At any rate he was likable. A polite young man, very shallow, she thought, and probably a good salesman, which he refreshingly admitted he was.
Toward the end of dinner a deck officer approached her chair: there was a cable for her.
‘You may bring it to the table.’ Elizabeth was annoyed.
The officer spoke softly to Elizabeth.
‘Very well.’ She rose from her chair.
‘May I be of assistance, Madame Scarlatti?’ asked Matthew Canfield, salesman, as he rose with the rest of the table.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Quite, thank you.’ She followed the deck officer out of the salon.
In the radio room, Elizabeth was shown to a table behind the counter and handed the message She noted the instructions at the top: ‘Emergency—have addressee brought to office for immediate reply.’
She looked over at the deck officer who waited on the other side of the counter to escort her back to the salon. ‘My apologies, you were following orders.’
She read the rest of the wireless.
MADAME ELIZABETH SCARLATTI: H.M.S. CALPURNIA, HIGH SEAS
VICE-PRESIDENT JEFFERSON CARTWRIGHT DEAD STOP CAUSE OF DEATH UNCERTAIN STOP AUTHORITIES SUSPECT ABNORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES STOP PRIOR TO DEATH CARTWRIGHT MADE PUBLIC A POSITION OF SIGNIFICANT RANK WITH SCARWICK FOUNDATION STOP WE HAVE NO RECORD OF SUCH POSITION YET INFORMATION RECEIVED FROM RELIABLE SOURCES STOP IN LIGHT OF ABOVE DO YOU WISH TO COMMENT OR INSTRUCT US IN ANY WAY STOP EPISODE MOST TRAGIC AND EMBARRASSING TO WATERMAN CLIENTS STOP AWAITING YOUR REPLY STOP
HORACE BOUIIER PRESIDENT WATERMAN TRUST COMPANY
*
Elizabeth was stunned. She wired Mr. Boutier that all announcements from the Scarlatti Industries would be issued by Chancellor Drew Scarlett within a week. Until then there would be no comment.
She sent a second wire to Chancellor Drew.
C. D. SCARLETT, 129 EAST SIXTY-SECOND STREET, NEW YORK
REGARDING JEFFERSON CARTWRIGHT NO STATEMENTS REPEAT NO STATEMENTS WILL BE ISSUED PUBLICLY OR PRIVATELY REPEAT PUBLICLY OR PRIVATELY UNTIL WE ARE IN CONTACT FROM ENGLAND STOP REPEAT NO STATEMENT STOP
AFFECTIONATELY AS ALWAYS
MOTHER
*
Elizabeth felt she should reappear at the table if for no other reason than to avoid calling too much attention to the incident. But as she walked slowly back through the narrow corridors with the deck officer, it came upon her with progressive apprehension that what had happened was a warning. She immediately dismissed the theory that Cartwright’s ‘questionable activities’ caused his murder. He was a joke.
What Elizabeth had to be prepared for was the discovery of her agreement with Cartwright. There could be several explanations, which she would issue without elaboration. Of course, regardless of what she said, the consensus would be that age had finally caught up with her. Such an agreement with such a man as Jefferson Cartwright was proof of eccentricity to the degree that raised questions of competence.
This did not concern Elizabeth Scarlatti. She was not subject to the opinion of others.
What concerned her, and concerned her deeply, was the cause of her profound fear: the fact that the agreement might not be found.
Back at the captain’s table she dismissed her absence with a short, sincere statement that one of her trusted executives, of whom she was quite fond, had died. As she obviously did not wish to dwell on the subject, her dinner companions uttered their sympathies, and after an appropriate pause in their conversations resumed their small talk. The captain of the Calpurnia, an overstuffed Englishman with thickly matted eyebrows and enormous jowls, noted ponderously that the loss of a good executive must be akin to the transfer of a well-trained mate.
The young man next to Elizabeth leaned toward her and spoke softly. ‘Right out of Gilbert and Sullivan, isn’t he.’
The old woman smiled back in agreeable conspiracy. Beneath the babble of voices she answered him quietly. ‘A monarch of the sea. Can’t you picture him ordering up the cat-o’-nine tails?’
‘No,’ replied the young man. ‘But I can picture him climbing out of his bathtub. It’s funnier.’
‘You’re a wicked boy. If we hit an iceberg, I shall avoid you.’
‘You couldn’t. I’d be in the first lifeboat and certainly someone around here would reserve a seat for you.’ He smiled disarmingly.
Elizabeth laughed. The young man amused her and it was refreshing to be treated with a degree of good-humored insolence. They chatted pleasantly about their forthcoming itineraries in Europe. It was fascinating, in an offhand way, because neither had any intention of telling the other anything of consequence.
With dinner over, the captain’s troupe of very important passengers made their way to the game room and paired off for bridge.
‘I assume you’re a terrible card player,’ Canfield said, smiling at Elizabeth. ‘Since I’m rather good, I’ll carry you.’
‘It’s difficult to refuse such a flattering invitation.’
And then he inquired. ‘Who died? Anyone I might know?’
‘I doubt it, young man.’
‘You never can tell. Who was it?’
‘Now why in the world would you know an obscure executive in my bank?’
‘I gathered he was a pretty important fellow.’
‘I imagine some people thought he was.’
‘Well, if he was rich enough, I might have sold him a tennis court.’
‘Really, Mr. Canfield, you’re the limit.’ Elizabeth laughed as they reached the lounge.
During the game Elizabeth noted that although young Canfield had the quiet flair of a first-rate player, he really wasn’t very good. At one point he made himself dummy, quite unnecessarily thought Elizabeth, but she put it down to a form of courtesy. He inquired of the lounge steward if there was a particular brand of cigars on hand, and when offered substitutes, excused himself saying that he’d get some from his stateroom.
Elizabeth remembered that back in the dining room during their coffee the charming Mr. Canfield had opened a fresh pack of thin cigars.
He returned several minutes after the hand was finished and apologized by explaining that he had helped an elderly gentleman, somewhat overcome by the sea, back to his cabin.
The opponents muttered complimentary phrases, but Elizabeth said nothing. She simply stared at the young man and noted with a degree of satisfaction, as well as alarm, that he avoided her gaze.
The game ended early; the pitch of the Calpurnia was now quite unsettling. Canfield escorted Elizabeth Scarlatti to her suite.
‘You’ve been charming,’ she said. ‘I now release you to pursue the younger generation.’
Canfield smiled and handed her the keys. ‘If you insist. But you condemn me to boredom. You know that.’
Times have changed, or perhaps the young men.’
‘Perhaps.’ It seemed to Elizabeth that he was anxious to leave.
‘Well, an old woman thanks you.’
‘A not so young man thanks you. Good night, Madame Scarlatti.’
She turned to him. ‘Are you still interested in who the man was who died?’
‘I gathered you didn’t want to tell me. It’s not important. Good night.’
‘His name was Cartwright. Jefferson Cartwright. Did you know him?’ She watched his eyes closely.
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.’ His look was steady and entirely innocent. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night, young man.’ She entered her suite and closed the door. She could hear his footsteps fading away down the outside corridor. He was a man in a hurry.
Elizabeth removed her mink and walked into the large comfortable bedroom with its heavy furniture secured to the floor. She turned on a lamp attached to the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. She tried to recall more specifically what the Calpurnia’s captain had said of the young man when he had presented his table for her approval.
‘And then there’s a chap, very well connected, I might add, named Canfield.’
Elizabeth paid no more attention to his abbreviated biography than she had to the others.
‘He’s associated with a sporting goods concern and crosses rather regularly. Wimbledon, I believe.’
And then, if Elizabeth’s memory served her well, the captain had added, ‘Priority request from the ship line. Probably the son of an old boy. School tie and that sort of thing. Had to drop Dr. Barstow for him.’
Elizabeth had given her approval without any questions.
So the young man had a priority request for the captain’s table from the owners of an English steamship company. And a fatuous captain, accustomed to associating with the social and professional leaders of both continents, had felt obliged to drop a highly regarded surgeon in his favor.
If for no other reason than to quell an inexhaustible imagination, Elizabeth picked up the stateroom phone and asked for the wireless room.
‘Calpurnia radio, good evening.’ The British accent trailed off the word evening to a hum.
‘This is Elizabeth Scarlatti, suite double A, three. May I speak with the officer in charge, if you please.’
‘This is Deck Officer Peters. May I help you?’
‘Were you the officer who was on duty earlier this evening?’
‘Yes, madame. Your wires to New York went out immediately. They should be delivered within the hour.’
‘Thank you. However, that’s not why I’m calling—I’m afraid I’ve missed someone I was to meet in the radio room. Has anyone asked for me?’ She listened carefully for even the slightest hesitation. There was none.
‘No, madame, no one’s asked for you.’
‘Well, he might have been somewhat embarrassed. I really feel quite guilty.’
‘I’m sorry, Madame Scarlatti. Outside of yourself there’ve been only three passengers here all evening. First night out, y’know.’
‘Since there were only three, would you mind terribly describing them to me?’
‘Oh, not at all—Well, there was an elderly couple from tourist and a gentleman, a bit squiffed, I’m afraid, who wanted the wireless tour.’
‘The what?’
‘The tour, madame. We have three a day for the first class. Ten, twelve, and two. Nice chap, really. Just a pint too many.’
‘Was he a young man? In his late twenties, perhaps? Dressed in a dinner jacket?’
‘That description would apply, madame.’
‘Thank you, Officer Peters. It’s an inconsequential matter, but I’d appreciate your confidence.’
‘Of course.’
Elizabeth rose and walked to the sitting room. Her bridge partner might not be very skilled at cards, but he was a superb actor.
The Scarletti Inheritance
Chapter Nineteen
Matthew Canfield hurried down the corridor for the simple reason that his stomach was upset. Maybe the bar—and the crowd—on B deck would make him feel better. He found his way and ordered a brandy.
‘Hell of a party, isn’t it?’
A huge, broad-shouldered fullback-type crowded Canfield against the adjacent stool.
‘Certainly is,’ Canfield replied with a meaningless grin.
‘I know you! You’re at the captain’s table. We saw you at dinner.’
‘Good food there.’
‘Y’know something? I could have been at the captain’s table, but I said shit on it.’
‘Well, that would have made an interesting hors d’oeuvre.’
‘No, I mean it.’ The accent, Canfield determined, was Tiffany-edged Park Avenue. ‘Uncle of mine owns a lot of stock. But I said shit on it.’
‘You can take my place, if you want to.’
The fullback reeled slightly backward and grasped the bar for support. ‘Much too dull for us. Hey, barkeep! Bourbon and ginger!’
The fullback steadied himself and swayed back toward Canfield. His eyes were glazed and almost without muscular control. His very blond hair was falling over his forehead.
‘What’s your line, chum? Or are you still in school?’
‘Thanks for the compliment. No, I’m with Wimbledon Sporting Goods. How about you?’ Canfield backed himself into the stool, turning his head to continue surveying the crowd.
‘Godwin and Rawlins. Securities. Father-in-law owns it. Fifth largest house in town.’
‘Very impressive.’
‘What’s your drag?’
‘What?’
‘Drag Pull. How come you’re at the big table?’
‘Oh, friends of the company, I guess. We work with English firms.’
‘Wimbledon. That’s in Detroit.’
‘Chicago.’
‘Oh, yeah. Abercrombie of the sticks. Get it? Abercrombie of the sticks.’
‘We’re solvent.’
Canfield addressed this last remark directly to the drunken blond Adonis. He did not say it kindly. ‘Don’t get touchy. What’s your name?’ Canfield was about to answer when his eyes were attracted to the drunk’s tie. He didn’t know why. Then Canfield noticed the man’s cuff links. They, too, were large and striped with colors as intense as those of the tie. The colors were deep red and black.’
‘Cat got you?’
‘What?’
‘What’s your name? Mine’s Boothroyd. Chuck Boothroyd.’ He grasped the mahogany molding once again to steady himself. ‘You hustle for Abercrombie and .. Oops, pardon me, Wimbledon?’ Boothroyd seemed to lapse into a semi-stupor.
The field accountant decided that the brandy wasn’t doing a thing for him, either. He really felt quite ill.
‘Yeah, I hustle. Look friend, I don’t feel so good. Don’t take offense, but I think I’d better get going before I have an accident. Good night, Mr…’
‘Boothroyd.’
‘Right. Good night.’
Mr Boothroyd half opened his eyes and made a gesture of salute while reaching for his bourbon. Canfield made a swift but unsteady exit.
‘Chucksie, sweetie!’ A dark-haired woman slammed herself against the inebriated Mr Boothroyd. ‘You disappear every God damn time I try to find you!’
‘Don’t be a bitch, love.’
‘I will be every time you do this!’
The bartender found unfinished business and walked rapidly away.
Mr Boothroyd looked at his wife and for a few brief moments his wavering stopped. He fixed his eyes on her and his gaze was no longer unsteady, but very much alert. To the observer the two appeared to be nothing more than a husband and wife arguing over the former’s drinking but with that quiet violence that keeps intruders away. Although he still maintained his bent-over posture, Chick Boothroyd spoke clearly under the noise of the party. He was sober.
‘No worries, pet.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Glorified salesman. Just sucking up for business is my guess.’
‘If he’s a salesman, why was he put at a table next to her?’
‘Oh, come on, stop it. You’re jittery.’
‘Just careful.’
‘I’ll spell it out for you. He’s with that sports store in Chicago. Wimbledon. They import half their stuff from a bunch of English companies.’ Boothroyd stopped as if explaining a simple problem to a child. This is a British ship. The old lady’s a hell of a contact and somebody’s in on the take. Besides, he’s drunk as a hoot owl and sick as a dog.’
‘Let me have a sip.’ Mrs. Boothroyd reached for her husband’s glass.
‘Help yourself.’
‘When are you going to do it?’
‘In about twenty minutes.’
‘Why does it have to be tonight?’
‘The whole ship’s ginned up and there’s some nice, lovely rotten weather. Anybody who isn’t drunk is throwing up. Maybe both.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Slap me in the face good and hard. Then go back to w
homever you were with and laugh it off. Tell them when I’ve gone this far, the end’s in sight, or something like that. In a few minutes I’ll pass out on the floor. Make sure two guys carry me to the stateroom. Three maybe.’
‘I don’t know if anyone’s sober enough.’
‘Then get the steward. Or the bartender, that’s even better. The bartender. I’ve been giving him a hard time.’
‘All right. You’ve got the key?’
‘Your daddy gave it to me on the pier this morning.’
The Scarletti Inheritance
Chapter Twenty
Canfield reached his stateroom thinking he was going to be sick. The interminable and now violent motion of the ship had its effect on him. He wondered why people made jokes about seasickness. It was never funny to him. He never laughed at the cartoons.
He fell into bed removing only his shoes. Gratefully he realized that sleep was coming on. It had been twenty-four hours of never-ending pressure.
And then the knocking began.
At first quietly. So quietly it simply made Canfield shift his position. Then louder and louder and more rapid. It was a sharp knock, as if caused by a single knuckle and because of its sharpness it echoed throughout the stateroom.
Canfield, still half asleep, called out. ‘What is it?’
‘I think you’d better open the door, mate.’
‘Who is it?’ Canfield tried to stop the room from turning around.
The intense knocking started all over again.
‘For Christ’s sake, all right! All right!’
The field accountant struggled to his feet and lurched toward the stateroom door. It was a further struggle to unlatch the lock. The uniformed figure of a ship’s radio operator sprang into his cabin.
Canfield gathered his sense as best he could and looked at the man now leaning against the door.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘You told me to come to your cabin if I had somethin’ worthwhile. You know. About what you’re so interested in?’
The Scarletti Inheritance Page 16
