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Authors: Robert Ludlum

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BOOK: The Scarlatti Inheritance
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She interrupted before he could finish. “Remember who I am, young man! You’re speaking to the wife of Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti! There is no need to repeat yourself. You have your agreement. Go about your filthy business. I have no further interest in you!”

The man in black strode rapidly to the door. “I hate you, Mother.”

“I hope you benefit as much from those you hold less dear.”

“In ways you’d never understand!”

He opened the door and slipped out, slamming it harshly behind him.

Elizabeth Scarlatti stood by the window and pulled apart the drapes. She leaned against the cold glass for support. The city of London was asleep, and only a scattering of lights dotted its concrete facade.

What in God’s name had he done?

More important, who was paying attention to him?

What might have been mere horror turned into terror for he had the weapon. The weapon of power—which she and Giovanni innocently, productively provided.

They were, indeed, beyond sums.

Tears fell from her old eyes and that inner consciousness, which afflicts all human beings, was taken by surprise. She had not cried in over thirty years.

Elizabeth pushed herself away from the window and slowly wandered about the room. She had a great deal of thinking to do.

CHAPTER 28

In a room in the Home Office, James Derek took out a file. “Jacques Louis Bertholde, The Fourth Marquis of Chatellerault.”

The dossier custodian entered the room. “Hello, James. Late hours tonight, I see.”

“I’m afraid so, Charles. I’m taking out a copy. Did you get my request?”

“Right here. Fill me in and I’ll sign for it. But please make it short. I’ve a card game in my office.”

“Short and simple. The Americans suspect their embassy personnel of selling Yank securities undercover over here. This Bertholde travels in the diplomatic circles. There could be a connection with the Scarlatti fellow.”

The dossier custodian made his appropriate notes. “When did this all take place?”

“About a year ago, as I understand it.”

The custodian stopped writing and looked at James Derek. “A year ago?”

“Yes.”

“And this American chap wants to confront embassy personnel
now?
Over
here?

“That’s right.”

“He’s on the wrong side of the Atlantic. All American embassy personnel were transferred four months ago. There’s no one there now—not even a secretary—who was in London a year ago.”

“That’s very strange,” said Derek quietly.

“I’d say your American friend has a rather poor connection with his State Department.”

“Which means he’s lying.”

“Which means he is.”

Janet and Matthew, laughing, got off on the seventh floor and started down the corridor toward Elizabeth’s suite. The length of their walk was approximately one hundred feet and they stopped four times to embrace and exchange kisses.

The girl took a key out of her purse and handed it to the field accountant.

He inserted it and simultaneously turned the knob before making any lateral motion with the key. The door opened and in a split second the field accountant was more sober than drunk.

He practically fell into the room.

Elizabeth Scarlatti was sitting on the Victorian couch in the dim light emanating from the single lamp. She did not move other than to look up at Canfield and her daughter-in-law.

“I heard you in the hallway.”

“I told you to lock these doors!”

“I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“The hell you did! I waited until I heard the latch and the bolt!”

“I ordered some coffee from room service.”

“Where’s the tray?”

“In my bedroom, which I presume to be private.”

“Don’t you believe it!” The field accountant ran toward the bedroom door.

“I apologize again! I called to have it taken away. I’m quite confused. Forgive me.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

Elizabeth Scarlatti thought quickly and looked at her daughter-in-law as she spoke. “I had a most distressing telephone call. A business matter completely unrelated to you. It entails a great deal of money and I must make a decision before the British exchange opens.” She looked at the field accountant.

“May I ask what’s so important that you don’t follow my instructions?”

“Several million dollars. Perhaps you’d care to help me. Should the Scarlatti Industries conclude the purchase
of the remaining convertible debentures in Sheffield Cutlery and by exercising the conversions gain control of the company or not?”

Still uncertain, the field accountant asked, “Why is that so … distressing?”

“Because the company constantly loses money.”

“Then you don’t buy. That shouldn’t keep you up all night.”

The old woman eyed him coldly. “Sheffield Cutlery is one of the oldest, finest firms in England. Their product is superb. The problem is neither management nor labor conditions but a heavy influx of Japanese imitations. The question is, Will the purchasing public learn in time to reverse the trend?”

Elizabeth Scarlatti rose from the couch and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. The field accountant turned to Janet Scarlett. “Does she do this sort of thing all the time? Doesn’t she have advisers?”

But Janet was still staring at the bedroom door. She took off her wrap and approached the field accountant. She spoke quietly. “She’s not telling the truth.”

“How do you know?”

“The way she looked at me when she was talking to you. She was trying to tell me something.”

“Like what?”

The girl shrugged impatiently and continued in a hushed whisper. “Oh, I don’t know, but you know what I mean. You’re with a group of people, and you start to tell a whopper or exaggerate something, and while you do, you look at your husband or a friend who knows better … and they know they shouldn’t correct you.…”

“Was she lying about that company she spoke of?”

“Oh, no. That’s the truth. Chancellor Drew’s been trying to persuade her to buy that firm for months.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s already turned it down.”

“Then why did she lie?”

As Canfield started to sit down, his attention was drawn to the linen antimacassar on the back of the chair. At first he dismissed it and then he looked again. The material was crumpled as if it had been mangled or bunched together. It was out of place in an immaculate suite. He looked closer. There were breaks in the threads
and the imprint of fingertips was unmistakable. Whoever had gripped the chair had done so with considerable force.

“What is it, Matthew?”

“Nothing. Get me a drink, will you?”

“Of course, darling.” She went to the dry bar as Canfield walked around the chair in front of the french window. For no particular reason, he pulled apart the curtains and inspected the window itself. He turned the latch and pulled the left side open. He saw what he had begun to look for. The wood around the clasp was scratched. On the sill he could see where the paint had been discolored by the impression of a heavy coarse object, probably a rubber-soled boot or a crepe-soled shoe. Not leather; there were no scratches on the enamel. He opened the right side and looked out. Below were six stories straight down; above two floors to what he recalled was an acutely slanting roof. He pushed the window shut and locked it.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“We’ve had a visitor. An uninvited guest, you might say.”

The girl stood absolutely still. “Oh, my God!”

“Don’t be frightened. Your mother-in-law wouldn’t do anything foolish. Believe that.”

“I’m trying to. What are we going to do?”

“Find out who it was. Now get hold of yourself. I’ll need you.”

“Why didn’t she say something?”

“I don’t know, but you may be able to find out.”

“How?”

“Tomorrow morning she’ll probably bring up the Sheffield business. If she does, tell her you remember she refused to buy it for Chancellor. She’ll have to give you an explanation of some kind.”

“If Mother Scarlatti doesn’t want to talk, she just won’t. I know.”

“Then don’t press it. But she’ll have to say something.”

Although it was nearly three o’clock, the lobby had a flow of stragglers from late parties. They were mostly in evening dress, a great many were unbalanced and giggling, all were happily tired.

Canfield went to the desk clerk and spoke in a gentle, folksy tone. “Say, fella, I’ve got a little problem.”

“Yes, sir. May we be of service?”

“Well, it’s a bit touchy.… I’m traveling with Madame Elizabeth Scarlatti and her daughter.…”

“Oh, yes indeed. Mr.… Canfield, isn’t it?”

“Sure. Well, the old girl’s getting on, you know, and the people above her keep pretty late hours.”

The clerk, who knew the legend of the Scarlatti wealth, was abject in apology. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Canfield. I’ll go up myself at once. This is most embarrassing.”

“Oh, no, please, everything’s quiet now.”

“Well, I can assure you it won’t happen again. They must be loud, indeed. As I’m sure you’re aware, the Savoy is the soundest of structures.”

“Well, I guess they keep the windows open, but, please, don’t say anything. She’d be pretty sore at me if she thought I talked to you about it.…”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Just tell me who they are and I’ll talk to them myself. You know, friendly-like, over a drink.”

The clerk couldn’t have been happier with the American’s solution. “Well, if you insist, sir.… In eight west one is the Viscount and Viscountess Roxbury, charming couple and quite elderly, I believe. Most unusual. However, they could be entertaining.”

“Who’s above them?”

“Above them, Mr. Canfield? I don’t think …”

“Just tell me, please.”

“Well in nine west one is …” The clerk turned the page. “It’s not occupied, sir.”

“Not occupied? That’s unusual for this time of year, isn’t it?”

“I should say unavailable, sir. Nine west one has been leased for the month for business conferences.”

“You mean no one stays there at night?”

“Oh, they’re certainly entitled to but that hasn’t been the case.”

“Who leased it?”

“The firm is Bertholde et Fils.”

CHAPTER 29

The telephone beside James Derek’s bed rang harshly, waking him.

“It’s Canfield. I need help and it can’t wait.”

“That may possible be only your judgment. What is it?”

“Scarlatti’s suite was broken into.”

“What! What does the hotel say?”

“They don’t know about it.”

“I do think you should tell them.”

“It’s not that simple. She won’t admit it.”

“She’s your problem. Why call me?”

“I think she’s frightened.… It was a second-story.”

“My dear fellow, her rooms are on the seventh floor! You’re too fantastic! Or do the nasty men fly by themselves?”

The American paused just long enough to let the Englishman know he wasn’t amused. “They figured she wouldn’t open the door, which, in itself, is interesting. Whoever it was, was lowered from one of the rooms above and used a blade. Did you learn anything about Bertholde?”

“One thing at a time.” Derek began to take Canfield seriously.

“That’s the point. I think they are the same thing. Bertholde’s company leased the rooms two floors above.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s right. For a month. Daily business conferences, no less.”

“I think we’d better have a talk.”

“The girl knows about it and she’s frightened. Can you put a couple of men on?”

“You think it’s necessary?”

“Not really. But I’d hate to be wrong.”

“Very well. The story will be anticipated jewel theft. Not uniformed, of course. One in the corridor, one in the street.”

“I appreciate it. You beginning to wake up?”

“I am, confound you. I’ll be with you in a half hour. With everything I’ve been able to dig up on Bertholde. And I think we’d better get at look at their suite.”

Canfield left the phone booth and started back to the hotel. His lack of sleep was beginning to take effect and he wished he was in an American city where such institutions as all-night diners provided coffee. The English, he thought, were wrong in thinking themselves so civilized. No one was civilized without all-night diners.

He entered the opulent lobby and noted that the clock above the desk read quarter to four. He walked toward the ancient elevators.

“Oh, Mr. Canfield, sir!” The clerk rushed up.

“What is it?” Canfield could only think of Janet and his heart stopped.

“Just after you left, sir! Not two minutes after you left!… Most unusual this time of night.…”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This cablegram arrived for you.” The clerk handed Canfield an envelope.

“Thank you,” said a relieved Canfield as he took the cablegram and entered the open-grill elevator. As he rose from the ground floor he pressed the cable between his thumb and forefinger. It was thick. Benjamin Reynolds had either sent a long abstract lecture or there would be a considerable amount of decoding to be done. He only hoped he could finish it before Derek arrived.

Canfield entered his room, sat down in a chair near a floor lamp, and opened the cable.

No decoding was necessary. It was all written in simple business language and easily understood when applied to the current situation. Canfield separated the pages. There were three.

SORRY TO INFORM YOU RAWLINS THOMAS AND LILLIAN IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT REPEAT ACCIDENT POCONO MOUNTAINS STOP BOTH ARE DEAD STOP KNOW THIS WILL UPSET YOUR DEAR FRIEND E S STOP SUGGEST YOU CARE FOR HER IN HER DISTRESS STOP TO WIMBLEDON BUSINESS STOP WE HAVE SPARED NO EXPENSE AGAIN SPARED NO EXPENSE WITH OUR ENGLISH SUPPLIERS TO OBTAIN MAXIMUM QUOTAS OF MERCHANDISE STOP THEY ARE SYMPATHETIC WITH OUR PROBLEMS OF SCANDINAVIAN EXPORTS STOP THEY ARE PREPARED TO AID YOU IN YOUR NEGOTIATIONS FOR FAIR REDUCTIONS ON MAXIMUM PURCHASES STOP THEY HAVE BEEN TOLD OF OUR COMPETITORS IN SWITZERLAND AGAIN SWITZERLAND AND THE COMPANIES REPEAT COMPANIES INVOLVED STOP THEY KNOW OF THE THREE BRITISH FIRMS IN COMPETITION STOP THEY WELL GIVE YOU ALL ASSISTANCE AND WE EXPECT YOU TO CONCENTRATE AGAIN CONCENTRATE ON OUR INTERESTS IN ENGLAND STOP DO NOT AGAIN DO NOT ATTEMPT TO UNDERBID OUR COMPETITORS IN SWITZERLAND STOP STAY OUT OF IT STOP NOTHING CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED STOP

J. HAMMER WIMBLEDON NEW YORK

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