountant struggled to his feet and lurched toward the stateroom door. It was a further struggle to unlatch the lock. The uniformed figure of a ship’s radio operator sprang into his cabin.

Canfield gathered his sense as best he could and looked at the man now leaning against the door.

“What the hell do you want?”

“You told me to come to your cabin if I had some-thin’
worthwhile. You know. About what you’re so interested in?”

“So?”

“Well, now, you wouldn’t expect a British seaman to break regs without some reason, would you?”

“How much?”

“Ten quid.”

“What in heaven’s name is ten quid?”

“Fifty dollars to you.”

“Pretty God damn expensive.”

“It’s worth it.”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Come on!” The cockney sailor whined.

“Thirty and that’s it.” Canfield started toward his bed.

“Sold. Gimme the cash.”

Canfield withdrew his wallet and handed the radioman three ten-dollar bills. “Now, what’s worth thirty dollars?”

“You were caught. By Madame Scarlatti.” And he was gone.

Canfield washed in cold water to wake himself up and pondered the various alternatives.

He had been caught without an alibi that made sense. By all logic his usefulness was finished. He’d have to be replaced and that would take time. The least he could do was throw the old woman off the scent of where he came from.

He wished to God that Benjamin Reynolds was available for some good old sage advice. Then he remembered something Reynolds had once said to another field accountant who’d been exposed unmercifully. “Use part of the truth. See if it helps. Find some reason for what you’re doing.”

He left the stateroom and climbed the steps to A deck. He found her suite and knocked on the door.

Charles Conaway Boothroyd, executive vice-president of Godwin and Rawlins Securities, passed out cold on the deck of the lounge.

Three stewards, two inebriated male partygoers, his
wife, and a passing navigation officer managed to haul his immense body out of the lounge to his cabin. Laughing they removed the blond giant’s shoes and trousers and covered him over with a blanket.

Mrs. Boothroyd brought out two bottles of champagne and poured for the rescuers. She filled a water glass for herself.

The stewards and the
Calpurnia
officer drank only at Mrs. Boothroyd’s absolute insistence, and left as soon as they could. Not, however, before Mrs. Boothroyd had impressed upon them how totally unconscious her husband was.

Alone with the two volunteers, Mrs. Boothroyd made sure the last of the champagne was finished. “Who’s got a cabin?” she asked.

It turned out that only one was a bachelor; the other had his wife at the party.

“Get ’er plastered and let’s go on by ourselves!” She flung the challenge at both of them. “Think you boys can handle me?” asked Mrs. Boothroyd.

The boys responded as one, nodding like hamsters smelling cedar shavings.

“I warn you. I’ll keep my skirts up for both of you, and you still won’t be enough!” Mrs. Boothroyd swayed slightly as she opened the door. “God! I hope you all don’t mind watching each other. I love it, myself!”

The two men nearly crushed each other following the lady out the stateroom door.

“Bitch!” Charles Conaway Boothroyd muttered.

He removed the blanket and got into his trousers. He then reached into a drawer and took out one of his wife’s stockings.

As if for a practice run, he pulled the thigh end over his head, rose from the bed, and looked at himself in the mirror. He was pleased with what he saw. He removed the stocking and opened the suitcase.

Underneath several shirts were a pair of sneakers and a thin elasticized rope about four feet long.

Charles Conaway Boothroyd laced up the sneakers while the rope lay at his feet. He pulled a black knit sweater over his large frame. He was smiling. He was a happy man.

Elizabeth Scarlatti was already in bed when she heard the knocking. She reached into the bedside table drawer and withdrew a small revolver.

Elizabeth arose and walked to the door to the outer room. “Who is it?” she asked loudly.

“Matthew Canfield. I’d like very much to speak with you.”

Elizabeth was confused. She had not expected him and she reached for words. “I’m sure you’ve had a touch too much to drink, Mr. Canfield. Can’t it wait until morning?” She wasn’t even convincing to herself.

“You know perfectly well I haven’t and it can’t. I think we should talk now.” Canfield was counting on the wind and the sea to muffle his voice. He was also counting on the fact that he had business at hand to keep him from becoming very, very sick.

Elizabeth approached the door. “I can’t think of a single reason why we should talk now. I hope it won’t be necessary to call the ship’s police.”

“For God’s sake, lady, will you open this door! Or shall
I
call the ship’s police and say we’re both interested in someone running around Europe with securities worth millions, none of which, incidentally, will I get.”

“What did you say?” Elizabeth was now next to the stateroom door.

“Look, Madame Scarlatti”—Matthew cupped his hands against the wood of the door—“if my information is anywhere near correct, you have a revolver. All right. Open the door, and if I haven’t got my hands over my head, and if there’s anyone behind me, fire away! Can I be fairer than that?”