The Scarlatti Inheritance

by Robert Ludlum

  “May I help you?”

  The field accountant drew out his indentification card and held it up for the nun to see. “My name is Canfield, sister. I’m here for Madame Elizabeth Scarlatti. Her daughter-in-law is with me.”

  “If you’ll wait, please. May I?” She indicated that she wished to take his identification card with her. He handed it to her through the small opening.

  “If course.”

  The viewer was closed and bolted. Canfield wandered back to the car and spoke to Janet. “They’re very cautious.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “She’s taking my card in to make sure the photograph’s me and not someone else.”

  “Lovely here, isn’t it? So quiet.”

  “It is now. I make no promises when we finally see the old girl.”

  “Your callous, unfeeling disregard for my well-being, to say nothing of my comforts, is beyond anything I can describe! Do you have any idea what these idiots sleep on? I’ll tell you! Army cots!”

  “I’m sorry—” Canfield tried not to laugh.

  “And do you know the slops they eat? I’ll tell you! Food I’d prohibit in my stables!”

  “I’m told they grow their own vegetables,” the field accountant countered gently.

  “They pluck up the fertilizer and leave the plants!”

  At that moment the bells of the Angelus pealed out.

  “That goes on night and day! I asked that damned fool, Mother MacCree, or whoever she is, why so early in the morning—and do you what know what she said?”

  “What, Mother?” asked Janet.

  “ ‘That is the way of Christ,’ that’s what she said. ‘Not a good Episcopal Christ!’ I told her.… It’s been intolerable! Why were you so late? Mr. Derek said you’d be here four days ago.”

  “I had to wait for a courier from Washington. Let’s go. I’ll tell you about it.”

  Elizabeth sat in the back seat of the Bentley reading the Zurich list.

  “Know any of those people?” asked Canfield.

  “Not personally. Most all of them by reputation, however.”

  “For instance?”

  “The Americans, Louis Gibson and Avery Landor are two self-styled Texas Bunyans. They think they built the oil territories. Lander’s a pig, I’m told. Harold Leacock, one of the Englishmen, is a power on the British Stock Exchange. Very bright. Myrdal from Sweden is also in the European market. Stockholm.…” Elizabeth looked up and acknowledged Canfield’s glance in the rearview mirror.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Yes. Thyssen in Germany. Fritz Thyssen. Steel companies. Everyone knows Kindorf—Ruhr Valley coal, and von Schnitzler. He’s I. G. Farben now.… One of the Frenchmen, D’Almeida, has control of railroads, I think. I don’t know Daudet but I recognize the name.”

  “He owns tankers. Steamships.”

  “Oh, yes. And Masterson. Sydney Masterson. English. Far East imports, I think. I don’t know Innes-Bowen, but again I’ve heard the name.”

  “You didn’t mention Rawlins. Thomas Rawlins.”

  “I didn’t think I had to. Godwin and Rawlins. Boothroyd’s father-in-law.”

  “You don’t know the fourth American, Howard Thornton? He’s from San Francisco.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Janet says your son knew a Thornton from San Francisco.”

  “I’m not at all surprised.”

  On the road from Pontypridd, on the outskirts of the Rhondda Valley, Canfield became aware of an automobile, which regularly appeared in his side mirror. It was far behind them, hardly more than a speck in the glass, but it was never out of sight except around curves. And whenever Canfield rounded one of the many turns, the automobile appeared subsequently much sooner than its previous distance would indicate. On long stretches it stayed far in the distance and whenever possible allowed other cars to come between them.

  “What is it, Mr. Canfield?” Elizabeth was watching the field accountant, who kept shifting his eyes to the mirror outside his window.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is someone following us?”

  “Probably not. There aren’t that many good roads leading to the English border.”

  Twenty minutes later Canfield saw that the automobile was drawing nearer. Five minutes after that he began to understand. There were no cars between the two vehicles now. Only a stretch of road—a very long curve—bordered on one side by the rocky slope of a small incline and on the other by a sheer drop of fifty feet into the waters of a Welsh lake.

  Beyond the end of the curve, Canfield saw that the ground leveled off into a pasture or overgrown field. He accelerated the Bentley. He wanted to reach that level area.

  The car behind shot forward closing the gap between them. It swung to the right on the side of the road by the rocky slope. Canfield knew that once the car came parallel it could easily force him off the road, over the edge, plunging the Bentley down the steep incline into the water. The field accountant held the pedal down and veered the car toward the center trying to cut off the pursuer.

  “What is it? What are you doing?” Janet held on to the top of the dashboard.

  “Brace yourselves! Both of you!”

  Canfield held the Bentley in the center, crossing to the right each time the car behind him tried to squeeze between him and the solid ground. The level field was nearer now. Only another hundred yards.

  There were two sharp, heavy crunches as the Bentley lurched spastically under the second car’s impact. Janet Scarlett screamed. Her mother-in-law kept silent, clutching the girl’s shoulders from behind, helping to brace her.

  The level pasture was now on the left and Canfield suddenly swerved the car toward it, going off the road, holding to the dirt border beyond the pavement.

  The pursuing car plunged forward at tremendous speed. Canfield riveted his eyes on the rapidly receding black-and-white license plate. He shouted, “E, B … I or L! Seven! Seven or nine! One, one, three!” He repeated the numbers again softly, quickly. He slowed the Bentley down and came to a stop.

  Janet’s back was arched against the seat. She held Elizabeth’s arms with both her hands. The old woman sat forward, her cheek pressed against her daughter-in-law’s head.

  Elizabeth spoke.

  “The letters you called out were E, B, I or L, the numbers, seven or nine, one, one, three.”

  “I couldn’t tell the make of the car.”

  Elizabeth spoke again as she took her arms from Janet’s shoulders.

  “It was a Mercedes-Benz.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “The automobile in question is a Mercedes-Benz coupé. Nineteen twenty-five model. The license is EBI nine, one, one, three. The vehicle is registered in the name of Jacques Louis Bertholde. Once again, the Marquis de Bertholde.” James Derek stood by Canfield in front of Elizabeth and Janet who sat on the sofa. He read from his notebook and wondered if these curious Americans realized who the marquis was. Bertholde, too, often stayed at the Savoy and was probably as rich as Elizabeth Scarlatti.

  “The same man who met Boothroyd’s wife at the pier?” asked Canfield.

  “Yes. Or I should say, no. We assume it was Bertholde at the pier from your description. It couldn’t have been yesterday. We’ve established that he was in London. However, the automobile is registered to him.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Derek?” Elizabeth smoothed her dress and avoided looking at the Englishman. There was something about the man that disturbed her.

  “I don’t know what to think.… However, I feel I should tell you that the Marquis de Bertholde is a resident alien of considerable influence and position.…”

  “He is the owner of Bertholde et Fils, as I recall.” Elizabeth rose from the sofa and gave her empty sherry glass to Canfield. It was not that she wished more wine. She was just too wrought up to sit still. “Bertholde et Fils is an old established firm.”

  The field accountant went to the drinks table and poured Elizabeth’s sherry.


  “Then you’ve met the marquis, Madame Scarlatti? Perhaps you know him?”

  Elizabeth didn’t like Derek’s insinuation. “No, I do not know the marquis. I may have met his father. I’m not sure. The Bertholdes go back many years.”

  Canfield handed Elizabeth her glass aware that the old woman and the British operative were playing a mental tennis game. He broke in. “What’s his business?”

  “Plural. Businesses. Near East oil, mining and drilling in Africa, imports—Australia and South America.…”

  “Why is he a resident alien?”

  “I can answer that,” said Elizabeth, returning to the couch. “The physical plants—his offices—are, no doubt, within Empire territories or protectorates.”

  “Quite correct, madame,” said Derek. “Since the majority of his interests lie within the borders of British possessions, he deals continuously with Whitehall. He does so, most favorably.”

  “Is there a government dossier on Bertholde?”

  “As a resident alien, of course there is.”

  “Can you get it for me?”

  “I’d have to have a very sound reason. You know that.”

  “Mr. Derek!” interrupted Elizabeth. “An attempt was made on my life aboard the Calpurnia! Yesterday in Wales an automobile tried to run us off the road! In both instances the Marquis de Bertholde can be implicated. I would call these sound reasons!”

  “I’m afraid I must disagree. What you describe are police matters. Anything I know to the contrary is privileged information and I respect it as such. Certainly no charges are being made in either case. It’s a gray area, I grant you, but Canfield knows what I’m talking about.”

  The field accountant looked at Elizabeth and she knew the time had come to use his ploy. He had explained that eventually they would have to. He had called it—“part of the truth.” The reason was simple. British Intelligence was not going to be used as someone’s personal police force. There had to be other justifications. Justifications that Washington would confirm. Canfield looked at the Englishman and spoke softly.

  “The United States government wouldn’t involve any agency unless there were reasons beyond police matters. When Madame Scarlatti’s son—Mrs. Scarlett’s husband—was in Europe last year, large sums of money, in the form of negotiable securities on a number of American corporations, were forwarded to him. We think they were sold undercover on the European markets. The British exchange included.”

  “Are you telling me that someone is forming an American monopoly over here?”

  “The State Department thinks that the manipulation was handled by our own embassy personnel. They’re right here in London now.”

  “Your own embassy personnel! And you think Scarlett was a party to it?”

  “We think he was used.” Elizabeth’s voice pierced the air. “Used and then eliminated.”

  “He traveled in that crowd, Derek. So does the Marquis de Bertholde.”

  James Derek replaced his small notebook in his breast pocket. The explanation obviously was sufficient. The British operative was also very curious. “I’ll have a copy of the dossier for you tomorrow, Canfield.… Good evening, ladies.” He went out.

  “I congratulate you, young man. Embassy personnel. Really very intelligent of you.”

  “I think he was remarkable!” said Janet Scarlett, smiling at him.

  “It’ll work,” mumbled the field accountant, swallowing the major portion of a Scotch. “Now, may I suggest we all need some relief. Speaking for myself, I’m tired of thinking—and I wouldn’t appreciate a comment on that, Madame Scarlatti. How about dinner at one of those places you upper class always go? I hate dancing but I swear I’ll dance with you both until you drop.”

  Elizabeth and Janet laughed.

  “No, but I thank you,” said Elizabeth. “You two go and romp.” She looked at the field accountant fondly. “An old woman thanks you again, Mr. Canfield.”

  “You’ll lock the doors and windows?”

  “Seven stories off the ground? Of course, if you like.”

  “I do,” said Canfield.

  CHAPTER 27

  “It’s heaven!” shrieked Janet over the din of voices at Claridge’s. “Come on, Matthew, don’t look so sour!”

  “I’m not sour. I just can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, you are. You didn’t like it. Let me enjoy it.”

  “I will. I will! Do you want to dance?”

  “No. You hate dancing. I just want to watch.”

  “No charge. Watch. It’s good whiskey.”

  “Good what?”

  “I said whiskey.”

  “No, thanks. See? I can be good. You’re two up on me, you know.”

  “I may be sixty up on you if this keeps going.”

  “What, darling?”

  “I said I may be sixty when we get out of here.”

  “Oh, stop it. Have fun!”

  Canfield looked at the girl opposite him and felt once again a surge of joy. There was no other word but joy. She was a delight that filled him with pleasure, with warmth. Her eyes held the immediacy of commitment that only a lover can know. Yet Canfield tried so hard to disassociate, to isolate, to objectify, and found that he could not do it.

  “I love you very much,” he said.

  She heard him through the music, the laughter, the undercurrent hum of movement.

  “I know.” She looked at him and her eyes had the hint of tears. “We love each other. Isn’t that remarkable?”

  “Do you want to dance, now?”

  The girl threw back her head ever so slightly. “Oh, Matthew! My dear, sweet Matthew. No, darling. You don’t have to dance.”

  “Now, look, I will.”

  She clasped his hand. “We’ll dance by ourselves, all by ourselves later.”

  Matthew Canfield made up his mind that he would have this woman for the rest of his life.

  But he was a professional and his thoughts turned for a moment to the old woman at the Savoy.

  Elizabeth Wyckham Scarlatti at that moment got out of her bed and into a dressing gown. She had been reading the Manchester Guardian. Turning its thin pages, she heard two sharp metallic clicks accompanied by a muffled sound of movement from the living room. She was not at first startled by the noise; she had bolted the hallway door and presumed that her daughter-in-law was fumbling with a key unable to enter because of the latch. After all, it was two o’clock in the morning and the girl should have returned by now. She called out.

  “Just one minute, my dear. I’m up.”

  She had left a table lamp on and the fringe of the shade rippled as she passed it causing a flickering of minute shadows on the wall.

  She reached the door and began to unbolt the latch. Remembering the field accountant, she halted momentarily.

  “That is you, isn’t it, my dear?”

  There was no reply.

  She automatically snapped back the bolt.

  “Janet? Mr. Canfield? Is that you?”

  Silence.

  Fear gripped Elizabeth. She had heard the sound; age had not impaired her hearing.

  Perhaps she had confused the clicking with the unfamiliar rustling of the thin English newspaper. That was not unreasonable and although she tried to believe it, she could not.

  Was there someone else in the room?

  At the thought she felt pain in the pit of her stomach.

  As she turned to go back into the bedroom, she saw that one of the large french windows was partially opened, no more than one or two inches but enough to cause the silk draperies to sway slightly from the incoming breeze.

  In her confusion she tried to recall whether she had closed it before. She thought she had, but it had been an uninterested motion because she hadn’t taken Canfield seriously. Why should she? They were seven stories high.

  Of course, she hadn’t closed it. Or, if she had, she hadn’t secured the catch and it had slipped off. Nothing at all unusual. She crossed to the window and p
ushed it closed.

  And then she heard it.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Out of the shadows from the far end of the room walked a large man dressed in black. His head was shaved and he was deeply tanned.

  For several seconds she did not recognize him. The light from the one table lamp was dim and the figure remained at the end of the room. As she became adjusted to the light and the object of her gaze, she realized why the man appeared to be a stranger. The face had changed. The shining black hair was shaved off; the nose was altered, smaller and the nostrils wider apart; the ears were different, flatter against the head; even the eyes—where before there had been a Neapolitan droop to the lids—these eyes were wide, as if no lids existed. There were reddish splotches around the mouth and forehead. It was not a face. It was the mask of a face. It was striking. It was monstrous. And it was her son.

  “Ulster! My God!”

  “If you die right now of heart failure, you’ll make fools out of several highly paid assassins.”

  The old woman tried to think, tried with all her strength to resist panic. She gripped the back of a chair until the veins in her aged hands seemed to burst from the skin.

  “If you’ve come to kill me, there’s little I can do now.”

  “You’ll be interested to know that the man who ordered you killed will soon be dead himself. He was stupid.”

  Her son wandered toward the french window and checked the latch. He cautiously peered through the glass and was satisfied. His mother noticed that the grace with which he had always carried himself remained but there was no softness now, no gentle relaxation, which had taken the form of a slight aristocratic slouch. Now there was a taut, hard quality in his movement, accentuated by his hands—which were encased in skintight black gloves, fingers extended and rigidly curved.

  Elizabeth slowly found the words. “Why have you come here?”

  “Because of your obstinate curiosity.” He walked rapidly to the hotel phone on the table with the lighted lamp, touching the cradle as if making sure it was secure. He returned to within a few feet of his mother and the sight of his face, now seen clearly, caused her to shut her eyes. When she reopened them, he was rubbing his right eyebrow, which was partially inflamed. He watched her pained look.