The Scarlatti Inheritance (3 page)

Hull stared coelly into the general’s eyes. “You realize what you’re saying? Scarlatti is one of the corporate giants.”

“I do, sir. I contend further that Major Canfield is aware of Kroeger’s identity and intends to destroy the file.”

“Do you believe that it’s a conspiracy? A conspiracy to conceal the identity of Kroeger?”

“I don’t know.… I’m not very good at putting into words another person’s motives. But Major Canfield’s reactions seem so intensely private that I’m inclined to believe that it’s a highly personal matter.”

Hull smiled. “I think you’re very good with words.… However, you do believe that the truth is in the file? And if it is, why would Canfield bring it to our attention? Certainly he knows that if we can get it for him, we certainly can get it for ourselves. We might never have been aware of it, had he kept silent.”

“As I said, Canfield’s an experienced man. I’m sure he’s acting on the premise that we soon will be aware of it.”

“How?”

“Through Kroeger.… And Canfield has set the condition that the file’s seals be intact. He’s an expert, sir. He’d know if they were tampered with.”

Cordell Hull walked around his desk past the brigadier with his hands clasped behind his back. His gait was stiff, his health obviously failing. Brayduck had been right, thought the secretary of state. If even the specter of a relationship between the powerful American industrialists and the German High Command became known, regardless of how remote or how long in the past, it could tear the country apart. Especially during a national election.

“In your judgment if we delivered the file to Major Canfield, would he produce … April Red … for this meeting with Kroeger?”

“I believe he would.”

“Why? It’s a cruel thing to do to an eighteen-year-old boy.”

The general hesitated. “I’m not sure he has an alternative. There’s nothing to prevent Kroeger from making other arrangements.”

Hull stopped pacing and looked at the brigadier general. He had made up his mind. “I shall have the president sign an executive order for the file. However, and frankly I place this as a condition for his signature, your suppositions are to remain between the two of us.”

“The two of us?”

“I shall brief President Roosevelt on the substance of our conversation, but I will not burden him with conjectures which may prove to be unfounded. Your theory may be nothing more than a series of recorded coincidences easily explained.”

“I understand.”

“But if you are correct, Heinrich Kroeger could trigger an internal collapse in Berlin. Germany’s in a death struggle.… As you’ve pointed out, he’s had extraordinary staying power. He’s part of the elite corps surrounding Hitler. The Praetorian Guard revolts against Caesar. If you’re wrong, however, then we must both think of two people who will soon be on their way to Bern. And may God have mercy on our souls.”

Brigadier General Ellis replaced the pages in the white folder, picked up the attaché case at his feet, and walked to the large black door. As he closed it behind him, he saw that Hull was staring at him. He had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Hull was not thinking about the general, however. He was remembering that warm afternoon long ago in the House of Representatives. Member after member had gotten up and read glowing tributes into the
Congressional Record
eulogizing a brave young American who was presumed dead. Everyone from both parties had expected him, the honorable member from the great state of Tennessee, to add his comments. Heads kept turning toward his desk in anticipation.

Cordell Hull was the only member of the house who was on a first-name basis with the renowned Elizabeth Scarlatti, that legend in her own time. The mother of the brave young man being glorified for posterity in the Congress of the United States.

For in spite of their political differences, Hull and his wife had been friends with Elizabeth Scarlatti for years.

Yet he had remained silent that warm afternoon.

He had known Ulster Stewart Scarlett, and he had despised him.

The brown sedan with the United States Army insignia on both doors turned right on Twenty-second Street and entered Gramercy Square.

In the back seat Matthew Canfield leaned forward, taking the briefcase off his lap and placing it at his feet. He pulled the right sleeve of his overcoat down to conceal the thick silver chain, which was tightly wound around his wrist and looped through the metal handle of the case.

He knew that the contents of the briefcase, or more specifically, his possession of its contents, signified the end for him. When it was all over, and if he were still alive, they would crucify him if a way could be found that would exonerate the military.

The army car made two left turns and stopped by the entrance of the Gramercy Arms Apartments. A uniformed doorman opened the rear door and Canfield stepped out.

“I want you back here in half an hour,” he told his driver. “No later.”

The pale sergeant, obviously conditioned by his superior’s habits, replied, “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, sir.”

The major nodded appreciatively, turned, and went into the building. As he rode the elevator up, the major numbly realized how tired he was. Each number seemed to stay lighted far longer than it should have; the time lapse between the floors seemed interminable. And yet he was in no hurry. No hurry, whatsoever.

Eighteen years. The end of the lie but not the end of the fear. That would come only when Kroeger was dead. What would be left was guilt. He could live with the guilt, for it would be his alone and not the boy’s or Janet’s.

It would be his death, too. Not Janet’s. Not Andrew’s. If death was called for, it would be his. He’d make sure of that.

He would not leave Bern, Switzerland, until Kroeger was dead.

Kroeger or himself.

In all likelihood, both of them.

Out of the elevator he turned left and stepped down the short hallway to a door. He unlocked the door and stepped into a large, comfortable living room, furnished in Italian provincial style. Two huge bay windows over-looked the park, and various doors led to the bedrooms, dining room, the pantry, and the library. Canfield stood for a moment and thought unavoidably that all this, too, went back eighteen years.

The library door opened and a young man walked out. He nodded to Canfield without enthusiasm. “Hello, Dad.”

Canfield stared at the boy. It took a great deal of strength not to rush to his son and hold him.

His son.

And not his son.

He knew if he attempted such a gesture it would be rejected. The boy was wary now and, although he tried not to show it, afraid.

“Hello,” said the major. “Give me a hand with all this, will you?”

The young man crossed to the older one and mumbled, “Sure thing.”

Between them they unfastened the primary lock on the chain, and the younger man held the briefcase out straight so Canfield could manipulate the secondary combination lock, which was secured on the flat of his wrist. The briefcase came loose, and Canfield removed his hat overcoat and uniform jacket throwing them on an easy chair.

The boy held the briefcase, standing motionless before the major. He was extraordinarily good looking. He had bright blue eyes below very dark eyebrows, a straight but slightly upturned nose, and black hair combed neatly
back. His complexion was swarthy as though he had a perpetual tan. He stood just over six feet and was dressed in gray flannels, a blue shirt, and a tweed jacket.

“How do you feel?” asked Canfield.

The young man paused and replied softly. “Well, on my twelfth birthday you and Mother got me a new sailboat. I liked that better.”

The older man returned the younger’s smile. “I guess you did.”

“Is this it?” The boy placed the briefcase on the table and fingered it.

“Everything.”

“I suppose I should feel privileged.”

“It took an executive order from the president to get it out of State.”

“Really?” The boy looked up.

“Don’t be alarmed. I doubt he knows what’s in it.”

“How come?”

“A deal was made. There was an understanding.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I think you will after you read it. No more than ten people have ever seen it in full, and most of them are dead. When we compiled the last quarter of the file, we did it in segments … in nineteen thirty-eight. It’s in the separate folder with the lead seals. The pages are out of sequence and have to be collated. The key’s on the first page.” The major quickly loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Was all that necessary?”

“We thought it was. As I recall, we used rotating pools of typists.” The major started toward a bedroom door. “I suggest you arrange the pages before starting the last folder.” He entered the bedroom, hastily took off his shirt, and unlaced his shoes. The young man followed and stood in the doorframe.

“When are we going?” asked the boy.

“Thursday.”

“How?”

“Bomber Ferry Command. Matthews Air Force Base to Newfoundland, Iceland, Greenland, to Ireland. From Ireland, on a neutral, straight through to Lisbon.”

“Lisbon?”

“The Swiss embassy takes over from there. They’ll take us to Bern.… We’re fully protected.”

Canfield, having removed his trousers, selected a pair of light gray flannels from the closet and put them on.

“What’s Mother going to be told?” asked the young man.

Canfield crossed into the bathroom without replying. He filled the washbowl with hot water and began lathering his face.

The boy’s eyes followed him, but he did not move or break the silence. He sensed that the older man was far more upset than he wished to show.

“Get me a clean shirt from the second drawer over there, will you, please. Just put it on the bed.”

“Sure.” He selected a wide-collar broadcloth from the stack of shirts in the dresser drawer.

Canfield spoke while he shaved. “Today’s Monday, so we’ll have three days. I’ll be making the final arrangements, and it’ll give you time to digest the file. You’ll have questions, and I don’t have to tell you that you’ll have to ask me. Not that you’ll be speaking to anyone else who could answer you, anyway, but in case you get hot and want to pick up a phone, don’t.”

“Understood.”

“Incidentally, don’t feel you have to commit anything to memory. That’s not important. I simply know that you have to understand.”

Was he being honest with the boy? Was it really necessary to make him feel the weight of official truth? Canfield had convinced himself that it was, for no matter the years, no matter the affection between them, Andrew was a Scarlett. In a few years he would inherit one of the largest fortunes on earth. Such persons had to have responsibility thrust upon them when it was necessary, not when it was convenient.

Or did they?

Or was Canfield simply taking the easiest way for himself? Let the words come from someone else. Oh, God! Make somebody else speak!

Drying his face with a towel, the major splashed some Pinaud on his face and started putting on his shirt.

“If you’re interested, you missed most of your beard.”

“Not interested.” He selected a tie from a rack on the closet door and pulled a dark blue blazer from a hanger. “When I leave, you can start reading. If you go out for dinner, put the briefcase in the cabinet to the right of
the library door. Lock it. Here’s the key.” He unclipped a small key from his key ring.

The two men walked out of the bedroom, and Canfield started toward the front hall.

“You either didn’t hear me or you don’t want to answer, but what about Mother?”

“I heard you.” Canfield turned toward the young man. “Janet isn’t supposed to know anything.”

“Why not? Supposing something happens?”

Canfield was visibly upset. “It’s my judgment that she be told nothing.”

“I don’t agree with you.” The young man remained subdued.

“That doesn’t concern me!”

“Maybe it should. I’m pretty important to you now.… I didn’t choose to be, Dad.”

“And you think that gives you the right to issue orders?”

“I think I have a right to be heard.… Look, I know you’re upset, but she’s my mother.”

“And my wife. Don’t forget that part, will you, Andy?” The major took several steps toward the young man, but Andrew Scarlett turned away and walked to the table where the black leather case lay beside the lamp.

“You never showed me how to open your briefcase.”

“It’s unlocked. I unlocked it in the car. It opens like any other briefcase.”

Young Scarlett fingered the clasps and they shot up. “I didn’t believe you last night, you know,” he said quietly while he opened the lid of the briefcase.

“That’s not surprising.”

“No. Not about him. I believe that part because it answered a lot of questions about you.” He turned and looked at the older man. “Well, not questions really, because I always thought I knew why you acted the way you did. I figured you just resented the Scarletts.… Not me. The Scarletts. Uncle Chancellor, Aunt Allison, all the kids. You and Mom always laughed at all of them. So did I.… I remember how painful it was for you to tell me why my last name couldn’t be the same as yours. Remember that?”

“Painfully.” Canfield smiled gently.

“But the last couple of years … you changed. You got pretty vicious about the Scarletts. You hated it every
time anyone mentioned the Scarlatti companies. You’d fly off the handle whenever the Scarlatti lawyers made appointments to discuss me with you and Mom. She got angry with you and said you were unreasonable.… Only she was wrong. I understand now.… So you see, I’m prepared to believe whatever’s in here.” He closed the lid on the briefcase.

“It won’t be easy for you.”

“It isn’t easy now, and I’m just getting over the first shock.” He tried lamely to smile. “Anyway, I’ll learn to live with it, I guess.… I never knew him. He was never anything to me. I never paid much attention to Uncle Chancellor’s stories. You see, I didn’t want to know anything. Do you know why?”

The major watched the young man closely. “No, I don’t,” he replied.