Canfield wondered why he had been singled out. Had anything gone wrong in Washington? There hadn’t been enough time for anything to go wrong.
There was a commotion from the pier. The two goons who had boarded the ship were escorting a man in uniform down the gangplank. Canfield saw that it was the captain of the Genoa-Stella.
The man in the white fedora was now leaning into the window talking with the two men in the second car. They hadn’t noticed the noise from the pier. The large man opened the car door and a short, very dark Italian stepped out. He was no more than five feet three.
The short man beckoned the field accountant to come over. He reached into his coat pocket, took out a billfold, and withdrew several bills from it. His speech was heavily accented. “You a new man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lake Erie? That’s right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s name?”
“Cannon.”
The Italian looked at the man in the white fedora.
The man shrugged. “Non conosco.…”
“Here.” He handed Canfield two fifty-dollar bills. “You be a good boy.… We take care of good boys, don’t we, Maggiore?… We also take care of boys who ain’t so good.… Capisce?”
“You bet! Thanks very …”
It was as far as the field accountant got. The two men escorting the Genoa-Stella captain had reached the first automobile. They were now forcibly holding him, propelling him against his will.
“Lascia mi! Lascia mi! Maiali!” The captain tried to break the grip of the two hoodlums. He swung his shoulders back and forth but to no avail.
The small Italian brushed Canfield aside as the goons brought the captain up to him. The ship’s officer and his two captors started shouting at the same time. The Italian listened and stared at the captain.
And then the other man, the man who remained in the back seat of the second automobile, leaned forward toward the window, half hidden in the shadows.
“What’s the matter? What are they yelling about, Vitone?”
“This comandante doesn’t like the way we do business, Padrone. He says he won’t let us unload no more.”
“Why not?”
“Si rifiuti!” shouted the captain, sensing what was being said though not understanding the words.
“He says he don’t see anyone he knows. He says we don’t have no rights with his ship! He wants to make telephone calls.”
“I’ll bet he does,” the man in shadow said quietly. “I know just who he wants to call.”
“You gonna let him?” asked the short Italian.
“Don’t be foolish, Vitone.… Talk nice. Smile. Wave back at the ship. All of you!… That’s a powder keg back there, you imbeciles!… Let them think everything’s fine.”
“Sure. Sure, Padrone.”
All of them laughed and waved except the captain, who furiously tried to release his arms. The effect was comic, and Canfield found himself nearly smiling except that the face in the automobile window was now in his direct line of sight. The field accountant saw that it was a good-looking face—striking would be the word. Although the face was somewhat obscured by the wide brim of a hat, Canfield noticed that the features were sharp, aquiline, clean-cut. What particularly struck the field accountant were the eyes.
They were very light blue eyes. Yet he was addressed by the Italian “padrone.” Canfield assumed there were Italians with blue eyes but he had never met any. It was unusual.
“What do we do, Padrone?” asked the short man who had given Canfield the hundred dollars.
“What else, sport? He’s a visitor to our shores, isn’t he? Be courteous, Vitone.… Take the captain outside and let him … make his phone calls.” Then the man with the light blue eyes lowered his voice. “And kill him!”
The small Italian nodded his head slightly in the direction of the pier entrance. The two men on each side of the uniformed officer pushed him forward, out the large door into the darkness of the night.
“Chiama le nostri amici …” said the goon on the captain’s right arm.
But the captain resisted. Once outside, in the dim spill of the door’s light, Canfield could see that he began violently thrashing his body against both escorts until the one on the left lost his balance. The captain then swung into the other man with both fists, shouting at him in Italian.
The man who had been shoved away regained his balance, and took something out of his pocket. Canfield couldn’t distinguish its shape.
Then Canfield saw what it was.
A knife.
The man behind the captain plunged it into the officer’s unguarded back.
Matthew Canfield pulled the visor of his customs cap down and began walking away from the automobiles. He walked slowly, casually.
“Hey! You! You! Customs!” It was the blue-eyed man from the back seat.
“You! Lake Erie!” the short Italian yelled.
Canfield turned. “I didn’t see anything. Not a thing. Nothin’!” He tried to smile but no smile would come.
The man with the light blue eyes stared at him as Canfield squinted and pinched his face below the visor of his cap. The short Italian nodded to the driver of the first car.
The driver got out and came behind the field accountant.
“Porta lui fuori vicin’ a l’acqua! Sensa fuccide! Corteddo!” said the short man.
The driver pushed Canfield in the small of the back toward the pier entrance. “Hey, c’mon! I didn’t see nothin’! What d’you want with me!… C’mon, for Christ’s sake!”
Matthew Canfield didn’t have to be given an answer. He knew exactly what they wanted from him. His insignificant life.
The man behind him kept pushing, nudging him onward. Around the building. Along the deserted side of the pier.
Two rats scampered several yards in front of Canfield and his executioner. The growing sounds of arguments could be heard behind the walls of the cargo area. The Hudson River slapped against the huge pylons of the dock.
Canfield stopped. He wasn’t sure why but he couldn’t simply keep walking. The pain in his stomach was the pain of fear.
“A lesta chil … Keep movin’!” said the man, poking a revolver into Canfield’s ribs.
“Listen to me.” Gone was Canfield’s attempt to rougnen his voice. “I’m a government man! You do anything to me, they’ll get you! You won’t get any protection from your friends when they find out.…”
“Keep movin’!”
A ship’s horn sounded from the middle of the river. Another responded.
Then came a long, screeching, piercing whistle. It came from the Genoa-Stella. It was a signal, a desperate signal, which did not let up. The pitch of its scream was ear shattering.
It distracted—as it had to—the man with the gun beside Canfield.
The field accountant lashed out at the man’s wrist and held it, twisted it with all his strength. The man reached up to Canfield’s face and clawed at the sockets of his eyes while pushing him toward the steel wall of the building. Canfield gripped the wrist harder, harder, and then with his other hand clutched at the man’s overcoat and pulled him toward the wall—the same direction the man was pushing—turning at the last second so that his executioner slammed into the steel.
The gun flew out of the Sicilian’s hand and Canfield brought his knee crashing up into the man’s groin.
The Italian screamed a guttural cry of anguish. Canfield threw him downward and the man lunged, writhing, across the deck to the edge of the pier, curled up in agony. The field accountant grabbed his head and slammed it repeatedly against the thick wood. The skin broke and blood came pouring out of the man’s skull.
It was over in less than a minute.
Matthew Canfield’s executioner was dead.
The shrieking whistle from the Genoa-Stella kept up its now terrifying blast. The shouting from within the pier’s loading area had reached a crescendo.
Canfield thought that the
ship’s crew must have openly revolted, must have demanded orders from their captain, and when they did not come, assumed him murdered—or at least held captive.
Several gunshots followed one after the other. The staccato sound of a submachine gun—more screaming, more cries of terror.
The field accountant couldn’t return to the front of the building, and undoubtedly someone would come out looking for his executioner.
He rolled the body of the dead Sicilian over the edge of the dock and heard the splash below.
The whistle from the Genoa-Stella stopped. The shouting began to die down. Someone had assumed control. And at the front end of the pier two men came in sight. They called out.
“La Tona! Hey, La Tona! La Tona.…”
Matthew Canfield jumped into the filthy waters of the Hudson and started swimming, as best he could in his heavy customs uniform, toward the middle of the river.
“You’re a very lucky fellow!” said Benjamin Reynolds.
“I know that, sir. And grateful it’s over.”
“We’re not called on for this sort of thing, I realize. You take a week off. Relax.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Glover will be here in a few minutes. It’s still a bit early.”
It was. It was six fifteen in the morning. Canfield hadn’t reached Washington until four and he was afraid to go to his apartment. He had phoned Benjamin Reynolds at home and Reynolds had instructed the field accountant to go to the Group Twenty offices and wait for him.
The outer door opened and Reynolds called. “Glover? That you?”
“Yes, Ben. Jesus! It’s not six thirty yet … A lousy night. My son’s kids are with us.” The voice was weary, and when Glover reached Reynolds’s door, it was apparent that the man was wearier.… “Hello, Canfield. What the hell happened to you?”
Matthew Canfield, field accountant, told the entire story.
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!”
“Il Scarlatti padrone,” Glover said quietly.
“The identification’s absolutely positive?”
“Sure.… And if he’s got blue eyes, it’s Holy Writ.”
“You could swear 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—né 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.”
CHAPTER 7
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.
Ulster 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.
The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 8
