The Scarlatti Inheritance (29 page)

Canfield lit a thin cigar and placed the three pages on the floor between his outstretched legs. He peered down at them.

Hammer was Reynolds’s code name for messages sent to field accountants when he considered the contents to be of the utmost importance. The word
again
was for positive emphasis. The word
repeat
a simple inversion. It denoted the negative of whatever it referred to.

So the Rawlinses—Canfield had to think for a minute before he remembered that the Rawlinses were Boothroyd’s in-laws—had been murdered. Not an accident. And Reynolds feared for Elizabeth Scarlatti’s life. Washington had reached an agreement with the British government to gain him unusual cooperation—no expense spared—and in return had told the English of the Swedish securities and the land purchases in Switzerland, which were presumed to be related. However, Reynolds did not specify who the men in Zurich were. Only that they existed and three upstanding Englishmen were on the list. Canfield recalled their names—Masterson of India fame;
Leacock of the British Stock Exchange; and Innes-Bowen, the textile magnate.

The main points Hammer made were to protect Elizabeth and stay out of Switzerland.

There was a light tapping on his door. Canfield gathered the pages together and put them in his pocket. “Who is it?”

“Goldilocks, confound you! I’m looking for a bed to sleep in.” The crisp British accent belonged, of course, to James Derek. Canfield opened the door and the Englishman walked in without further greeting. He threw a manila envelope on the bed, placed his bowler on the bureau, and sat down in the nearest stuffed chair.

“I like the hat, James.”

“I’m just praying that it may keep me from being arrested. A Londoner prowling around the Savoy at this hour has to have the look of immense respectability.”

“You have it, take my word.”

“I wouldn’t take your word for a damn thing, you insomniac.”

“Can I get you a whiskey?”

“God, no!… Madame Scarlatti didn’t mention a thing to you?”

“Nothing. Less than nothing. She tried to divert my attention. Then she just shut up and locked herself in her bedroom.”

“I can’t believe it. I thought you two were working together.” Derek withdrew a hotel key attached to the usual wooden identification tag. “I had a chat with the hotel bobby.”

“Can you trust him?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a master key and he thinks I’m covering a party on the second floor.”

“Then I’ll get going. Wait for me, please. Grab some sleep.”

“Hold on. You’re obviously connected with Madame Scarlatti. I should do the reconnoitering.”

The field accountant paused. There was merit in what Derek said. He presumed the British operative was far more adept at this kind of sleuthing than he was. On the other hand, he could not be sure of the man’s confidence. Neither was he prepared to tell him very much and have the British government making decisions.

“That’s brave of you, Derek, but I wouldn’t ask it.”

“Not brave at all. Numerous explanations under the Alien Order.”

“Nevertheless, I’d prefer going myself. Frankly, there’s no reason for you to be involved. I called you for help, not to do my work.”

“Let’s compromise. In my favor.”

“Why?”

“It’s safer.”

“You’ve won a point.”

“I’ll go in first while you wait in the corridor by the lift. I’ll check the rooms and then signal you to join me.”

“How?”

“With as little energy as possible. Perhaps a short whistle.”

Canfield heard the short, shrill whistle and walked quickly down the hallway to nine west one.

He closed the door and went to the source of the flashlight. “Everything all right?”

“It’s a well-kept hotel suite. Perhaps not so ostentatious as the American variety, but infinitely more home-like.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“More than you know. I really don’t like this sort of work.”

“I thought you people were famous for it.”

This small talk covered the start of their rapid but thorough search of the premises. The floor plan of the rooms was identical to the Scarlatti suite two stories below. However, instead of similar furniture there was a long table in the center of the main room with perhaps a dozen chairs around it.

“Conference table, I presume,” said Derek.

“Let’s take a look at the window.”

“Which one?”

Canfield thought. “Over here.” He went toward the french windows directly in line with those of Elizabeth Scarlatti.

“Good point. Here.” The Englishman edged Canfield out of the way as he directed the light.

On the wooden sill was a freshly made valley, which had gone through the paint to the wood grain. Where
the wood met the outer stone there was a similar semicircle, which had cut through the layers of dirt and turned that small portion of blackish stone to light gray. The ridge was approximately an inch and a half thick and obviously caused by the friction of a wide rope.

“Whoever it was is a cat,” said Canfield.

“Let’s look around.” The two men walked first through the left bedroom door and found a double bed fully made up. The bureaus were empty and nothing but the usual stationery and corked pens were on the desk. The closets held nothing but hangers and cloth shoe repositories. The bathroom was spotless, the fixtures gleaming. The second bedroom to the right was the same except that the bedspread was mussed. Someone had slept or rested on it.

“Large frame. Probably six feet or over,” said the Englishman.

“How can you tell?”

“Imprint of the buttocks. See here, below the half point of the bed.”

“I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

“I have no comment.”

“He could have been sitting.”

“I said probably.”

The field accountant opened the closet door. “Hey, shine the light here.”

“There you are.”

“Here it is!”

On the closet floor was a sloppily coiled pile of rope. Through the coils at the bottom were three wide straps of leather attached to the rope by metal clasps.

“It’s an Alpine rig,” said the English agent.

“For mountain climbing?”

“Precisely. Very secure. The professionals won’t use it. Unsporting. Used for rescues, mainly.”

“God bless ’em. Would it scale a wall at the Savoy?”

“Beautifully. Very quick, very safe. You were correct.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Canfield.

“I’ll take that drink now.”

“My pleasure.” Canfield rose from the bed with difficulty. “Scotch whiskey and soda, friend?”

“Thanks.”

The American walked to a table by the window that served as his bar and poured two large quantities of whiskey into glasses. He handed one to James Derek and half raised his own in a toast.

“You do good work, James.”

“You’re quite competent yourself. And I’ve been thinking, you may be right about taking that rig.”

“All it can do is cause confusion.”

“That’s what I mean. It could be helpful.… It’s such an American device.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nothing personal. Just that you Americans are so equipment conscious, if you know what I mean. When you shoot birds in Scotland, you carry heavy millimeter cannon with you into the field.… When you fish in the Lowlands, you have six-hundred artifices in your tackle box. The American’s sense of sportsmanship is equated with his ability to master the sport with his purchases, not his skill.”

“If this is hate-the-American hour, you should get a radio program.”

“Please, Matthew. I’m trying to tell you that I think you’re right. Whoever broke into the Scarlatti suite was an American. We can trace the rig to someone at your embassy. Hasn’t that occurred to you?”

“We can do what?”

“Your embassy. If it is someone at your embassy. Someone who knows Bertholde. The men you suspect of having been involved with the securities.… Even an Alpine rig has to be manipulated by a trained mountain climber. How many climbers can there be in your embassy? Scotland Yard could check it in a day.”

“No.… We’ll handle it ourselves.”

“Waste of time, you know. After all, embassy personnel have dossiers just as Bertholde has. How many are mountain climbers?”

The field accountant turned away from James Derek and refilled his glass. “That puts it in a police category. We don’t want that. We’ll make the interrogations.”

“Just as you say. It shouldn’t be difficult. Twenty to thirty people at most. You should track it down quickly.”

“We will.” Canfield walked to his bed and sat down.

“Tell me,” said the Englishman, finishing the last of
his whiskey, “do you have a current list of your embassy personnel? Up-to-date, that is?”

“Of course.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that members of the staff working there now were part of this securities swindle last year?”

“Yes. I’ve told you that At least, the State Department thinks so. I wish you’d stop harping on it.”

“I shan’t any longer. It’s late and I have a great deal of work on my desk which I’ve neglected.” The British operative rose from the chair and went to the bureau where he had put his hat “Good night, Canfield.”

“Oh, you’re leaving?… Was there anything in the Bertholde file? I’ll read it but right now I’m bushed.”

James Derek stood by the door looking down at the exhausted field accountant. “One item I’m sure you’ll be interested in.… Several probably, but one comes to mind.”

“What’s that?”

“Among the marquis’s athletic pursuits is mountain climbing. The imminent sportsman is, in fact, a member of the Matterhorn Club. He’s also one of the few hundred who’ve scaled the north side of the Jungfrau. No mean feat, I gather.”

Canfield stood up angrily and shouted at the Englishman. “Why didn’t you say so, for Christ’s sake?”

“I frankly thought you were more interested in his associations with your embassy. That’s really what I was looking for.”

The field accountant stared at Derek. “So it was Bertholde. But why?… Unless he knew she wouldn’t open the door for anyone.”

“Perhaps. I really wouldn’t know. Enjoy the dossier, Canfield. It’s fascinating.… However, I don’t think you’ll find much in it related to the American embassy.… But that’s not why you wanted it, is it?”

The Britisher let himself out the door, closing it sharply behind him. Canfield stared after him, confused but too tired to care.

The telephone awoke him.

“Matthew?”

“Yes, Jan?” He held the phone and the blood drained from his arm and it hurt.

“I’m in the lobby. I told Mother Scarlatti I had some shopping to do.”

The field accountant looked at his watch. It was eleven thirty. He had needed the sleep. “What happened?”

“I’ve never seen her like this, Matthew. She’s frightened.”

“That’s new. Did she bring up the Sheffield business?”

“No. I had to. She brushed it aside and said the situation had changed.”

“Nothing else? Just that?”

“Yes.… There was something else. She said she was going to talk with you this afternoon. She says there are problems back in New York that have to be attended to. I think she’s going to tell you that she’s decided to leave England and go home.”

“That’s impossible! What did she say exactly?”

“She was vague. Just that Chancellor was a fool and that it was senseless throwing away time on a wild-goose chase.”

“She doesn’t believe that!”

“I know she doesn’t. She wasn’t convincing either. But she means it. What are you going to do?”

“Take her by surprise, I hope. Stay out shopping for at least two hours, will you?”

They made plans for a late lunch and said good-bye.
Thirty minutes later the field accountant walked across the Savoy lobby into the grill and ordered breakfast. It was no time to go without food. Without energy.

He carried the Bertholde file with him. He promised himself that he’d read through it, or most of it, at the table. He opened it and placed it to the left of his plate and started at the top of the first page.

Jacques Louis Aumont Bertholde, fourth marquis of Chatellerault.

It was a dossier like so many other dossiers on the very wealthy. Exhaustive details about the family lineage. The positions and titles held by each member for several generations in business, government, and society—all impressive sounding, all meaningless to anyone else. The Bertholde holdings—enormous—mainly, as Elizabeth Scarlatti had said, within British territories. The specific education of the subject in question and his subsequent rise in the world of commerce. His clubs—all very correct. His hobbies—automobiles, horse breeding, dogs—also correct. The sports he excelled in—polo, sailing, the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau—not only correct, but colorful, fitting. And finally the character estimates elicited from his contemporaries. The most interesting part and yet the part many professionals disregarded. The flattering contributions were generally supplied by friends or associates hoping to gain. The unflattering, by enemies or competitors with a wish to undermine.

Canfield withdrew a pencil and made two notations in the dossier.

The first was on page 18, paragraph 5.

No particular reason other than the fact that it seemed out of place—unattractive—and it contained the name of a city Canfield recalled was on Ulster Scarlett’s European itinerary.

The second, on page 23, paragraph 2, referred to one of Bertholde’s more recently formed corporations and included the following information.