The Scarlatti Inheritance (18 page)

“You can’t very well qualify as a charity case,” said Elizabeth.

“No, I suppose not. But since I’m not looking for charity, that doesn’t matter, does it? I guess you’re trying to be kind, in your own way.”

“Then you’ll do as I suggest?” Elizabeth moved the folder to put it back in the drawer.

“No,” Janet Saxon Scarlett said firmly. “I’ll do exactly as I please. And I don’t think I’ll be a joke in athletic clubs.”

“Don’t be too sure of that!” Elizabeth slammed the folder back on the top of the desk.

“I’ll wait until a year is up,” said Janet, “and then do whatever I have to. My father will know what to do. I’ll do what he says.”

“Your father may have certain misgivings. He’s a businessman.”

“He’s also my father!”

“I can very well understand that, my dear. I understand it so well that I suggest you allow me to ask you several questions before you go.”

Elizabeth stood up and crossed to the library door. Closing it, she turned the brass lock.

Janet watched the old woman’s movement with as much curiosity as fear. It was not like her mother-in-law to be the least concerned about interruptions. Any unwanted intruder was promptly ordered out.

“There’s nothing more to say. I want to leave.”

“I agree. You have little to say,” broke in Elizabeth, who had returned to the desk. “You enjoyed Europe, my dear? Paris, Marseilles, Rome? I must say, though, New York’s apparently a dull place for you. I suppose under the circumstances there’s far more to offer across the ocean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. You seem to have enjoyed yourself somewhat unreasonably. My son found himself quite a likely
playmate for his escapades. However, if I do say so, he was frequently less obvious than you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Elizabeth opened the folder and flipped over several pages. “Let’s see, now. There was a colored trumpet player in Paris.…”

“A what! What are you talking about?”

“He brought you back to your hotel, excuse me, yours and Ulster’s hotel, at eight o’clock in the morning. Obviously, you’d been with him all night.”

Janet stared at her mother-in-law in disbelief. Although dazed, she answered her rapidly, quietly. “Yes. Paris, yes! And I was with him, but not like that. I was trying to keep up with Ulster. Half the night trying to find him.”

“That fact doesn’t appear here. You were seen coming into the hotel with a colored man supporting you.”

“I was exhausted.”

“Drunk is the word used here.…”

“Then it’s a He!”

The old woman turned the page. “And then one week in the south of France? Do you remember that weekend, Janet?”

“No,” the girl answered hesitantly. “What are you doing? What have you got there?”

Elizabeth rose, holding the folder away from the girl’s eyes. “Oh, come now. That weekend at Madame Auriole’s. What do they call her chateau—the Silhouette? Quite a dramatic name.”

“She was a friend of Ulster!”

“And, of course, you had no idea what Auriole’s Silhouette meant, and still means, I believe, throughout the south of France.”

“You’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with any of that?”

“Just what did people mean when they said they went to Auriole’s Silhouette?”

“You can’t mean it.”

“What happens at Auriole’s Silhouette?” Elizabeth’s voice rose viciously.

“I don’t … don’t know. I don’t know!”

“What happens?”

“I won’t answer you!”

“That’s very prudent, but I’m afraid it won’t do! It’s
common knowledge that the outstanding items on Madame Auriole’s menus are opium, hashish, marijuana, heroin … a haven for the users of every form of narcotics!”

“I did not know that!”

“You didn’t know anything about it? For an entire weekend? For three days during the height of her season?”

“No!… Yes, I found out and I left. I left as soon as I realized what they were doing!”

“Orgies for narcotics addicts. Marvelous opportunities for the sophisticated voyeur. Day and night. And Mrs. Scarlett knew nothing about it at all!”

“I swear I didn’t!”

Elizabeth’s voice changed to one of gentle firmness. “I’m sure you didn’t, my dear, but I don’t know who would believe you.” She paused briefly. “There’s a great deal more here.” She flipped the pages, sitting down once more behind the desk. “Berlin, Vienna, Rome. Particularly Cairo.”

Janet ran toward Elizabeth Scarlatti and leaned across the desk, her eyes wide with fright. “Ulster left me for almost two weeks! I didn’t know where he was. I was petrified!”

“You were seen going into the strangest places, my dear. You even committed one of the gravest international crimes. You bought another human being. You purchased a slave.”

“No! No, I didn’t! That’s not true!”

“Oh, yes, it is. You bought a thirteen-year-old Arab girl who was being sold into prostitution. As an American citizen there are specific laws …”

“It’s a lie!” broke in Janet. “They told me that if I paid the money, the Arab could tell me where Ulster was! That’s all I did!”

“No, it wasn’t. You gave him a present. A little thirteen-year-old girl was your present to him and you know it. I wonder if you’ve ever thought about her.”

“I just wanted to find Ulster! I was sick when I found out. I didn’t understand! I didn’t even know what they were talking about! All I wanted to do was find Ulster and get out of that awful place!”

“I wouldn’t pretend to dispute you. Nevertheless, others would.”

“Who?” The girl was shaking.

“The courts, for one. Newspapers, for another.” Elizabeth stared at the frightened girl. “My friends.… Even your own friends.”

“And you would allow … someone to use those lies against me?”

Elizabeth shrugged.

“And against your own grandchild?”

“I doubt that he would be your child, legally, that is, for very long. I’m sure he’d be declared a ward of the court until it was determined that Chancellor was the proper guardian for him.”

Janet slowly sat down on the edge of the chair. Lips parted, she began to cry.

“Please, Janet. I’m not asking you to enroll in a nunnery. I’m not even asking you to do without the normal satisfactions of a woman of your age and appetites. You’ve hardly restricted yourself during the past several months, and I don’t expect you to now. I’m only asking a fair amount of discretion, perhaps a bit more than you’ve been exercising, and a healthy degree of physical caution. In the absence of the latter, immediate remedy.”

Janet Saxon Scarlett turned her head away, her eyes tightly shut. “You’re horrible,” she whispered.

“I imagine I appear that way to you now. Someday I hope you may reconsider.”

Janet sprang from the chair.

“Let me out of this house!”

“For heaven’s sake try to understand. Chancellor and Allison will be here soon. I need you, my dear.”

The girl raced to the door, forgetting the lock. She could not open it. Her voice was low in her panic. “What more could you possibly want?”

And Elizabeth knew she had won.

Matthew Canfield leaned against the building on the southeast corner of Fifth Avenue at Sixty-third Street, about forty yards from the imposing entrance to the Scarlatti residence. He pulled his raincoat tightly around him to ward off the chill brought by the autumn rain and glanced at his watch: ten minutes to six. He had been at his post for over an hour. The girl had gone in at a quarter to five; and for all he knew, she would be there until midnight or, God forbid, until morning. He had arranged for a relief at two o’clock if nothing had happened by then. There was no particular reason for him to feel that something would happen by then, but his instincts told him otherwise. After five weeks of familiarizing himself with his subjects, he let his imagination fill in what observation precluded. The old lady was boarding ship the day after tomorrow, and not taking anyone with her. Her lament for her missing or dead son was international knowledge. Her grief was the subject of countless newspaper stories. However, the old woman hid her grief well and went about her business.

Scarlett’s wife was different. If she mourned her missing husband, it was not apparent. But what was obvious was her disbelief in Ulster Scarlett’s death. What was it she had said in the bar at the Oyster Bay Country Club? Although her voice was thick from whiskey, her pronouncement was clear.

“My dear mother-in-law thinks she’s so smart. I hope the boat sinks! She’ll find him.”

Tonight there was a confrontation between the two
women, and Matthew Canfield wished he could be a witness.

The drizzle was letting up. Canfield decided to walk across Fifth Avenue to the park side of the street. He took a newspaper out of his raincoat pocket, spread it on the slatted bench in front of the Central Park wall, and sat down. A man and a woman stopped before the old lady’s steps. It was fairly dark now, and he couldn’t see who they were. The woman was animatedly explaining something, while the man seemed not to listen, more intent on pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time. Canfield looked again at his own watch and noted that it was two minutes to six. He slowly got up and began to saunter back across the avenue. The man turned toward the curb to get the spill of the streetlight on his watch. The woman kept talking.

Canfield saw with no surprise that it was the older brother Chancellor Drew Scarlett and his wife Allison.

Canfield kept walking east on Sixty-third as Chancellor Scarlett took his wife’s elbow and marched her up the steps to the Scarlatti door. As he reached Madison Avenue, Canfield heard a sharp crash. He turned and saw that the front door of Elizabeth Scarlatti’s house had been pulled open with such force that the collision against an unseen wall echoed throughout the street.

Janet Scarlett came running down the brick stairs, tripped, got up, and hobbled toward Fifth Avenue. Canfield started back toward her. She was hurt and the timing might just be perfect.

The field accountant was within thirty yards of Ulster Scarlett’s wife when a roadster, a shiny black Pierce-Arrow, came racing down the block. The car veered close to the curb near the girt.

Canfield slowed down and watched. He could see the man in the roadster leaning forward toward the far window. The light from the overhead streetlamp shone directly on his face. He was a handsome man in his early fifties perhaps, with a perfectly groomed matted moustache. He appeared to be the sort of man Janet Scarlett might know. It struck Canfield that the man had been waiting—as he had been waiting—for Janet Scarlett.

Suddenly the man stopped the car, threw his door open, and quickly got out onto the street. He rapidly walked around the car toward the girl.

“Here, Mrs. Scarlett. Get in.”

Janet Scarlett bent down to hold her injured knee. She looked up, bewildered, at the approaching man with the matted moustache. Canfield stopped. He stood in the shadows by a doorway.

“What? You’re not a taxi.… No. I don’t know you.…”

“Get in! I’ll, drive you home. Quickly, now!” The man spoke peremptorily. A disturbed voice. He grabbed Janet Scarlett’s arm.

“No! No, I won’t!” She tried to pull her arm away.

Canfield came out of the shadows. “Hello, Mrs. Scarlett. I thought it was you. Can I be of help?”

The well-groomed man released the girl and stared at Canfield. He seemed confused as well as angry. Instead of speaking, however, he suddenly ran back into the street and climbed into the car.

“Hey, wait a minute, mister!” The field accountant rushed to the curb and put his hand on the door handle. “We’ll take you up on the ride.…”

The engine accelerated and the roadster sped off down the street throwing Canfield to the ground, his hand lacerated by the door handle wrenched from his grip.

He got up painfully and spoke to Janet Scarlett.

“Your friend’s pretty damned chintzy.”

Janet Scarlett looked at the field accountant with gratitude.

“I never saw him before.… At least, I don’t think so.… Maybe.… I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember your name. I am sorry and I do thank you.”

“No apologies necessary. We’ve only met once. Oyster Bay club a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh!” The girl seemed not to want to recall the evening.

“Chris Newland introduced us. The name’s Canfield.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Matthew Canfield. I’m the one from Chicago.”

“Yes, I remember now.”

“Come on. I’ll get us a taxi.”

“Your hand is bleeding.”

“So’s your knee.”

“Mine’s only a scratch.”

“So’s mine. Just scraped. Looks worse than it is.”

“Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“All I need is a handkerchief and some ice. Handkerchief for the hand, ice for a Scotch.” They reached Fifth Avenue and Canfield hailed a taxi. “That’s all the doctoring I need, Mrs. Scarlett.”

Janet Scarlett smiled hesitantly as they got into the cab. “That doctoring I can provide.”

The entrance hall of the Scarlett home on Fifty-fourth Street was about what Canfield had imagined it would be. The ceilings were high, the main doors thick, and the staircase facing the entrance rose an imposing two stories. There were antique mirrors on either side of the hallway, double french doors beside each mirror facing each other across the foyer. The doors on the right were open and Canfield could see the furniture of a formal dining room. The doors on the left were closed and he presumed they led into a living room. Expensive oriental throw rugs were placed on the parquet floors.… This was all as it should be. However, what shocked the field accountant was the color scheme of the hallway itself. The wallpaper was a rich—too rich—red damask, and the drapes covering the french doors were black—a heavy black velvet that was out of character with the ornate delicacy of the French furniture.

Janet Scarlett noticed his reaction to the colors and before Canfield could disguise it, said, “Rather hits you in the eye, doesn’t it?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said politely.

“My husband insisted on that hideous red and then replaced all my pink silks with those awful black drapes. He made a terrible scene about it when I objected.” She parted the double doors and moved into the darkness to turn on a table lamp.