The Scarlatti Inheritance Read online

  “To the office, Major Canfield?”

  “No, Sergeant. Oyster Bay.”

  CHAPTER 3

  An American Success Story

  On August 24, 1892, the social world of Chicago and Evanston, Illinois, was shaken to its foundations, which were not inordinately firm to begin with. For on this day Elizabeth Royce Wyckham, the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of industrialist Albert O. Wyckham, married an impoverished Sicilian immigrant by the name of Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti.

  Elizabeth Wyckham was a tall, aristocratic girl who had been an ever-present source of worry to her parents. According to Albert O. Wyckham and his wife, the aging Elizabeth had thrown over every golden matrimonial opportunity a girl could ask for in Chicago, Illinois. Her reply had been:

  “Fool’s gold, Papa!”

  So they had taken her on a grand tour of the Continent, expending great sums in great expectations. After four months of surveying the best matrimonial prospects from England, France, and Germany, her reply had been:

  “Idiot’s gold, Papa. I’d prefer a string of lovers!”

  Her father had slapped his daughter resoundingly.

  She proceeded, in turn, to kick him in the ankle.

  Elizabeth first saw her future husband at one of those picnic outings the officers of her father’s firm in Chicago held annually for deserving clerks and their families. He had been introduced to her as a serf might have been to the daughter of a feudal baron.

  He was a huge man with massive, yet somehow gentle hands and sharp Italian features. His English was almost unintelligible, but instead of accompanying his broken speech with awkward humility, he radiated confidence and made no apologies. Elizabeth liked him immediately. Although young Scarlatti was neither a clerk nor had he a family, he had impressed the Wyckham executives with his knowledge of machinery and had actually submitted a design for a machine that would cut the cost of producing paper rolls by possibly 16 percent. He had been invited to the picnic.

  Elizabeth’s curiosity had already been aroused by her father’s stories about him. The greaser had a knack for tinkering—absolutely incredible. He had spotted two machines in as many weeks wherein the addition of single levers eliminated the necessity of second men on the jobs. As there were eight of each machine, the Wyckham Company was able to lay off sixteen men who obviously were no longer pulling their weight. Further, Wyckham had had the foresight to hire a second-generation Italian from Chicago’s Little Italy to accompany Giovanni Scarlatti wherever he wandered in the plant and literally act as his interpreter. Old Wyckham objected to the eight dollars a week he paid the conversant Italian but justified the salary on the basis that Giovanni would make other improvements. He had better. Wyckham was paying him fourteen dollars a week.

  The first true inkling Elizabeth had about her future husband came several weeks after the picnic. Her father gloatingly announced at the dinner table that his big Italian simpleton had requested permission to come in Sundays! No additional pay, mind you; just that he had nothing better to do. Naturally, Wyckham had arranged it with his watchman, for it was his Christian duty to keep such a fellow occupied and away from all the wine and beer to which Italians were addicted.

  On the second Sunday Elizabeth found a pretext to go from her elegant home in suburban Evanston to Chicago and then to the plant. There she found Giovanni, not in the machine shop but in one of the billing offices. He was laboriously copying down figures from a file marked clearly—CONFIDENTIAL. The drawer of a steel file cabinet on the left wall of the office was open. A long string of thin wire was still hanging from the small lock. Obviously the lock had been expertly picked.

  At that moment, as she stood in the doorway watching him, Elizabeth smiled. This large, black-haired Italian simpleton was far more complicated than her father thought. And, not incidentally, he was most attractive.

  Startled, Giovanni looked up. Within a split second his attitude changed to one of defiance.

  “Okay, Miss ’Lisbet! You tell you papa! I don’t want to work here no more!”

  Elizabeth then spoke her first words of love to Giovanni.

  “Get me a chair, Mr. Scarlatti. I’ll help you.… It’ll be quicker that way.”

  And, indeed, it was.

  The next several weeks were spent educating Giovanni in the legal and corporate structure of the American industrial organization. Just the facts devoid of theory, for Giovanni supplied his own philosophy. This land of opportunity was for those just a little bit quicker than the other opportunists. The period was one of enormous economic growth, and Giovanni understood that unless his machines enabled him to own a part of that growth, his position would remain that of a servant to masters rather than a master of servants. And he was ambitious.

  Giovanni set to work with Elizabeth’s help. He designed what old Albert Wyckham and his executives thought was a revolutionary impact-extrusion press that could turn out corrugated carton sides at a phenomenal rate of speed and at a cost approximating a 30 percent saving over the old process. Wyckham was delighted and gave Giovanni a ten-dollar raise.

  While waiting for the new machinery to be tooled and put into assembly, Elizabeth convinced her father to ask Giovanni to dinner. At first, Albert Wyckham thought his daughter was playing a joke. A joke in poor taste for all concerned. Wyckham may have made fun of the Italian but he respected him. He did not wish to see his clever wop embarrassed at a dinner party. However, when Elizabeth told her father that embarrassment was the last thing she had in mind, that she had met Giovanni on several occasions since the company picnic—finding him quite amusing—her father consented to a small family dinner with suddenly new misgivings.

  Three days after the dinner Wyckham’s new machinery for corrugated carton sides was in operation and on that morning Giovanni Scarlatti did not show up for work. None of the executives understood. It should have been the most important morning of his life.

  It was.

  For instead of Giovanni, a letter arrived at Albert Wyckham’s office, typed by his own daughter. The letter outlined a second machine for corrugated carton sides that made Wyckham’s new assembly totally obsolete.

  Giovanni’s conditions were frankly put Either Wyckham assigned him a large block of company stock plus options for purchase of additional shares based upon current values, or he would take his second design for corrugated carton sides to Wyckham’s competitor. Whoever possessed the second design would bury the other. It didn’t matter to Giovanni Scarlatti, but he did feel it would be better kept in the family as he was formally requesting Albert’s daughter in marriage. Again, Wyckham’s answer did not really concern him, because Elizabeth and he would be united as man and wife within the month regardless of his position.

  From this juncture on, the rise of Scarlatti was as rapid as it was clouded. The public facts indicate that for several years he continued to design newer and better machinery for a number of paper-producing companies throughout the Midwest. He did so always with the same conditions—minor royalties and shares of stock, with options to buy additional shares at the prices of stock prior to the installation of his new designs. All designs were subject to renegotiation of royalties after five-year periods. A reasonable item to be dealt with in reasonable good faith. A very acceptable legal expression, especially in light of the low royalty rates.

  By this time, Elizabeth’s father, exhausted by the tensions of business events and his daughter’s marriage “to that wop,” was content to retire. Giovanni and his wife were awarded the old man’s entire voting stock in the Wyckham Company.

  This was all Giovanni Scarlatti needed. Mathematics is a pure science, and never was this more apparent. Already possessing representation in eleven paper firms in Illinois, Ohio, and western Pennsylvania, and owning pattents on thirty-seven different operating assemblies, Giovanni Scarlatti called a conference of the firms accountable to him. In what amounted to a slaughter of the uninformed, Giovanni suggested that a desirable course of action was the for
mation of one parent organization with himself and his wife as the principal stockholders.

  Everyone would, of course, be well taken care of, and the single company would expand beyond their wildest dreams under his inventive genius.

  If they didn’t agree, they could take his machines out of their factories. He was a poor immigrant who had been deviously misled in his initial negotiations. The royalties paid for his designs were ridiculous in light of the profits. Also in several cases individual stocks had risen astronomically and by the terms of his contracts those particular firms had to make his options available at the previous stock prices. When one came right down to it, Giovanni Scarlatti was a major stockholder in a number of established paper companies.

  Howls were heard in boardrooms throughout the three states. Impetuous challenges were flung at the arrogant Italian only to be muted by wiser legal counsel. Better a merging survival than isolated destruction. Scarlatti might be defeated in the courts, but it was quite possible that he might not be. In that latter event his demands could be excessive, and if rejected, the cost of retooling and loss of supply would plunge many of the firms into disastrous financial territory. Besides Scarlatti was a genius, and they all might do rather well.

  So the mammoth Scarlatti Industries was formed, and the empire of Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti was born.

  It was as its master—sprawling, energetic, insatiable. As his curiosity diversified, so did his companies. From paper it was an easy leap into packaging; from packaging into hauling and freight; from transportation into produce. And always a better idea came along with the purchase.

  By the year 1904, after twelve years of marriage, Elizabeth Wyckham Scarlatti decided that it was prudent for her and her husband to go east. Although her husband’s fortunes were secure and growing daily, his popularity was scarcely enviable. Among the financial powers of Chicago, Giovanni was the living proof of the Monroe Doctrine. The Irish were disagreeable, but this was intolerable.

  Elizabeth’s father and mother died; what few social loyalties that remained for her went with them. The consensus of the households of her lifelong friends was described by Franklyn Fowler, recently of Fowler Paper Products:

  “That black wop may own the mortgage on the club’s building, but we’ll be damned if we’ll let him become a member!”

  This general attitude had no effect on Giovanni, for he had neither the time nor the inclination for such indulgences. Neither did Elizabeth, for she had become Giovanni’s partner in far more than the marriage bed. She was his censor, his sounding board, his constant interpreter of shaded meanings. But she differed from her husband regarding their banishment from the more normal social pursuits. Not for herself, but for the children.

  Elizabeth and Giovanni had been blessed with three sons. They were Roland Wyckham, age nine; Chancellor Drew, eight; and Ulster Stewart, seven. And although they were only boys, Elizabeth saw the effects the family’s ostracism was having on them. They attended the exclusive Evanston School for Boys, but except for their daily school associations, they saw no boys but each other. They were never asked to birthday parties but always told about them on the following days; invitations proferred to their classmates were invariably coolly received by calls from governesses; and, perhaps most cutting of all, was the repetitive ditty that greeted the boys each morning as they arrived:

  “Scarlatti, spaghetti! Scarlatti, spaghetti!”

  Elizabeth made up her mind that they should all have a fresh start. Even Giovanni and herself. She knew they could afford it even if it meant going back to his native Italy and buying Rome.

  Instead of Rome, however, Elizabeth took a trip to New York City and discovered something quite unexpected.

  New York was a very provincial town. Its interests were insular, and among those in the business world the reputation of Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti had taken a rather unusual twist; they weren’t sure who he was other than the fact that he was an Italian inventor who had purchased a number of American companies in the Midwest.

  Italian inventor. American companies.

  Elizabeth found also that some of the more astute men on Wall Street believed Scarlatti’s money had come from one of the Italian ship lines. After all, he’d married the daughter of one of Chicago’s best families.

  New York it would be.

  Elizabeth arranged for a temporary family residence at the Delmonico, and once settled, Elizabeth knew she had made the right decision. The children were bursting with excitement, anticipating new schools and new friends; and within a month Giovanni had purchased controlling interest in two failing, antiquated paper mills on the Hudson and was eagerly planning their joint resurrection.

  The Scarlattis stayed at Delmonico’s for nearly two years. It wasn’t really necessary, for the uptown house might have been completed much sooner had Giovanni been able to give it proper attention. However, as a result of his lengthy conferences with the architects and contractors, he discovered another interest—land.

  One evening while Elizabeth and Giovanni were having a late supper in their suite, Giovanni suddenly said, “Write out a check for two hundred ten thousand dollars. Put in the name East Island Real Estaters.”

  “Realtors, you mean?”

  “That’s right. Let me have the crackers.”

  Elizabeth passed the croutons. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “We got a lot of money?”

  “Well, yes, we do, but two hundred and ten thousand dollars.… Is it a new plant?”

  “Just give me the check, Elizabeth. I’ve got a good surprise for you.”

  She stared at him. “You know I don’t question your judgment but I must insist …”

  “All right, all right.” Giovanni smiled. “You don’t get a surprise. I tell you.… I’m going to be like a barone.”

  “A what?”

  “A barone. A conte. You can be a contessa!”

  “I simply don’t understand.…”

  “In Italy, a man who has a couple of fields, maybe a few pigs, he’s practically a barone. Lots of men want to be baroni. I was talking to the East Island people. They’re gonna sell me some meadows out on Long Island.”

  “Giovanni, they’re worthless! They’re simply the end of nowhere!”

  “Woman, use your head! Already there’s no place for the horses to stand. Tomorrow you give me the check. Don’t argue, please. Just’a smile and be the wife of a barone.”

  Elizabeth Scarlatti smiled.

  Although Elizabeth did not take the cards seriously—they became a private joke between her and Giovanni—they did serve a purpose when not elaborated upon. They gave an identification befitting the Scarlatti wealth. Although no one who knew them ever referred to either as conte or contessa, there were many who weren’t sure.

  It was just possible.…

  And one specific result—although the title did not appear on the cards—was that for the remainder of her long life Elizabeth was called madame.

  Madame Elizabeth Scarlatti.

  And Giovanni could no longer reach across the table and take his wife’s bowl of soup.

  Two years after the purchase of the land, on July 14, 1908, Giovanni Merighi Scarlatti died. The man was burnt out. And for weeks Elizabeth numbly tried to understand. There was no one to whom she could turn. She and Giovanni had been lovers, friends, partners, and each other’s conscience. The thought of living without one another had been the only real fear in their lives.

  But he was gone, and Elizabeth knew that they had not built an empire for one to see it collapse with the other’s absence.

  Her first order of business was to consolidate the management of the widespread Scarlatti Industries into a single command post.

  Top executives and their families were uprooted throughout the Midwest and brought to New York. Charts were prepared for Elizabeth’s approval clearly defining all levels of decisions and areas of specific responsibility. A private network of telegraphic communications was set up between
the New York offices and each plant, factory, yard, and subdivision office. Elizabeth was a good general and her army was a well-trained, headstrong organization. The times were on her side, and her shrewd analysis of people took care of the rest.

  A magnificent town house was built, a country estate purchased in Newport, another seaside retreat constructed in a development called Oyster Bay, and every week she held a series of exhausting meetings with the executives of her late husband’s companies.

  Among her most important actions was her decision to help her children become totally identified with Protestant democracy. Her reasoning was simple. The name Scarlatti was out of place, even crude, in the circles her sons had entered and in which they would continue to live for the rest of their lives. Their names were legally altered to Scarlett.

  Of course, for herself, in deep respect for Don Giovanni and in the tradition of Ferrara, she remained:

  No residence was listed for it was difficult to know at which home she would be at a given time.

  Elizabeth recognized the unpleasant fact that her two older sons had neither Giovanni’s gift of imagination nor her own perception of their fellow man. It was difficult to know with the youngest, Ulster Stewart, for Ulster Stewart Scarlett was emerging as a problem.

  In his early years it was merely the fact that he was a bully—a trait Elizabeth ascribed to his being the youngest, the most spoiled. But as he grew into his teens, Ulster’s outlook changed subtly. He not only had to have his own way, he now demanded it. He was the only one of the brothers who used his wealth with cruelty. With brutality, perhaps, and that concerned Elizabeth. She first encountered this attitude on his thirteenth birthday. A few days before the event his teacher sent her a note.

  Dear Madame Scarlatti: