The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,25

He withdrew five photographs - three blowups from newspapers and two prison shots.

It took Canfield less than a second once they were arranged. 'That's him. That's the one the little wop called padrone!'

'Scarlatti padrone,' Glover said quietly.

'The identification's absolutely positive?'

'Sure. And if he's got blue eyes, it's Holy Writ.'

'You could sweat to it in court?'

'Of course.'

'Hey, Ben, come on!' interrupted Glover, who knew that such an action on Matthew Canfield's part was a death warrant.

'I'm only asking.'

'Who is he?' said Canfield.

'Yes. Who is he?... What is he?... I'm not sure I should even answer the first, but if you found out some other way - and you could, easily - it might be dangerous.' Reynolds turned the photographs over. A name was printed in heavy black crayon.

'Ulster Stewart Scarlett - no. Scarlatti,' the field accountant read out loud. 'He won a medal in the war, didn't he? A millionaire.'

'Yes, he did and he is,' answered Reynolds. 'This identification's got to remain secret. And I mean totally classified! Is that understood?'

'Of course.'

'Do you think anyone could recognize you from last night?'

'I doubt it. The light was bad and I wore my cap half over my face and tried to talk like a goon... No, I don't think so.'

'Good. You did a fine job. Get some sleep.'

'Thank you.' The field accountant walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Benjamin Reynolds looked at the photographs on his desk. 'The Scarlatti padrone, Glover.'

'Turn it back to Treasury. You've got all you need.'

'You're not thinking - We don't have a damned thing unless you want to consign Canfield to his grave - And even assuming that, what is there? Scarlett doesn't write out checks... He "was observed in the company of..." He "was heard to give an order..." To whom? On whose testimony? A minor government employee against the word of the celebrated war hero? The son of Scarlatti?... No, all we've got is a threat... And perhaps that's enough.'

'Who's going to threaten?'

Benjamin Reynolds leaned back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers against one another. 'I am - I'm going to talk with Elizabeth Scarlatti - I want to know why.'
Chapter Seven
Ulster Stewart Scarlett got out of the taxi at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street and walked the short distance to his brownstone house. He ran up the steps to the heavy front door and let himself in. He slammed the door shut and stood for a moment in the huge foyer, stamping his feet against the February cold. He threw his coat into a hallway chair, then walked through a pair of French doors into a spacious living room and turned on a table lamp... It was only four in the afternoon but already growing dark.

He crossed from the table to the fireplace and noted with satisfaction that the servants had piled the logs and the kindling properly. He lit the fire and watched the flames leap to all corners of the fireplace. He gripped the mantel and leaned toward the warmth of the blaze. His eyes were on the level of his Silver Star citation, framed in gold in the center of the wall. He made a mental note to complete the display above the fireplace. The time would soon be here when that display should be in evidence.

A reminder to everyone who entered this house.

It was a momentary diversion. His thoughts returned to the source of his anger. His fury.

Stupid, God damn thick-headed scum!

Bilge! Garbage!

Four crewmen from the Genoa-Stella killed. The captain's body found in an abandoned waterfront barge.

They could have lived with that. They could have lived with the crew's rebellion. The docks were violent.

But not with the corpse of La Tona hooked to a cross post on the surface of the water fifty yards from the ship. The freighter bringing in the contraband.

La Tona!

Who had killed him? Not the slow-speaking, cloddish customs guard... Christ, no!... La Tona would have eaten his balls off and spat them out laughing! La Tona was a sneak killer. The worst kind of homicidal brute.

There'd be a smell. A bad smell. No graft could stop it. Five murders on pier thirty-seven during a single night shift.

And with La Tona it would be traced to Vitone. Little Don Vitone Genovese. Dirty little guinea bastard, thought Scarlett.

Well, it was time for him to get out.

He had what he wanted. More than he needed. Strasser would be amazed. They'd all be amazed.

Ulster Scarlett lit a cigarette and walked to a small,