“The scars aren’t quite healed. Occasionally they itch. Are you maternally solicitous?”
“What have you done to yourself?”
“A new life. A new world for me. A world which has nothing to do with yours. Not yet!”
“I asked you what you’ve done.”
“You know what I’ve done, otherwise you wouldn’t be here in London. What you must understand, now, is that Ulster Scarlett no longer exists.”
“If that’s what you want the world to believe, why come to me of all people?”
“Because you rightly assumed it wasn’t true and your meddling could prove irksome to me.”
The old woman steeled herself before speaking. “It’s quite possible then that the instructions for my death were not stupid.”
“That’s very brave. I wonder, though, if you’ve thought about the others?”
“What others?”
Scarlett sat on the couch and spoke in a biting Italian dialect. “La Famiglia Scarlatti! That’s the proper phrase, isn’t it?… Eleven members to be exact. Two parents, a grandmother, a drunken bitch wife, and seven children. The end of the tribe! The Scarlatti line abruptly stops in one bloody massacre!”
“You’re mad! I’d stop you! Don’t pit your piddling theft against what I have, my boy!”
“You’re a foolish old woman! We’re beyond sums. It’s only how they’re applied now. You taught me that!”
“I’d put them out or your reach! I’d have you hunted down and destroyed!”
The man effortlessly sprang up from the couch.
“We’re wasting time. You’re concerning yourself with mechanics. That’s pedestrian. Let’s be clear. I make one phone call and the order is sent to New York. Within forty-eight hours the Scarlattis are snuffed out! Extinguished! It will be an expensive funeral. The foundation will provide nothing but the best.”
“Your own child as well?”
“He’d be the first. All dead. No apparent reason. The mystery of the lunatic Scarlattis.”
“You are mad.” She was hardly audible.
“Speak up, Mother! Or are you thinking about those curly headed moppets romping on the beach at Newport, laughing in their little boats on the sound. Tragic, isn’t it? Just one of them! Just one out of the whole lot might make it for you, and the Scarlatti tribe continues in glory! Shall I make my call? It’s a matter of indifference to me.”
The old woman, who had not moved, walked slowly toward one of the armchairs. “Is what you want from me so valuable that the lives of my family depend upon it?”
“Not to you. Only to me. It could be worse, you know. I could demand an additional one hundred million.”
“Why don’t you? Under the circumstances you know I’d pay it.”
The man laughed. “Certainly you’d pay it. You’d pay it from a source that’d cause a panic in the ticker rooms. No, thank you. I don’t need it. Remember, we’re beyond sums.”
“What is it you want?” She sat in the chair, crossing her thin arms on her lap.
“The bank letters for one. They’re no good to you anyway, so there should be no struggle with your conscience.”
She had been right! The concept had been right! Always trace the practical. The money.
“Bank letters?”
“The bank letters Cartwright gave you.”
“You killed him! You knew about our agreement?”
“Come, Mother. A Southern ass is made vice-president of Waterman Trust! Actually given responsibility. We followed him for three days. We have your agreement. At least his copies. Let’s not fool each other. The letters, please.”
The old lady rose from the chair and went into her bedroom. She returned and handed him the letters. He rapidly opened the envelopes and took them out. He spread them on the couch and counted them.
“Cartwright earned his money.”
He gathered them up and casually sat down on the sofa.
“I had no idea those letters were so important.”
“They’re not, really. Nothing could be accomplished with them. All the accounts have been closed and the money … dispersed to others, shall we say.”
“Then why were you so anxious to get them?” She remained standing.
“If they were submitted to the banks, they could start a lot of speculation. We don’t want a great deal of talk right now.”
The old woman searched her son’s confident eyes. He was detached, pleased with himself, almost relaxed.
“Who is ‘we’? What are you involved in?”
Again that grotesque smile from the crooked mouth underneath the unnatural nostrils. “You’ll know in good time. Not by name, of course, but you’ll know. You might even be proud but you’ll never admit it.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Down to business.”
“What else?”
“What happened on the Calpurnia? Don’t lie!” He riveted his eyes on the old woman’s and they did not waver.
Elizabeth strained the muscles in her abdomen to help her conceal any reaction to the question. She knew that the truth might be all she had left. “I don’t understand you.”
“You’re lying!”
“About what? I received a cablegram from a man named Boutier concerning Cartwright’s death.”
“Stop it!” He leaned forward. “You wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of throwing everyone off with that York Abbey story unless something happened. I want to know where he is.”
“Where who is? Cartwright?”
“I warn you!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“A man disappeared on that ship! They say he fell overboard.”
“Oh, yes. I recall.… What has that to do with me?” Her look personified innocence.
Neither moved.
“You know nothing about the incident?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What did you say, then?”
“There were rumors. Reliable sources.”
“What rumors?”
The old woman weighed several replies. She knew that her answer had to have the ring of authenticity without any obvious errors in character or behavior. On the other hand, whatever she said had to reflect the sketchy extremes of gossip.
“That the man was drunk and belligerent. There’d been a struggle in the lounge.… He had to be subdued and carried to his stateroom. He tried to return and fell over the rail. Did you know him?”
A cloud of detachment covered Scarlett’s answer. “No, he was no part of us.” He was dissatisfied but he did not dwell on it. For the first time in several minutes he looked away from her. He was deep in thought. Finally he spoke. “One last item. You started out to find your missing son …”
“I started out to find a thief!” she interrupted sharply.
“Have it your way. From another point of view I simply moved up the calendar.”
“That’s not true! You stole from Scarlatti. What was assigned to you was to be used in conjunction with the Scarlatti Industries!”
“We’re wasting time again.”
“I wanted the point cleared up.”
“The point is that you set out to find me and you succeeded. We agree on that fact?”
“Agreed.”
“Now I’m telling you to say nothing, do nothing, and return to New York. Furthermore, destroy any letters or instructions you may have left concerning me.”
“Those are impossible demands!”
“In that event my orders go out. The Scarlattis are dead! Go to your church and let them tell you how they’ve been washed in the blood of the lamb!”
Ulster Scarlett sprang up from the Victorian couch and before the old woman could adjust her eyes to his movement, he had reached the telephone. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation on his part. He picked up the telephone without looking at her and waited for the switchboard to answer.
The old woman rose unsteadily. “Don’t!”
He turned to face her. “Why not?”
“I’ll do as you ask!”
He replaced the phone. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He had won.
Ulster Scarlett smiled with his misshapen lips. “Then our business is concluded.”
“Not quite.” Elizabeth now would try, realizing that the attempt might cost her her life.
“Oh?”
“I’d like to speculate, for just a minute.”
“On what?”
“For the sake of argument, supposing I decided to abandon our understanding?”
“You know the consequences. You couldn’t hide from us, not for any length of time.”
“Time, however, could be the factor on my side.”
“The securities have been disposed of. No sense in thinking about that.”
“I assumed they had been, or else you wouldn’t have come here.”
“This is a good game. Go on.”
“I’m sure that if you hadn’t thought of it yourself, someone would have told you that the only intelligent way of selling those securities would be on a currency basis in exchange for diminished value.”
“No one had to tell me.”
“Now it’s my turn to ask a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“How difficult do you think it is to trace deposits, gold or otherwise, of that magnitude? I’ll make it two questions. Where are the only banks in the world willing or even capable of such deposits?”
“We both know the answer. Coded, numbered, impossible.”
“And in which of the great banking concerns of Switzerland is there the incorruptible man?”
Her son paused and squinted his lidless eyes. “Now you’re the one who’s insane,” he answered quietly.
“Not at all. You think in small blocks, Ulster. You use large sums but you think in small blocks.… Word goes out in the marble halls of Bern and Zurich that the sum of one million American dollars can be had for the confidential exchange of information.…”
“What would you gain by it?”
“Knowledge!… Names! People!”
“You make me laugh!”
“Your laughter will be short-lived!… It’s obvious that you have associates; you need them. Your threats make that doubly clear, and I’m sure you pay them well.… The question is—once they’re known to me and I to them—will they be able to resist my price? Certainly you can never match it! In this we are not beyond sums!”
The grotesque face distorted itself further as a thick, drawlish laugh came forth from the misshapen mouth. “I’ve waited years to tell you that your slide-rule theories smell! Your stinking buy-me, sell-me manipulations are finished! You’ve had your way! It’s finished! Dead! Gone!… Who are you to manipulate? With your conniving bankers! Your stinking little Jews! You’re finished! I’ve watched you! Your kind is dead!… Don’t talk to me about my associates. They wouldn’t touch you or your money!” The man in black was in a rage.
“You believe that?” Elizabeth did not move. She asked a simple question.
“Completely!” Ulster Scarlett’s unhealed flesh was red with the blood rushing to his head. “We have something else! And you can’t touch us! Any of us! There is no price for us!”
“However, you’ll grant—as with the bank letters—I could prove irksome. Only to a far greater degree. Do you wish to take that gamble?”
“You sign eleven death warrants! A mass burial! Is that what you want, Mother?”
“The answer to both our questions would seem to be no. This is now a more reasonable understanding.”
The man-mask in black paused and spoke softly, precisely. “You’re not my equal. Don’t for one minute think you are!”
“What happened, Ulster? What happened?… Why?”
“Nothing and everything! I’m doing what none of you are capable of doing! What has to be done! But you can’t do it!”
“Would I … or we … want to?”
“More than anything in the world? But you haven’t the stomachs! You’re weak!”
The telephone rang, piercing the air.
“Don’t bother to answer it,” Ulster said. “It’ll ring only once. It’s merely a signal that my wife—the devoted whore—and her newest bedmate have left Claridge’s.”
“Then I assume our meeting is adjourned.” She saw to her great relief that he accepted the statement. She noted also that in such a position he was dangerous. A tick was developing on the surface of his skin above his right eye. He again stretched his fingers in a slow deliberate motion.
“Remember what I say. You make one mistake …”
She interrupted before he could finish. “Remember who I am, young man! You’re speaking to the wife of Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti! There is no need to repeat yourself. You have your agreement. Go about your filthy business. I have no further interest in you!”
The man in black strode rapidly to the door. “I hate you, Mother.”
“I hope you benefit as much from those you hold less dear.”
“In ways you’d never understand!”
He opened the door and slipped out, slamming it harshly behind him.
Elizabeth Scarlatti stood by the window and pulled apart the drapes. She leaned against the cold glass for support. The city of London was asleep, and only a scattering of lights dotted its concrete facade.
What in God’s name had he done?
More important, who was paying attention to him?
What might have been mere horror turned into terror for he had the weapon. The weapon of power—which she and Giovanni innocently, productively provided.
They were, indeed, beyond sums.
Tears fell from her old eyes and that inner consciousness, which afflicts all human beings, was taken by surprise. She had not cried in over thirty years.
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the window and slowly wandered about the room. She had a great deal of thinking to do.
CHAPTER 28
In a room in the Home Office, James Derek took out a file. “Jacques Louis Bertholde, The Fourth Marquis of Chatellerault.”
The dossier custodian entered the room. “Hello, James. Late hours tonight, I see.”
“I’m afraid so, Charles. I’m taking out a copy. Did you get my request?”
“Right here. Fill me in and I’ll sign for it. But please make it short. I’ve a card game in my office.”
“Short and simple. The Americans suspect their embassy personnel of selling Yank securities undercover over here. This Bertholde travels in the diplomatic circles. There could be a connection with the Scarlatti fellow.”
The dossier custodian made his appropriate notes. “When did this all take place?”
“About a year ago, as I understand it.”
The custodian stopped writing and looked at James Derek. “A year ago?”
“Yes.”
“And this American chap wants to confront embassy personnel now? Over here?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s on the wrong side of the Atlantic. All American embassy personnel were transferred four months ago. There’s no one there now—not even a secretary—who was in London a year ago.”
“That’s very strange,” said Derek quietly.
“I’d say your American friend has a rather poor connection with his State Department.”
“Which means he’s lying.”
“Which means he is.”
Janet and Matthew, laughing, got off on the seventh floor and started down the corridor toward Elizabeth’s suite. The length of their walk was approximately one hundred feet and they stopped four times to embrace and exchange kisses.
The girl took a key out of her purse and handed it to the field accountant.
He inserted it and simultaneously turned the knob before making any lateral motion with the key. The door opened and in a split second the field accountant was more sober than drunk.
He practically fell into the room.
Elizabeth Scarlatti was sitting o
n the Victorian couch in the dim light emanating from the single lamp. She did not move other than to look up at Canfield and her daughter-in-law.
“I heard you in the hallway.”
“I told you to lock these doors!”
“I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“The hell you did! I waited until I heard the latch and the bolt!”
“I ordered some coffee from room service.”
“Where’s the tray?”
“In my bedroom, which I presume to be private.”
“Don’t you believe it!” The field accountant ran toward the bedroom door.
“I apologize again! I called to have it taken away. I’m quite confused. Forgive me.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
Elizabeth Scarlatti thought quickly and looked at her daughter-in-law as she spoke. “I had a most distressing telephone call. A business matter completely unrelated to you. It entails a great deal of money and I must make a decision before the British exchange opens.” She looked at the field accountant.
“May I ask what’s so important that you don’t follow my instructions?”
“Several million dollars. Perhaps you’d care to help me. Should the Scarlatti Industries conclude the purchase of the remaining convertible debentures in Sheffield Cutlery and by exercising the conversions gain control of the company or not?”
Still uncertain, the field accountant asked, “Why is that so … distressing?”
“Because the company constantly loses money.”
“Then you don’t buy. That shouldn’t keep you up all night.”
The old woman eyed him coldly. “Sheffield Cutlery is one of the oldest, finest firms in England. Their product is superb. The problem is neither management nor labor conditions but a heavy influx of Japanese imitations. The question is, Will the purchasing public learn in time to reverse the trend?”
Elizabeth Scarlatti rose from the couch and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. The field accountant turned to Janet Scarlett. “Does she do this sort of thing all the time? Doesn’t she have advisers?”
But Janet was still staring at the bedroom door. She took off her wrap and approached the field accountant. She spoke quietly. “She’s not telling the truth.”
The Scarlatti Inheritance Page 22
