The Scarlatti Inheritance (23 page)

Canfield started toward the door.

“Under one condition.” The old woman raised her voice sufficiently to stop him.

“What’s that?”

“That you give due consideration to a proposition I have to make to you.”

Canfield turned and faced her quizzically. “What kind of proposition?”

“That you go to work for me.”

“I’ll be back soon,” said the field accountant as he ran through the door.

Three-quarters of an hour later Canfield let himself quietly back into Elizabeth Scarlatti’s stateroom. The moment the old woman heard the key in the latch she cried out apprehensively.

“Who is it?”

“Canfield.” He walked in.

“Did you find him?”

“I did. May I sit down?”

“Please.”

“What happened? For heaven’s sake, Mr. Canfield! What happened? Who is he?”

“His name was Boothroyd. He worked for a New York brokerage house. He obviously was hired, or assigned to kill you. He’s dead and his earthly remains are behind us—I judge about three miles.”

“Good God!” The old woman sat down.

“Shall we start at the beginning?”

“Young man, do you know what you’ve done? There’ll be searches, inquiries! The ship will be in an uproar!”

“Oh, someone will be in an uproar, I grant you. But I doubt that there will be more than a routine, and I suspect, subdued inquiry. With a grieving, confused widow confined to her quarters.”

“What do you mean?”

Canfield told her how he had located the body near Boothroyd’s own stateroom. He then touched briefly on the grimmer aspects of searching the body and dispatching it overboard, but he described in fuller detail how he
had returned to the lounge and learned that Boothroyd supposedly passed out several hours earlier. The bartender, in what was probably exaggeration, said that it had taken half a dozen men to haul him away and put him to bed.

“You see, his highly noticeable alibi is the most logical explanation for his … disappearance.”

“They’ll search the ship until we reach port!”

“No, they won’t.”

“Why not?”

“I tore off part of his sweater and wedged it into a corner of the post railing outside his stateroom. It’ll be apparent that the drunken Mr. Boothroyd tried to rejoin the party and that he had a tragic accident. A drunk plus rotten weather aboard ship is a bad combination.” Canfield stopped and reflected. “If he was operating alone, we’re all right. If he wasn’t …” Canfield decided to be quiet.

“Was it necessary to throw the man overboard?”

“Would it have been better to have him found with four bullets in him?”

“Three. There’s one lodged in the bedroom ceiling.”

“That’s even worse. He’d be traced to you. If he has a colleague aboard this ship, you’d be dead before morning!”

“I suppose you’re right. What do we do now?”

“We wait. We talk and we wait.”

“For what?”

“For someone to try to find out what happened. Perhaps his wife. Perhaps the one who gave him the key. Someone.”

“You think they will?”

“I think they have to if there’s anyone on board who was working with him. For the simple reason that everything went—poof.”

“Perhaps he was just a burglar.”

“He wasn’t. He was a killer. I don’t mean to alarm you.”

The old woman looked carefully into Canfield’s eyes. “Who is ‘they,’ Mr. Canfield?”

“I don’t know. That’s where the talking comes in.”

“You believe they’re connected with my son’s disappearance, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.… Don’t you?”

She did not answer directly, “You said we should start at the beginning. Where is that for you?”

“When we found out that millions of dollars’ worth of American securities were being sold secretly on a foreign exchange.”

“What has that to do with my son?”

“He was there. He was in the specific area when the rumors started. A year later, after his disappearance, we received reliable intelligence that the sale had been made. He was there again. Obvious, isn’t it?”

“Or highly coincidental.”

“That theory was knocked out of the box when you opened the door for me an hour ago.”

The old woman stared at the field accountant as he slouched in the chair. He, in turn, watched her through half-closed eyes. He saw that she was furious but controlled.

“You presume, Mr. Canfield.”

“I don’t think so. And since we know who your would-be assassin was and who he worked for—Godwin-some-body-or-other, Wall Street—I think the picture’s pretty clear. Someone, someone in the fifth largest brokerage house in New York, is angry enough with you or frightened enough of you to want you killed.”

“That’s speculation.”

“Speculation, hell! I’ve got the bruises to prove it!”

“How did Washington make this … questionable connection?”

“ Washington’ takes in too many people. We’re a very small department. Our normal concerns are quietly dealing with larcenous but highly placed government officials.”

“You sound ominous, Mr. Canfield.”

“Not at all. If an uncle of the Swedish ambassador makes a killing in Swedish imports, we’d rather straighten it out quietly.” He watched her closely.

“Now you sound harmless.”

“Neither I assure you.”

“About the securities?”

“The Swedish ambassador, as a matter of fact.” Canfield smiled. “Who, to the best of my knowledge, hasn’t any uncle in the import business.”

“The Swedish ambassador? I thought you said Senator Brownlee was the one.”

“I didn’t. You did. Brownlee caused enough of a fuss to make the Justice Department call in everyone who ever had anything to do with Ulster Scarlett. At one point, we did.”

“You’re with Reynolds!”

“Again, that’s your statement. Not mine.”

“Stop playing games. You work for that man, Reynolds, don’t you?”

“One thing I’m not is your prisoner. I’m not going to be cross-examined.”

“Very well. What about this Swedish ambassador?”

“You don’t know him? You don’t know anything about Stockholm?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, of course I don’t!”

The field accountant believed her. “Fourteen months ago Ambassador Walter Pond sent word to Washington that a Stockholm syndicate had pledged thirty million dollars for large blocks of American securities if they could be smuggled across. His report was dated May fifteenth. Your son’s visa shows he entered Sweden on May tenth.”

“Flimsy! My son was on his honeymoon. A trip to Sweden was not out of the ordinary.”

“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?”

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 under 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.