The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,54

that gossip, those lies she collected from Paris... and those places?' He tried and it wasn't difficult, to slur his words.

'Ask her. Do you know, this brandy's good.' She finished the remainder in her glass and set it down. The field accountant had most of his left. He held his breath and drank it.

'You're right. She's a bitch.'

'She's a bitch.' The girl pressed into Canfield's shoulder and arm, turning her face to his. 'You're not a bitch, are you?'

'No, and the gender is wrong, anyway. Why is she going to Europe?'

'I've asked myself that lots of times and I can't think of an answer. And I don't care. Are you really a nice person?'

'The nicest, I think.'

'I'm going to kiss you and find out. I can always tell.'

'You're not that practiced...'

'Oh, but I am.' The girl reached across Canfield's neck and pulled him to her. She trembled.

His response was mild astonishment. The girl was desperate and for some senseless reason, he had the feeling of wanting to protect her.

She pulled her hand down from his shoulder. 'Let's go upstairs,' she said.

And upstairs they kissed and Janet Scarlett put her hands on his face.

'She said... fun of being a Scarlett without a Scarlett around. That's what she said.'

'Who? Who said that?'

'Mother Bitch. That's who.'

'His mother.'

'Unless she finds him... I'm free - Take me, Matthew. Take me, please, for God's sake.'

As he led her to bed, Canfield made up his mind that he'd somehow convince his superiors that he had to get aboard that ship.
Chapter Sixteen
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 Oyster Bay Country Club? Although her voice was thick from whiskey, her pronouncement was clear.

'My dear mother-in-law thinks he'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 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