The Scarlatti Inheritance Read online

  A number of such notes were received by Chancellor Drew, who smiled indulgently at his reformed younger brother’s devotion to his wife. And to think he was corresponding like a businessman. Progress had been made.

  What Jefferson Cartwright did not explain was that Waterman Trust also received endless bills and charges validated by Ulster’s signatures from countless hotels, railroads, stores, and lending institutions throughout Europe. What disturbed Cartwright was that the flexibility he had authorized during the dirigible incident would have to be employed again.

  It was inconceivable but there it was! Ulster Scarlett’s expenses were going to exceed the income from the trust fund. In the space of several months—when one added the charges to the transferals—Ulster Stewart Scarlett was reaching the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar mark.

  Inconceivable!

  Yet there it was.

  And Waterman was subject to losing one-third of the Scarlatti interest if he divulged the information.

  In August Ulster Stewart Scarlett sent word back to his mother and brother that Janet was pregnant. They would remain in Europe for a minimum of three more months as the doctors deemed it best that she do as little traveling as possible until the baby was well along.

  Janet would remain in London, while Ulster traveled with friends to do some hunting in southern Germany.

  He’d be gone for a month. Possibly a month and a half.

  He’d cable when they decided to come home.

  In mid-December the cable arrived. Ulster and Janet would be home for the holidays. Janet was to remain fairly inactive as the pregnancy was a difficult one, but Ulster hoped Chancellor had checked on the decorators and that his brownstone on Fifty-fourth Street would be comfortable for her.

  He instructed Chancellor Drew to have someone meet a prior ship to escort a new housekeeper Ulster had found on the Continent. She had been highly recommended and Ulster wanted her to feel at home. Her name was Hannah.

  Language would be no problem.

  She spoke both English and German.

  During the remaining three months of Janet’s pregnancy Ulster resumed his sessions at Waterman Trust and his mere presence had a calming effect on Jefferson Cartwright. Although he never spent more than two hours at the bank, he seemed somewhat more subdued, less given to fits of irritation than he had been before his honeymoon.

  He even began taking work home in the hand-tooled leather briefcase.

  In reply to Cartwright’s confidential and offhand questions about the large sums of money forwarded by the bank to Ulster in Europe, the Scarlatti heir reminded Waterman’s third vice-president that it was he who had made it clear that nothing prohibited him from using the income from his trust fund for investments. He reiterated his request that all his European transactions remain confidential between the two of them.

  “Of course. I understand completely. But you must realize that in the event we transfer funds from the second trust to cover your expenses—as surely we’ll have to this year—I must record it for the Scarlatti records.… We’ve paid enormous sums all over Europe on your signature.”

  “But you won’t have to do that for a long time, will you?”

  “At the end of the fiscal year, which for the Scarlatti Industries is June thirtieth. The same as the government’s.”

  “Well”—the handsome man sighed as he looked at the agitated Southerner—“on June thirtieth I’ll just have to stand up and face the music. It won’t be the first time my family’s been upset. I hope it’s the last.”

  As the time approached for Janet’s delivery, a constant procession of merchants passed through the doors of the Ulster Scarlett brownstone. A team of three doctors gave Janet constant attention and her own family saw her twice a day. What mattered was that the activity kept her occupied. It kept her mind off a frightening fact. A fact so personal she didn’t know how to discuss it; there was no one to whom she felt close enough.

  Her husband no longer spoke to her.

  He had left her bed in her third month of pregnancy. In the south of France, to be exact. He had refused to have intercourse on the assumption that her miscarriage had been brought on by sex. She had wanted sex. She had wanted it desperately. She had wanted his body on hers because it was the only time she felt close to him. The only time her husband appeared to her to be without guile, without deceit, without the cold manipulation in his eyes. But even this was denied her.

  Then he left their communal room, insisting upon separate rooms wherever they went.

  And now he neither answered her questions nor asked any of his own.

  He ignored her.

  He was silent.

  He was, if she wanted to be honest with herself, contemptuous of her.

  He hated her.

  Janet Saxon Scarlett. A reasonably intelligent product of Vassar. A graduate of the Pierre cotillions and a sane habitué of the hunt clubs. And always, always wondering why it was she and not someone else who enjoyed the privileges she had.

  Not that she ever disclaimed them. She didn’t. And perhaps she was entitled to them. God knew she was a “looker.” Everyone had said it for as long as she could remember. But she was what her mother always complained about—an observer.

  “You never really enter into things, Janet! You must try to get over that!”

  But it was hard to “get over.” She looked upon her life as two sides of a stereopticon—both different, yet merging into one focus. On one plate was the well-appointed young lady with impeccable credentials, enormous wealth, and an obviously assured future with some well-appointed, enormously wealthy, impeccably credentialed husband. On the other was a girl with a frown on her forehead and a questioning look in her eyes.

  For this girl thought the world was larger than the confined world presented to her. Larger and far more compelling. But no one had allowed her to see that larger world.

  Except her husband.

  And the part of it he let her see—forced her to see—was terrifying.

  Which is why she drank.

  While preparations for the birth continued, aided by a steady stream of Janet’s friends and family, a strange passivity came over Ulster Stewart Scarlett. It was discernible especially to those who observed him closely, but even to others it was apparent that he had slowed down his normally frantic pace. He was quieter, less volatile, sometimes reflective. And for a while his periods of going off by himself became more frequent. Never very long, just three or four days at a time. Many, like Chancellor Drew, attributed it to impending fatherhood.

  “I tell you, Mother, it’s simply wonderful. He’s a new man! And you know, I told him having children was the answer. Gives a man a purpose. You watch, when it’s all over he’ll be ready for a real man’s job!”

  “You have an acute ability to grasp the obvious, Chancellor. Your brother is quite convinced that he has a purpose in avoiding what you call a real man’s job. I suspect he’s bored to death by his imminent role as father. Or he’s drinking bad whiskey.”

  “You’re too hard on him.”

  “Quite the contrary,” interrupted Elizabeth Scarlatti. “I think he’s become far too hard on us.”

  Chancellor Drew looked bewildered. He changed the subject and began to read aloud a report of Scarwyck’s newest project.

  A week later a male child was born to Janet Scarlett at the French Hospital. Ten days later at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine he was christened Andrew Roland Scarlett.

  And a day after the christening, Ulster Stewart Scarlett disappeared.

  CHAPTER 11

  At first no one took much notice. Ulster had stayed away from home before. Although it was not the conventional behavior of a new father, Ulster hardly fit into any conventional pattern. It was presumed that the tribal rites attending the birth of a male child proved just too much for him and that he had taken refuge in activities best left undescribed. When after three weeks no word had been heard from him and no satisfactory explanations furn
ished by a variety of people, the family became concerned. On the twenty-fifth day after his disappearance, Janet asked Chancellor to call the police. Instead, Chancellor called Elizabeth, which was a far more positive action.

  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.

  Left house at approximately 10:30 and immediately hailed a taxi in front of residence. Maid was sweeping front steps and believed she heard Mr. Scarlett direct the driver to a subway.

  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.”

  CHAPTER 12

  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.