The Scarletti Inheritance

by Ludlum, Robert

  When he had finished, Reynolds spoke to Glover. ‘I’ve phoned Lake Erie Customs—his personnel file’s been removed. The boys in New York cleared out his room there. It hadn’t been touched. Is there any other backup we should worry about?’’

  Glover thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Probably. In case the Lake Erie employment file’s gone after—and it will be—put out a rumor on the docks that Canfield Cannon was a fake name for a hit man. That he was caught up with in Los Angeles or San Diego or someplace, and was shot. I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Good. Now, Canfield, I’m going to show you several photographs. Without any comments on my part see if you can identify them.’ Benjamin Reynolds walked to a file cabinet and opened it. He took out a folder and returned to his desk. ‘Here.’ He withdrew five photographs—three blowups from newspapers and two prison shots.

  It took Canfield less than a second once they were arranged. ‘That’s him. That’s the one the little wop called padrone!’

  ‘Scarlatti padrone,’ Glover said quietly.

  ‘The identification’s absolutely positive?’

  ‘Sure. And if he’s got blue eyes, it’s Holy Writ.’

  ‘You could sweat to it in court?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Hey, Ben, come on!’ interrupted Glover, who knew that such an action on Matthew Canfield’s part was a death warrant.

  ‘I’m only asking.’

  ‘Who is he?’ said Canfield.

  ‘Yes. Who is he?… What is he?… I’m not sure I should even answer the first, but if you found out some other way—and you could, easily—it might be dangerous.’ Reynolds turned the photographs over. A name was printed in heavy black crayon.

  ‘Ulster Stewart Scarlett—no. Scarlatti,’ the field accountant read out loud. ‘He won a medal in the war, didn’t he? A millionaire.’

  ‘Yes, he did and he is,’ answered Reynolds. ‘This identification’s got to remain secret. And I mean totally classified! Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you think anyone could recognize you from last night?’

  ‘I doubt it. The light was bad and I wore my cap half over my face and tried to talk like a goon… No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. You did a fine job. Get some sleep.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The field accountant walked out the door, closing it behind him.

  Benjamin Reynolds looked at the photographs on his desk. ‘The Scarlatti padrone, Glover.’

  ‘Turn it back to Treasury. You’ve got all you need.’

  ‘You’re not thinking—We don’t have a damned thing unless you want to consign Canfield to his grave—And even assuming that, what is there? Scarlett doesn’t write out checks… He “was observed in the company of…” He “was heard to give an order…” To whom? On whose testimony? A minor government employee against the word of the celebrated war hero? The son of Scarlatti?… No, all we’ve got is a threat… And perhaps that’s enough.’

  ‘Who’s going to threaten?’

  Benjamin Reynolds leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers against one another. ‘I am—I’m going to talk with Elizabeth Scarlatti—I want to know why.’

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Seven

  Ulster Stewart Scarlett got out of the taxi at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street and walked the short distance to his brownstone house. He ran up the steps to the heavy front door and let himself in. He slammed the door shut and stood for a moment in the huge foyer, stamping his feet against the February cold. He threw his coat into a hallway chair, then walked through a pair of French doors into a spacious living room and turned on a table lamp… It was only four in the afternoon but already growing dark.

  He crossed from the table to the fireplace and noted with satisfaction that the servants had piled the logs and the kindling properly. He lit the fire and watched the flames leap to all corners of the fireplace. He gripped the mantel and leaned toward the warmth of the blaze. His eyes were on the level of his Silver Star citation, framed in gold in the center of the wall. He made a mental note to complete the display above the fireplace. The time would soon be here when that display should be in evidence.

  A reminder to everyone who entered this house.

  It was a momentary diversion. His thoughts returned to the source of his anger. His fury.

  Stupid, God damn thick-headed scum!

  Bilge! Garbage!

  Four crewmen from the Genoa-Stella killed. The captain’s body found in an abandoned waterfront barge.

  They could have lived with that. They could have lived with the crew’s rebellion. The docks were violent.

  But not with the corpse of La Tona hooked to a cross post on the surface of the water fifty yards from the ship. The freighter bringing in the contraband.

  La Tona!

  Who had killed him? Not the slow-speaking, cloddish customs guard… Christ, no!… La Tona would have eaten his balls off and spat them out laughing! La Tona was a sneak killer. The worst kind of homicidal brute.

  There’d be a smell. A bad smell. No graft could stop it. Five murders on pier thirty-seven during a single night shift.

  And with La Tona it would be traced to Vitone. Little Don Vitone Genovese. Dirty little guinea bastard, thought Scarlett.

  Well, it was time for him to get out.

  He had what he wanted. More than he needed. Strasser would be amazed. They’d all be amazed.

  Ulster Scarlett lit a cigarette and walked to a small, thin door to the left of the fireplace. He took out a key, unlocked the door, and walked in.

  The room, like the door to it, was small. It had once been a walk-in wine pantry; now it was a miniature office with a desk, a chair, and two heavy steel file cabinets. On each file drawer was a wide circular combination lock.

  Scarlett turned on the desk lamp and went to the first cabinet. He crouched down to the bottom file, manipulated the combination numbers, and pulled out the drawer. He reached in and withdrew an extremely thick leather-bound notebook and placed it on the desk. He sat down and opened it.

  It was his master work, the product of five years of meticulous scholarship.

  He scanned the pages—delicately, precisely inserted into the rings with cloth circlets around each hole. Each entry was lettered clearly. After every name was a brief description, where available, and a briefer biography—position, finances, family, future—when the candidate warranted it.

  The pages were titled and separated by cities and states. Index tabs of different colors descended from the top of the notebook to the bottom.

  A masterpiece!

  The record of every individual—important and unimportant—who had benefited in any way from the operations of the Scarlatti organization. From congressmen taking outright bribes from his subordinates to corporation heads ‘investing’ in wildcat, highly illegal speculations proffered—again never by Ulster Stewart Scarlett—through his hired hands. All he had supplied was the capital. The honey. And the bees had flocked to it!

  Politicians, bankers, lawyers, doctors, architects, writers, gangsters, office clerks, police, customs inspectors, firemen, bookmakers… the list of professions and occupations was endless.

  The Volstead Act was the spine of the corruption, but there were other enterprises—all profitable.

  Prostitution, abortion, oil, gold, political campaigns and patronage, the stock market, speakeasies, loan-sharking… this list, too, was endless.

  The money-hungry little people could never walk away from their greed. It was the ultimate proof of his theories!

  The money-grasping scum!

  Everything documented. Everyone identified.

  Nothing left to speculation.

  The leather-bound notebook contained 4,263 names. In eighty-one cities and twenty-four states. Twelve senators, ninety-eight congressmen, and three men in Coolidge’s cabinet.

  A directory of malfeasance.

  Ulste
r Stewart picked up the desk phone and dialed a number.

  ‘Put Vitone on—Never mind who’s calling! I wouldn’t have this number if he didn’t want me to have it!’

  Scarlett crushed out his cigarette. He drew unconnected lines on a scratch pad while waiting for Genovese. He smiled when he saw that the lines converged—like knives—into a center spot. No, not like knives. Like bolts of lightning.

  ‘Vitone? It’s me—I’m aware of that—There’s not very much we can do, is there?… If you’re questioned, you’ve got a story. You were in Westchester. You don’t know where the hell La Tona was… Just keep me out! Understand? Don’t be a smart-ass—I’ve got a proposition for you. You’re going to like it. It makes everything worthwhile for you… It’s all yours. Everything! Make whatever deals you like. I’m out.’

  There was silence from the other end of the line. Ulster Scarlett drew the figure of a Christmas tree on the scratch pad. ‘No hitches, no catches. It’s yours! I don’t want a thing. The organization’s all yours… No, I don’t know anything! I just want out. If you’re not interested, I can go elsewhere—say the Bronx or even out to Detroit. I’m not asking for a nickel… Only this. Only one thing. You never saw me. You never met me. You don’t know I exist! That’s the price.’

  Don Vitone Genovese began chattering in Italian while Scarlett held the receiver several inches from his ear. The only word Scarlett really understood was the repeated, ‘Grazie, grazie, grazie.’

  He hung up the receiver and closed the leather-bound notebook. He sat for a moment and then opened the top drawer in the center of the desk. He took out the last letter he had received from Gregor Strasser. He reread it for the twentieth time. Or was it the hundred and twentieth?

  ‘A fantastic plan… a bold plan… the Marquis Jacques Louis Bertholde… London… by mid-April…’

  Was the time really here? At last!

  If it was, Heinrich Kroeger had to have his own plan for Ulster Scarlett.

  It wasn’t so much bold as it was respectable. Immensely, thoroughly respectable. So proper, in fact, that Ulster Stewart Scarlett burst out laughing.

  The scion of Scarlatti—the charming, handsome graduate of the cotillions, the hero of the Meuse-Argonne, New York society’s most eligible bachelor—was going to be married.

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Eight

  ‘You presume, Mr. Reynolds!’ Elizabeth Scarlatti was seething. Her vehemence was directed at the old man who stood calmly in front of her, peering over his glasses. ‘I do not countenance presumptuous people and I will not abide liars!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

  ‘You got this appointment under false pretenses. Senator Brownlee told me you represented the Land Acquisition Agency and your business concerned the transactions between Scarlatti and the Department of the Interior.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he believes.’

  ‘Then he’s a bigger fool than I think he is. And now you threaten me! Threaten me with secondhand inflammatory gossip about my son! I trust you’re prepared to be cross-examined in court.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘You may force me to it!… I don’t know your position, but I do know a great many people in Washington and I’ve never heard of you. I can only conclude that if someone like you can carry such tales, others must have heard them too. Yes, you may force me into court. I won’t tolerate such abuse!’

  ‘Suppose it’s true?’

  ‘It isn’t true and you know it as well as I do! There’s no reason on earth why my son would involve himself in… in such activities. He’s wealthy in his own right! Both my sons have trust funds that return annual incomes of—let’s be honest—preposterous sums.’

  ‘Then we have to eliminate profit as a motive, don’t we?’ Benjamin Reynolds wrinkled his brow.

  ‘We eliminate nothing for there is nothing! If my son has caroused a bit, he’s to be criticized—not branded a criminal! And if you’re using the gutter tactic of maligning the name Scarlatti because of its origin, you’re contemptible and I’ll have you dismissed!’

  Benjamin Reynolds, slow to anger, was reaching a dangerous level of irritation. He had to remind himself that this old woman was guarding her house and was more difficult than she would have been in other circumstances.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t think of me as an enemy. I’m neither an enemy nor a bigot. Frankly, I resent the second implication more than I do the first.’

  ‘Again you presume,’ interrupted Elizabeth Scarlatti. ‘I don’t grant you the stature of an enemy. I think you’re a little man using malicious slander for your own ends.’

  ‘Ordering a man’s murder is not malicious slander!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s the most serious charge we have—But there are mitigating circumstances if it’s any comfort to you.’

  The old woman stared at Benjamin Reynolds in contempt. He ignored the look. ‘The man who was murdered—the one whose death your son ordered—was a known killer himself—A captain of a freighter who worked with the worst elements on the waterfront. He was responsible for a great deal of killing.’

  Elizabeth Scarlatti rose from her chair. ‘I won’t tolerate this,’ she said quietly. ‘You make the most damaging accusation possible and then you retreat behind a wall of implied judgment.’

  ‘These are strange times, Madame Scarlatti. We can’t be everywhere. We don’t want to be, frankly. We don’t lament the gangster wars. Let’s face it. Often they accomplish more than we can.’

  ‘And you put my son in this… this category?’

  ‘I didn’t put him anywhere. He did it himself.’ Elizabeth walked slowly from her desk to a front window overlooking the street. ‘How many other people in Washington know about this outrageous gossip?’

  ‘Everything I’ve told you?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘There were a few rumors at Treasury. Nothing anyone wanted to run down. About the rest, only my immediate subordinate and the man who was the witness.’

  ‘Their names?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘I can easily find out.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you any good.’

  Elizabeth turned. ‘I see.’

  ‘I wonder if you do?’

  ‘Whatever you think, I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe a word of this. But I don’t want the name of Scarlatti impugned—-

  ‘How much, Mr. Reynolds?’

  Group Twenty’s director returned Elizabeth’s stare without giving quarter. ‘Nothing. Not a penny, thank you… I’ll go further. You tempt me to bring charges against you.’

  ‘You stupid old man!’

  ‘Damn it to hell, cut it out!… All I want is the truth!… No, that’s not all I want. I want it stopped. Before anyone else gets hurt. That much is due to a decorated hero. Especially in these crazy times… And I want to know why!’

  ‘To speculate would be to grant your premise. I refuse to do that!’

  ‘By Jesus! You’re a rough bird.’

  ‘More than you realize!’

  ‘Can’t you understand?… It’s not going any further! It ends here! That is, it will if you can stop any future… activity, as you call it. We figure you can do that… But I’d think you’d want to know why. Since we both know your son is rich—why?’

  Elizabeth simply stared at him and Reynolds knew she wouldn’t answer. He’d done what he could, said what he had to say. The rest was up to her.

  ‘Good day, Madame Scarlatti—I should tell you. I’ll be watching the Scarlatti padrone.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Ask your son.’

  Reynolds trudged out of the room. People like Elizabeth Scarlatti tired him out. Probably, he thought, because he didn’t believe they were worth it all. The giants never were.

  Elizabeth—still by the window—watched the old man close the door behind him. She waited until she saw him descend the front steps and walk west towards
Fifth Avenue.

  The old man looked up at the figure in the window and their eyes met. Neither acknowledged.

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Nine

  Chancellor Drew Scarlett paced the thick oriental rug of his office at 525 Fifth Avenue. He kept breathing deeply, pushing his stomach out as he inhaled—the proper way—because the masseur at his club told him it was one method of calming down under pressure.

  It wasn’t working.

  He would change masseurs.

  He stopped in front of the mahogany paneled wall between the two large windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. On the wall were various framed newspaper articles, all of them about the Scarwyck Foundation. Each prominently mentioned him—some with his name in bold print above the stones.

  Whenever he was upset, which was quite often, he looked at these framed records of achievement. It always had a calming effect.

  Chancellor Scarlett had assumed the role of husband to a dull wife as a matter of course. The conjugal bed had produced five children. Surprisingly—especially to Elizabeth—he had also become interested in the family enterprises. As if in answer to his celebrated brother’s behavior, Chancellor retreated into the secure world of the quasi-inspired businessman. And he did have ideas.

  Because the annual income from the Scarlatti holdings far exceeded the needs of a small nation, Chancellor convinced Elizabeth that the intelligent tax course was to establish a philanthropic foundation. Impressing his mother with irrefutable data—including the potential for antitrust suits—Chancellor won Elizabeth’s consent for the Scarwyck Foundation. Chancellor was installed as president and his mother as chairman of the board. Chancellor might never be a war hero but his children would recognize his economic and cultural contributions.

  The Scarwyck Foundation poured money into war memorials, preservation of Indian reservations, a Dictionary of Great Patriots to be distributed throughout selected prep schools, the Roland Scarlett Field Clubs, a chain of Episcopal youth camps dedicated to the outdoor life and high Christian principles of their democratic—but Episcopalian – patron. And scores of similar endeavors. One couldn’t pick up a newspaper without noticing some new project endowed by Scarwyck.