The Scarlatti Inheritance (24 page)

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 know 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.”

“As you say.”

“Just one minute, gentlemen. I do not consent! I’m sure Mr. Derek will adhere to my wishes.”

“Terribly sorry, madame. My instructions are to take orders from Mr. Canfield.”

“And we have an agreement, Madame Scarlatti, or do you want to tear it up?”

“What can I possibly say to such people? I simply can not stand that voodoo mumbo jumbo coming from Rome!”

“You’ll be spared that discomfort, madame,” said Mr. Derek. “There’s a vow of silence. You’ll not hear from anyone.”

“Contemplate,” added the field accountant “Good for the immortal soul.”

Canfield read the story in the ship’s newspaper one day before arriving in New York.

They do their homework well, he thought. And although the price was painfully high, it proved two points conclusively: the press releases were read and Madame Scarlatti was marked.

The field accountant reached into his pocket and took out the old woman’s letter to Janet Scarlett. He’d read it many times and thought it effective. He read it once more.

Canfield replaced the letter in the envelope. It was quite good, he thought again. It explained nothing and asked for implicit trust that the unsaid explanation was vitally urgent. If he did his job, the girl would be coming back to England with him. If he failed to persuade her, an alternative would have to be found.

The Ulster Scarlett brownstone on Fifty-fourth Street was being repainted and sandblasted. There were several scaffolds lowered from the roof and a number of workmen diligently at their crafts. The heavy Checker cab pulled up in front of the entrance and Matthew Canfield walked up the steps. He rang the bell; the door was opened by the obese housekeeper.

“Good afternoon, Hannah. I don’t know if you remember,
but my name’s Canfield. Matthew Canfield to see Mrs. Scarlett.”

Hannah did not budge or offer entrance. “Does Mrs. Scarlett expect you?”

“Not formally, but I’m sure she’ll see me.” He had had no intention of phoning. It would have been too easy for her to refuse.

“I don’t know if madame is in, sir.”

“Then I’ll just have to wait. Shall it be here on the stairs?”

Hannah reluctantly made way for the field accountant to step into the hideously colored hallway. Canfield was struck again by the intensity of the red wallpaper and the black drapes.

“I’ll inquire, sir,” said the housekeeper as she started toward the stairs.

In a few minutes Janet came down the long staircase, followed by a waddling Hannah. She was very much composed. Her eyes were clear, aware, and devoid of the panic he had remembered. She was in command and without question a beautiful woman.