The housekeeper answered her summons with such speed that the field accountant wondered if she were listening at the door. She was about the homeliest woman Matthew Canfield had ever seen. Her hands were huge.
“Yes, madame? We did not expect you home this evening. You did tell us you were dining with Madame Scarlatti.”
“It seems I’ve changed my mind, doesn’t it, Hannah? Mr. Canfield and I will dine here. I’ve told him potluck, so serve us whatever luck the pot holds.”
“Very well, madame.”
Her accent had a trace of Middle Europe, perhaps Swiss or German, thought Canfield. Her jowled face framed by her pulled-back gray hair should have been friendly. But it wasn’t. It was somehow hard, masculine.
Nevertheless, she made sure the cook prepared an excellent meal.
“When that old bitch wants something, she makes them all quiver and quake until she gets it,” said Janet. They had gone back to the living room and sat sipping brandy on the pillow-fluffed sofa, their shoulders touching.
“That’s natural. From everything I’ve heard, she runs the whole show. They’ve got to cater to her. I know I would.”
“My husband never thought so,” the girl said quietly. “She’d get furious with him.”
Canfield pretended disinterest. “Really? I never knew there was any trouble between them.”
“Oh, not trouble. Ulster never cared enough about anything or anybody to cause trouble. That’s why she’d get so angry. He wouldn’t fight. He’d just do what he wanted to. He was the only person she couldn’t control and she hated that.”
“She could stop the money, couldn’t she?” Canfield asked naively.
“He had his own.”
“God knows that’s exasperating. He probably drove her crazy.”
The young wife was looking at the mantel. “He drove me crazy, too. She’s no different.”
“Well, she’s his mother.…”
“And I’m his wife.” She was now drunk and she stared with hatred at the photographs. “She has no right caging me up like an animal! Threatening me with stupid gossip! Lies! Millions of lies! My husband’s friends, not mine! Though they might as well be mine, they’re no God damn better!”
“Ulster’s pals were always a little weird, I agree with you there. If they’re being louses to you, ignore them. You don’t need them.”
Janet laughed “That’s what I’ll do! I’ll travel to Paris, Cairo, and wherever the hell else, and take ads in the papers. All you friends of that bastard Ulster Scarlett, I ignore you! Signed, J. Saxon Scarlett, widow. I hope!”
The field accountant pressed his luck. “She’s got information about you from … places like that?”
“Oh, she doesn’t miss a trick. You’re nobody if the illustrious Madame Scarlatti hasn’t got a dossier on you. Didn’t you know that?”
And then almost as rapidly as she had flown into rage, she receded into calm reflection. “But it’s not important. Let her go to hell.”
“Why is she going to Europe?”
“Why do you care?”
Canfield shrugged. “I don’t. I just read it in the columns.”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
“Has it anything to do with all that gossip, those lies she collected from Paris … and those places?” He tried, and it wasn’t difficult, to slur his words.
“Ask her. Do you know, this brandy’s good.” She finished the remainder in her glass and set it down. The field accountant had most of his left. He held his breath and drank it.
“You’re right. She’s a bitch.”
“She’s a bitch.” The girl pressed into Canfield’s shoulder and arm, turning her face to his. “You’re not a bitch, are you?”
“No, and the gender is wrong, anyway. Why is she going to Europe?”
“I’ve asked myself that lots of times and I can’t think of an answer. And I don’t care. Are you really a nice person?”
“The nicest, I think.”
“I’m going to kiss you and find out. I can always tell.”
“You’re not that practiced.…”
“Oh, but I am.” The girl reached across Canfield’s neck and pulled him to her. She trembled.
His response was mild astonishment. The girl was desperate and for some senseless reason, he had the feeling of wanting to protect her.
She pulled her hand down from his shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs,” she said.
And upstairs they kissed and Janet Scarlett put her hands on his face.
“She said … fun of being a Scarlett without a Scarlett around.… That’s what she said.”
“Who? Who said that?”
“Mother Bitch. That’s who,”
“His mother?”
“Unless she finds him.… I’m free.… Take me, Matthew. Take me, please, for God’s sake!”
As he led her to bed, Canfield made up his mind that he’d somehow convince his superiors that he had to get aboard that ship.
CHAPTER 17
Jefferson Cartwright draped a towel over his body and walked out of the club’s steam room. He went into the needle shower and let the harsh spray beat down on the top of his head, turning his face upward until the tiny blasts of water hurt his skin. He adjusted the faucets so that the water slowly became colder, finally icy.
He had gotten very drunk the night before. Actually he had started drinking early in the afternoon and by midnight was so far gone he decided to stay at his club rather than go home. He had every reason to celebrate. Since his triumphant meeting with Elizabeth Scarlatti he’d spent several days analyzing to the best of his ability the affairs of the Scarwyck Foundation. Now he was prepared to walk among his peers. Elizabeth’s agreement never left his mind. He kept it in his briefcase until he knew enough about Scarwyck so that even his own attorneys would be impressed. He remembered as the water splashed down on his head that he had put the briefcase in a locker at Grand Central Station. Many of his colleagues swore that the Grand Central lockers were safer than vaults. Certainly they were safer than the Scarlatti vaults!
He’d pick up the briefcase after lunch and take the agreement to his lawyers. They’d be astonished and he hoped they’d ask him questions about Scarwyck. He’d rattle off facts and figures so rapidly they’d be in shock.
He could hear them now.
“My God, ole Jeff! We had no idea!”
Cartwright laughed out loud in the shower.
He, Jefferson Cartwright, was the most cavalier of Virginia Cavaliers! These Northern pricks with their high-fallutin condescending ways, who couldn’t even satisfy their own wives, had ole Jeff to reckon with now. On their level!
My God, he thought, he could buy and sell half the members in the club! It was a lovely day!
After his shower, Jefferson dressed and, feeling the full measure of his power, jauntily entered the private bar-Most of the members were gathered for lunch and with false graciousness several accepted his offer of a drink. However, their reluctance turned into minor enthusiasm when Jefferson announced casually that he had “taken over Scarwyck’s financial chores.”
Two or three suddenly found that the boorish Jefferson Cartwright had qualities that they had not noticed before. Indeed, not a bad chap, if you came to think about it.… Certainly must have something! Soon the heavy leather chairs surrounding the circular oak table to which Jefferson had repaired were occupied.
As the clock neared two thirty, the members excused themselves and headed to their offices and their telephones. The communications network was activated and the startling news of Cartwright’s coup with the Scarwyck Foundation was spread.
One particular gentleman did not leave, however. He stayed on with a few diehards and joined the court of Jefferson Cartwright. He was perhaps fifty years old and the essence of that image so sought by aging socialites. Even to the graying moustache so perfectly overgroomed.
The funny thing was that no one at the table was quite sure of his name, but no one wanted t
o admit it. This was, after all, a club.
The gentleman gracefully propped himself into the chair next to Jefferson the minute it became available. He bantered with the Southerner and insisted upon ordering another round of drinks.
When the drinks arrived, the well-tailored gentleman reached for the martinis and in the middle of an anecdote placed them in front of him for a moment. As he finished his story, he handed one to Jefferson.
Jefferson took the drink and drank fully.
The gentleman excused himself. Two minutes later Jefferson Cartwright fell over on the table. His eyes were not drowsy or even closed as might become a man who had reached the limit of alcoholic capacity. Instead, they were wide open, bulging out of his skull.
Jefferson Cartwright was dead.
And the gentleman never returned.
Downtown in the press room of a New York tabloid an old typesetter punched out the letters of the short news story. It was to appear on page 10.
Banker Succumbs in Fashionable Men’s Club
The typesetter was disinterested.
Several machines away another employee pushed the keys for another story. This one was sandwiched between retail advertisements on page 48.
Grand Central Locker Robbed
The man wondered. Isn’t anything safe anymore?
CHAPTER 18
At the captain’s table in the first-class dining room of the Calpurnia, Elizabeth was somewhat surprised to find that her companion to the right was a man no more than thirty years old. The normal practice when she traveled alone was for the ship line to provide her with an aging diplomat or a retired broker, a good card player, someone with whom she’d have something in common.
She had no one to blame, however, as she had checked the captain’s list—a procedure she insisted upon so that there would be no embarrassing business conflicts—and had merely noted that one Matthew Canfield was an executive with a sporting goods firm that purchased heavily in England. Someone with social connections, she had assumed.
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 SCARWYCK 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 WE HAD NO KNOWLEDGE OF VICE-PRESIDENT CARTWRIGHT’S QUESTIONABLE ACTIVITIES STOP AWAITING YOUR REPLY STOP
HORACE BOUTIER 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.
CD. 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, excuse
d 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 night-stand 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.
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