The Scarlatti Inheritance

by Robert Ludlum

  The intruder passed through the bedroom door and stood at the foot of the bed barely three feet in front of Canfield. He seemed to be appraising the old woman while removing a thin rope from his trousers pocket.

  He started toward the left side of the bed, hunching his body forward.

  Canfield sprang forward, bringing his pistol down on the man’s head as hard as he could. The downward impact of the blow caused an immediate break in the skin and a spurt of blood spread through the silk head covering. The intruder fell forward, breaking his fall with his hands, and whirled around to face Canfield. The man was stunned but only for seconds.

  “You!” It was not an exclamation, but a damning recognition. “You son of a bitch!”

  Canfield’s memory mistly raced back, abstracting times and events, and yet he hadn’t the remotest idea who this massive creature was. That he should know him was obvious; that he didn’t possibly dangerous.

  Madame Scarlatti crouched against the headboard of her bed observing the scene in fear but without panic. Instead she was angry because it was a situation she could not possibly control. “I’ll phone for the ship’s police,” she said quietly.

  “No!” Canfield’s command was harsh. “Don’t touch that phone! Please!”

  “You must be insane, young man!”

  “You want to make a deal, buddy?”

  The voice, too, was vaguely familiar. The field accountant trained his pistol on the man’s head.

  “No deal. Just take off your Halloween mask.”

  The man slowly raised both arms.

  “No, buddy! One hand. Sit on the other. With the palm up!”

  “Smart guy.” The intruder lowered one arm.

  “Mr. Canfield, I really must insist! This man broke into my cabin. God knows he was probably going to rob or kill me. Not you. I must phone for the proper authorities!”

  Canfield didn’t quite know how to make the old woman understand. He was not the heroic type, and the thought of formal protection was inviting. But would it be protection? And even if it were, this hulk at his feet was the only connection, or possible connection, he or anyone in Group Twenty had with the missing Ulster Scarlett. Canfield realized that if the ship’s authorities were called in, the intruder would simply be sacrificed as a thief. It was possible that the man was a thief, but Canfield doubted that strongly.

  Sitting at the accountant’s feet, the masked Charles Boothroyd came to the identical conclusion regarding his future. The prospect of failure coupled with jail began to trigger an uncontrollable desperation.

  Canfield spoke quietly to the old woman. “I’d like to point out that this man did not break in. He unlocked the door, which presumes he was given a key.”

  “That’s right! I was! You don’t want to do anything stupid, do you, buddy? Let’s make a deal. I’ll pay you fifty times what you make selling baseball mitts! How about it?”

  Canfield looked sharply down at the man. This was a new and disturbing note. Was his cover known? The sudden ache in Canfield’s stomach came with the realization that there might well be two sacrificial goats in the stateroom.

  “Take that God damn cloth off your head!”

  “Mr. Canfield, thousands of passengers have traveled this ship. A key wouldn’t be that difficult. I must insist …”

  The giant intruder’s right hand lashed out at Canfield’s foot. Canfield fired into the man’s shoulder as he was pulled forward. It was a small-caliber revolver and the shot was not loud.

  The masked stranger’s hand spastically released Canfield’s ankle as he clutched his shoulder where the bullet was lodged. Canfield rose quickly and kicked the man with all his strength in the general area of the head. The toe of his patent-leather shoe caught the man on the side of the neck and ripped the skin beneath the stocking mask. Still the man lunged toward Canfield, hurling himself in a football cross-block at Canfield’s midsection. Canfield fired again; this time the bullet entered the man’s huge flank. Canfield pressed himself against the stateroom wall as the man fell against his shins, writhing in agony. The bone and muscle tissue in the path of the bullet had been shattered.

  Canfield reached down to pull off the silk face covering, now drenched with blood, when the giant, on his knees, suddenly lashed out with his left arm pinning the field accountant back against the wall. Canfield pistol-whipped the man about the head, simultaneously trying to remove the steellike forearm. As he pulled upward on the man’s wrist, the black sweater ripped revealing the sleeve of a white shirt. On the cuff was a large cuff link diagonally striped in red and black.

  Briefly, Canfield stopped his assault, trying to assimilate his new knowledge. The creature, bloodied, wounded, was grunting in pain and desperation. But Canfield knew him and he was extraordinarily confused. While trying to steady his right hand, he aimed his revolver carefully at the man’s kneecap. It was not easy; the strong arm was pressing into his upper groin with the power of a large piston. As he was about to fire, the intruder lurched upward, arching his back and heaving his frame against the smaller man. Canfield pulled the trigger, more as a reaction than intent. The bullet pierced the upper area of the stomach.

  Charles Boothroyd fell again.

  Matthew Canfield looked over at the old woman who was reaching for the bedside phone. He jumped over the man and forcibly took the instrument from her. He replaced the ear cup in its cradle. “Please! I know what I’m doing!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Please! Believe me!”

  “Good God! Look out!”

  Canfield whirled, narrowly missing having his spine crushed by the lurching, wounded Boothroyd, who had entwined his fingers into a single hammerlike weapon.

  The man toppled on the end of the bed and rolled off. Canfield pulled the old woman away and leveled his pistol at the assailant.

  “I don’t know how you do it, but if you don’t stop, the next shot goes right into your forehead. That’s a marksman’s promise, buddy!”

  Canfield reflected that he was the only member of the training group to fail the small-arms target course twice in succession.

  Lying on the floor, his vision impaired by the pain as well as the bloody silk covering his face, Charles Boothroyd knew there was next to nothing left. His breathing was erratic; blood was spilling into his windpipe. There was only one hope—to get to his cabin and reach his wife. She’d know what to do. She’d pay the ship’s doctor a fortune to make him well. And somehow they would understand. No man could take this kind of punishment and be questioned.

  With enormous effort he began to rise. He muttered incoherently as he steadied himself on the mattress.

  “Don’t try to stand, friend. Just answer a question,” said Canfield.

  “What … What? Quit.…”

  “Where’s Scarlett?” Canfield felt he was working against time. The man would collapse any second.

  “Don’t know …”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Who …”

  “You know damn well who! Scarlett! Her son!”

  With his last resource of strength, Boothroyd accomplished the seemingly impossible. Clutching the mattress, he staggered backward as if about to collapse. His movements pulled the heavy pad partially off the bed, loosening the hold of the blankets, and as Canfield stepped forward, Boothroyd suddenly lifted the mattress free of the bed and flung it at the field accountant. As the mattress rose in the air, Boothroyd rushed against it with his full weight. Canfield fired wildly into the ceiling as he and the old woman went down under the impact. Boothroyd gave a last push, crushing the two against the wall and the floor, letting his push spring him back onto his feet. He turned, hardly able to see, and weaved out of the room. Once he reached the other stateroom he pulled off the stocking, opened the door, and rushed out.

  Elizabeth Scarlatti moaned in pain, groping for her ankle. Canfield pushed against the mattress, and as it fell off, he tried to help the old woman to her feet.

  “I think my ankle
or some part of my foot is broken.”

  Canfield wanted only to go after Boothroyd but he couldn’t leave the old woman like this. Too, if he did leave her, she’d be right back on the phone and at this juncture, that would never do. “I’ll carry you to the bed.”

  “For God’s sake put the mattress back first. I’m brittle!”

  Canfield was torn between taking off his belt, binding the old woman’s hands and running after Boothroyd, and carrying out her instructions. The former would be foolish—she’d scream bloody murder; he replaced the mattress and gently lifted her onto the bed.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Ghastly.” She winced as he placed the pillows behind her.

  “I guess I’d better call the ship’s doctor.” However, Canfield made no motion toward the phone. He tried to find the words to convince her to let him have his way.

  “There’s plenty of time for that. You want to go after that man, don’t you?”

  Canfield looked at her harshly. “Yes.”

  “Why? Do you think he has something to do with my son?”

  “Every second I spend explaining lessens the possibility of our ever finding out.”

  “How do I know you’ll be dealing in my interest? You didn’t want me to phone for help when we certainly needed it. You nearly got us both killed, as a matter of fact. I think I deserve some explanation.”

  “There isn’t time now. Please, trust me.”

  “Why should I?”

  Canfield’s eye caught sight of the rope dropped by Boothroyd. “Among other reasons too lengthy to go into, if I hadn’t been here, you would have been killed.” He pointed at the thin cord on the floor. “If you think that rope was meant to tie your hands with, remind me to explain the advantages of garroting with an elasticized cord as opposed to a piece of clothesline. Your wrists could wriggle out of this.” He picked the cord up and thrust it in front of her. “Not your throat!”

  She looked at him closely. “Who are you? Whom do you work for?”

  Canfield remembered the purpose of his visit—to tell part of the truth. He had decided to say he was employed by a private firm interested in Ulster Scarlett—a magazine or some sort of publication. Under the present circumstances, that was obviously foolish. Boothroyd was no thief; he was a killer on assignment. Elizabeth Scarlatti was marked for assassination. She was no part of a conspiracy. Canfield needed all the resources available to him. “I’m a representative of the United States government.”

  “Oh, my God! That ass, Senator Brownlee! I had no idea!”

  “Neither does he, I assure you. Without knowing it, he got us started, but that’s as far as he goes.”

  “And now I presume all Washington is playing detective and not informing me!”

  “If ten people in all Washington know about it, I’d be surprised. How’s your ankle?”

  “It will survive, as I shall under the circumstances.”

  “If I call the doctor, will you make up some story about falling? Just to give me time. That’s all I ask.”

  “I’ll do you one better, Mr. Canfield. I’ll let you go now. We can call a doctor later if it’s necessary.” She opened the drawer in the bedside table and handed him the stateroom key.

  Canfield started toward the door.

  “Under one condition.” The old woman raised her voice sufficiently to stop him.

  “What’s that?”

  “That you give due consideration to a proposition I have to make to you.”

  Canfield turned and faced her quizzically. “What kind of proposition?”

  “That you go to work for me.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” said the field accountant as he ran through the door.

  CHAPTER 21

  Three-quarters of an hour later Canfield let himself quietly back into Elizabeth Scarlatti’s stateroom. The moment the old woman heard the key in the latch she cried out apprehensively.

  “Who is it?”

  “Canfield.” He walked in.

  “Did you find him?”

  “I did. May I sit down?”

  “Please.”

  “What happened? For heaven’s sake, Mr. Canfield! What happened? Who is he?”

  “His name was Boothroyd. He worked for a New York brokerage house. He obviously was hired, or assigned to kill you. He’s dead and his earthly remains are behind us—I judge about three miles.”

  “Good God!” The old woman sat down.

  “Shall we start at the beginning?”

  “Young man, do you know what you’ve done? There’ll be searches, inquiries! The ship will be in an uproar!”

  “Oh, someone will be in an uproar, I grant you. But I doubt that there will be more than a routine, and I suspect, subdued inquiry. With a grieving, confused widow confined to her quarters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Canfield told her how he had located the body near Boothroyd’s own stateroom. He then touched briefly on the grimmer aspects of searching the body and dispatching it overboard, but he described in fuller detail how he had returned to the lounge and learned that Boothroyd supposedly passed out several hours earlier. The bartender, in what was probably exaggeration, said that it had taken half a dozen men to haul him away and put him to bed.

  “You see, his highly noticeable alibi is the most logical explanation for his … disappearance.”

  “They’ll search the ship until we reach port!”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I tore off part of his sweater and wedged it into a corner of the post railing outside his stateroom. It’ll be apparent that the drunken Mr. Boothroyd tried to rejoin the party and that he had a tragic accident. A drunk plus rotten weather aboard ship is a bad combination.” Canfield stopped and reflected. “If he was operating alone, we’re all right. If he wasn’t …” Canfield decided to be quiet.

  “Was it necessary to throw the man overboard?”

  “Would it have been better to have him found with four bullets in him?”

  “Three. There’s one lodged in the bedroom ceiling.”

  “That’s even worse. He’d be traced to you. If he has a colleague aboard this ship, you’d be dead before morning!”

  “I suppose you’re right. What do we do now?”

  “We wait. We talk and we wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For someone to try to find out what happened. Perhaps his wife. Perhaps the one who gave him the key. Someone.”

  “You think they will?”

  “I think they have to if there’s anyone on board who was working with him. For the simple reason that everything went—poof.”

  “Perhaps he was just a burglar.”

  “He wasn’t. He was a killer. I don’t mean to alarm you.”

  The old woman looked carefully into Canfield’s eyes. “Who is ‘they,’ Mr. Canfield?”

  “I don’t know. That’s where the talking comes in.”

  “You believe they’re connected with my son’s disappearance, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.… Don’t you?”

  She did not answer directly, “You said we should start at the beginning. Where is that for you?”

  “When we found out that millions of dollars’ worth of American securities were being sold secretly on a foreign exchange.”

  “What has that to do with my son?”

  “He was there. He was in the specific area when the rumors started. A year later, after his disappearance, we received reliable intelligence that the sale had been made. He was there again. Obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Or highly coincidental.”

  “That theory was knocked out of the box when you opened the door for me an hour ago.”

  The old woman stared at the field accountant as he slouched in the chair. He, in turn, watched her through half-closed eyes. He saw that she was furious but controlled.

  “You presume, Mr. Canfield.”

  “I don’t think so. And since
we know who your would-be assassin was and who he worked for—Godwin-some-body-or-other, Wall Street—I think the picture’s pretty clear. Someone, someone in the fifth largest brokerage house in New York, is angry enough with you or frightened enough of you to want you killed.”

  “That’s speculation.”

  “Speculation, hell! I’ve got the bruises to prove it!”

  “How did Washington make this … questionable connection?”

  “ Washington’ takes in too many people. We’re a very small department. Our normal concerns are quietly dealing with larcenous but highly placed government officials.”

  “You sound ominous, Mr. Canfield.”

  “Not at all. If an uncle of the Swedish ambassador makes a killing in Swedish imports, we’d rather straighten it out quietly.” He watched her closely.

  “Now you sound harmless.”

  “Neither I assure you.”

  “About the securities?”

  “The Swedish ambassador, as a matter of fact.” Canfield smiled. “Who, to the best of my knowledge, hasn’t any uncle in the import business.”

  “The Swedish ambassador? I thought you said Senator Brownlee was the one.”

  “I didn’t. You did. Brownlee caused enough of a fuss to make the Justice Department call in everyone who ever had anything to do with Ulster Scarlett. At one point, we did.”

  “You’re with Reynolds!”

  “Again, that’s your statement. Not mine.”

  “Stop playing games. You work for that man, Reynolds, don’t you?”

  “One thing I’m not is your prisoner. I’m not going to be cross-examined.”

  “Very well. What about this Swedish ambassador?”

  “You don’t know him? You don’t know anything about Stockholm?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, of course I don’t!”

  The field accountant believed her. “Fourteen months ago Ambassador Walter Pond sent word to Washington that a Stockholm syndicate had pledged thirty million dollars for large blocks of American securities if they could be smuggled across. His report was dated May fifteenth. Your son’s visa shows he entered Sweden on May tenth.”

  “Flimsy! My son was on his honeymoon. A trip to Sweden was not out of the ordinary.”