The Scarlatti Inheritance (14 page)

Elizabeth carefully weighed the alternatives. Calling the police would necessitate an investigation and probably a great deal of publicity. In light of Ulster’s activities a year ago, that was undesirable. If Ulster’s absence was his own doing, such action would only serve to provoke him. Without provocation her son was unpredictable; with it he might well be impossible. She decided to hire a discreet firm of investigators, which often had been called on to examine insurance claims against the family businesses. The owners understood completely and put only their most efficient and trusted men on the job.

Elizabeth gave them two weeks to unearth Ulster Stewart. Actually, she expected he’d show up by then, but if he didn’t, she would turn the matter over to the police.

At the end of the first week, the investigators had compiled a multi-page report about Ulster’s habits. The places he most frequently visited; his friends (many); his
enemies (few); and, in as much detail as possible, a reconstruction of his movements during the last few days before he vanished. They gave this information to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth and Chancellor Drew studied the reports closely. They revealed nothing.

The second week proved equally unenlightening except to fill in Ulster’s activities more minutely by the days and hours. Since his return from Europe, his daily rounds had become ritualistic. The squash courts and the steam rooms of the athletic club; the bank on lower Broadway, Waterman Trust; his cocktails on Fifty-third Street between 4:30 and 6:00
P.M.
with five speakeasies sharing the five weekdays of his attendance; the nightly forties into the entertainment world where a handful of entrepreneurs commandeered his indulgence (and financing); the almost routine early morning windups at a supper club on Fiftieth Street prior to his arrival home, never later than 2:00
A.M.

One bit of data did catch Elizabeth’s attention as, indeed, it had the one who had reported it. It was incongruous. It appeared on Wednesday’s sheet.

Elizabeth had never thought of Ulster in a subway. And yet, two hours later, according to a “Mr. Mascolo, head waiter at the Venezia Restaurant,” he was having an early lunch with a “Miss Dempsey (See Acquaintances: Theatrical artists).” The restaurant was two blocks from Ulster’s house. Of course there could be a dozen explanations and certainly nothing in the report indicated anything strange other than Ulster’s decision to go to a subway. For the time being, Elizabeth attributed it to Ulster’s meeting someone, probably Miss Dempsey.

At the end of the week, Elizabeth capitulated and instructed Chancellor Drew to contact the police.

The newspapers had a red-letter day.

The Bureau of Investigation joined with the Manhattan police on the premise that possibly interstate laws had
been violated. Dozens of publicity seekers as well as many sincere individuals volunteered that they had seen Ulster during that last week before his disappearance. Some macabre souls telephoned, claiming knowledge of his whereabouts, demanding money for the information. Five letters arrived asking ransom for his return. All leads were checked out. All proved worthless.

Benjamin Reynolds saw the story on page two of the
Washington Herald.
Other than the wedding, it was the first news he’d read about Ulster Scarlett since his meeting with Elizabeth Scarlatti over a year ago. However, in keeping with his word, he had made discreet inquiries about the celebrated war hero during the past months—only to learn that he had rejoined his proper world. Elizabeth Scarlatti had done her job well. Her son had dropped out of the importing business and the rumors of his involvement with criminal elements had died away. He had gone so far as to assume some minor position—with New York’s Waterman Trust.

It had seemed the affair Scarlatti was over for Ben Reynolds.

And now this.

Would this mean it was no longer dormant, no longer a closed wound? Would it signify a reopening of the harsh speculation he, Ben Reynolds, had dwelled upon? Would Group Twenty be called in?

A Scarlatti son did not simply disappear without the government at least alerted. Too many congressmen were indebted to Scarlatti for one thing or another—a factory here, a newspaper there, a good-sized campaign check most of the time. Sooner or later someone would remember that Group Twenty had looked into the man’s activities once before.

They’d be back. Discreetly.

If Elizabeth Scarlatti said it was all right.

Reynolds put the newspaper down, got out of his chair, and walked to his office door.

“Glover,” he asked his subordinate, “could you come in my office a minute?”

The older man walked back to his chair and sat down. “Did you read the story about Scarlatti?”

“This morning on the way to work,” answered Glover, coming through the door.

“What do you make of it?”

“I knew you’d ask me. I think some of his last year’s friends caught up with him.”

“Why?”

Glover sat down in the chair in front of Reynolds’s desk. “Because I can’t think of anything else and it’s logical.… And don’t ask me why again because you know as well as I do.”

“I do? I’m not sure of that.”

“Oh, come on, Ben. The moneyman isn’t having any more. Someone’s stuck for a shipment and goes to him. He refuses. Sicilian sparks fly and that’s that.… It’s either something like that or a blackmail job. He decided to fight—and lost.”

“I can’t buy violence.”

“Tell that to the Chicago police.”

“Scarlett didn’t deal with the lower echelons. That’s why I can’t buy a violence theory. There was too much to lose. Scarlett was too powerful; he had too many friends.… He might be used, not killed.”

“Then what do you think?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you. You jammed up this afternoon?”

“God damn it, yes. Still the same two things. No breaks coming our way.”

“Arizona dam?”

“That’s one. That son-of-a-bitch congressman keeps pushing through the appropriations and we know damned well he’s getting paid, but we can’t prove it. Can’t even get anyone to admit they know anybody.… Incidentally, speaking of the Scarlett business, Canfield’s on this one.”

“Yes, I know. How’s he doing?”

“Oh, we can’t blame him. He’s doing the best he can.”

“What’s the other problem?”

“The Pond memorandum from Stockholm.”

“He’s got to come through with something more than rumors, Glover. He’s wasting our time until he gives us something concrete. I’ve told you that.”

“I know, I know. But Pond sent word by courier—it arrived from State this morning—the transaction’s been made. That’s the word.”

“Can’t Pond get any names? Thirty million dollars’ worth of securities and he can’t get a single name?”

“A very tight syndicate, obviously. He hasn’t come up with any.”

“One hell of an ambassador. Coolidge appoints lousy ambassadors.”

“He does think the whole shebang was manipulated by Donnenfeld.”

“Well, that’s a name! Who in hell is Donnenfeld?”

“Not a person. A firm. About the largest on the Stockholm exchange.”

“How did he come to that conclusion?”

“Two reasons. The first is that only a large firm could handle it. Two—the whole thing can be buried easier that way. And it will have to be buried. American securities sold on the Stockholm exchange is touchy business.”

“Touchy, hell! It can’t be done!”

“All right. Rallied in Stockholm. Same thing as far as the money’s concerned.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Drudgery. Keep checking all the corporations with extensive ties in Sweden. You want to know something? There’re a couple of dozen in Milwaukee alone. How do you like that? Make a bundle over here and do business with your cousins back home.”

“If you want my opinion, Walter Pond’s stirring up a quiet fuss so he gets some attention. Cal Coolidge doesn’t make a friend an ambassador to the land of the midnight sun—or whatever the hell it’s called—unless the fellow’s not so good a friend as he thinks he is.”

After two months, with nothing further to write about or to broadcast, the novelty of Ulster Scarlett’s disappearance wore off. For in truth, the only additional information uncovered by the combined efforts of the police, the Bureau of Missing Persons, and the federal investigators was of a character nature and led nowhere. It was as if he had literally decomposed, became vapor. Existing one minute, a colorful memory the next.

Ulster’s life, possessions, prejudices, and anxieties were placed under the scrutiny of professionals. And the result of these labors etched an extraordinary portrait of pointlessness. A man who had just about everything a human being could ask for on this earth had apparently lived in a vacuum. A purposeless, aimless vacuum.

Elizabeth Scarlatti puzzled over the voluminous reports supplied her by the authorities. It had become a habit for her, a ritual, a hope. If her son had been killed, it would, of course, be painful; but she could accept the loss of life. And there were a thousand ways … fire, water, earth … to rid the world of a body. But she could not accept this conclusion. It was possible, of course. He had known the underworld, but on such a peripheral basis.

One morning Elizabeth stood by her library window watching the outside world come to grips with another day. The pedestrians always walked so rapidly in the morning. The automobiles were subject to far more backfiring after a night of idleness. Then Elizabeth saw
one of her maids out on the front steps. The maid was sweeping the front steps.

As she watched the woman swing the broom back and forth, Elizabeth was reminded of another maid. On another set of steps.

A maid at Ulster’s house. A maid who swept Ulster’s steps one morning and remembered her son giving instructions to a taxi driver.

What were those instructions?

A subway. Ulster had to get to a subway.

Her son had to take a subway one morning and Elizabeth hadn’t understood.

It was only a dim, flickering candle in a very dark forest but it was a light. Elizabeth crossed rapidly to the telephone.

Thirty minutes later, Third Vice-President Jefferson Cartwright stood before Elizabeth Scarlatti. He was still partially out of breath from the nervous pressures of rearranging his schedule in order to attend this command performance.

“Yes, indeed,” drawled the Virginian. “All the accounts were thoroughly examined the minute Mr. Scarlett’s disappearance was known to us. Wonderful boy. We became very close durin’ his sessions at the bank.”

“What is the state of his accounts?”

“Perfectly normal.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

Cartwright hesitated for a few seconds—the thoughtful banker. “Of course, the final figures aren’t complete but we have no reason at this point to believe he exceeded the annual income of his trust.”

“What is that income, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Well, of course, the market fluctuates—happily upward—so it’d be difficult to give you a precise figure.”

“Just an approximate one.”

“Let me see now …” Jefferson Cartwright did not like the direction the conversation was taking. He was suddenly very thankful that he had had the foresight to send those vague memorandums to Chancellor Drew about his brother’s expenditures in Europe. His Southern drawl became thicker. “I could call several executives more familiar with Mr. Scarlett’s portfolio—but it was considerable, Madame Scarlatti.”

“Then I expect you to have at least a rough figure at your command.” Elizabeth did not like Jefferson Cartwright and the tone of her voice was ominous.

“Mr. Scarlett’s income from the trust fund designated for personal expenditures as differentiated from the second trust fund designated for investments was in excess of seven hundred and eighty-three thousand dollars.” Cartwright spoke rapidly, quietly.

“I’m very pleased that his personal needs rarely exceeded that trifling amount.” Elizabeth shifted her position in the straight-backed chair so she could give Mr. Cartwright the full benefit of her stare. Jefferson Cartwright rattled on at an accelerated tempo. Phrases spilled over into others, his accent more pronounced than ever.

“Well, surely, you were aware of Mr. Scarlett’s extravagances. I believe the newspapers reported many. As I say, I personally did my best to caution him, but he was a very headstrong young man. If you recall, just three years ago, Mr. Scarlett purchased a dirigible for nearly a half million dollars. We did our best to dissuade him, of course, but it was simply impossible. He said he had to have a dirigible! If you’ll study your son’s accounts, madame, you’ll find many such rash purchases.” Cartwright was decidedly on the defensive although he knew perfectly well Elizabeth could hardly hold him responsible.

“Just how many such … puchases were there?”

At an even faster rate of speed the banker replied, “Well, certainly none as extravagant as the dirigible! We were able to prevent similar incidents by explaining to Mr. Scarlett that it was improper to transfer monies from his second trust for such purposes. That he had to … limit his expenses to the income produced by the first trust. In our sessions at the bank we emphasized this aspect time and again. However, last year alone, while he was in Europe with the beautiful Mrs. Scarlett, we were in constant touch with the Continental banks over his personal accounts. To put it mildly, your son was most helpful to the European economy.… It also was necessary to make … numerous direct payments on his signature.… Certainly Mr. Chancellor Scarlett spoke of the many, many notes I sent him regarding the large sums of money we forwarded your son in Europe.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “No, he told me nothing.”

“Well, Madame Scarlatti, it was your son’s honeymoon. There was no reason …”

“Mr. Cartwright,” the old woman interrupted sharply, “do you have an accurate accounting of my son’s bank drafts, here and abroad, for the past year?”