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 Twelve
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