The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,55

toward her. She was hurt and the timing might just be perfect.

The field accountant was within thirty yards of Ulster Scarlett's wife when a roadster, a shiny black Fierce-Arrow, came racing down the block. The car veered close to the curb near the girl.

Canfield slowed down and watched. He could see the man in the roadster leaning forward toward the far window. The light from the overhead streetlamp shone directly on his face. He was a handsome man in his early fifties perhaps, with a perfectly groomed matted moustache. He appeared to be the sort of man Janet Scarlett might know. It struck Canfield that the man had been waiting - as he had been waiting - for Janet Scarlett.

Suddenly the man stopped the car, threw his door open, and quickly got out onto the street. He rapidly walked around the car toward the girl.

'Here, Mrs. Scarlett. Get in.'

Janet Scarlett bent down to hold her injured knee. She looked up, bewildered, at the approaching man with the matted moustache. Canfield stopped. He stood in the shadows by a doorway.

'What? You're not a taxi... No. I don't know you - '

'Get in! I'll drive you home. Quickly, now!' The man spoke peremptorily. A disturbed voice. He grabbed Janet Scarlett's arm.

'No! No, I won't!' She tried to pull her arm away.

Canfield came out of the shadows. 'Hello, Mrs. Scarlett. I thought it was you. Can I be of help?'

The well-groomed man released the girl and stared at Canfield. He seemed confused as well as angry. Instead of speaking, however, he suddenly ran back into the street and climbed into the car.

'Hey, wait a minute, mister!' The field accountant rushed to the curb and put his hand on the door handle. 'We'll take you up on the ride...'

The engine accelerated and the roadster sped off down the street throwing Canfield to the ground, his hand lacerated by the door handle wrenched from his grip.

He got up painfully and spoke to Janet Scarlett.

'Your friend's pretty damned chintzy.'

Janet Scarlett looked at the field accountant with gratitude.

'I never saw him before... At least, I don't think so...

Maybe - I'm sorry to say, I don't remember your name. I am sorry and I do thank you.'

'No apologies necessary. We've only met once. Oyster Bay club a couple of weeks ago.'

'Oh!' The girl seemed not to want to recall the evening.

'Chris Newland introduced us. The name's Canfield.'

'Oh, yes.'

'Matthew Canfield. I'm the one from Chicago.'

'Yes, I remember now.'

'Come on. I'll get us a taxi.'

'Your hand is bleeding.'

'So's your knee.'

'Mine's only a scratch.'

'So's mine. Just scraped. Looks worse than it is.'

'Perhaps you should see a doctor.'

'All I need is a handkerchief and some ice. Handkerchief for the hand, ice for a Scotch.' They reached Fifth Avenue and Canfield hailed a taxi. 'That's all the doctoring I need, Mrs. Scarlett.'

Janet Scarlett smiled hesitantly as they got into the cab. 'That doctoring I can provide.'

The entrance hall of the Scarlett home on Fifty-fourth Street was about what Canfield had imagined it would be. The ceilings were high, the main doors thick, and the staircase facing the entrance rose an imposing two stories. There were antique mirrors on either side of the hallway, double french doors beside each mirror facing each other across the foyer. The doors on the right were open and Canfield could see the furniture of a formal dining room. The doors on the left were closed and he presumed they led into a living room. Expensive oriental throw rugs were placed on the parquet floors... This was all as it should be. However, what shocked the field accountant was the color scheme of the hallway itself. The wallpaper was a rich - too rich - red damask, and the drapes covering the french doors were black - a heavy black velvet that was out of character with the ornate delicacy of the French furniture.

Janet Scarlett noticed his reaction to the colors and before Canfield could disguise it, said, 'Rather hits you in the eye, doesn't it?'

'I hadn't noticed,' he said politely.

'My husband insisted on that hideous red and then replaced all my pink silks with those awful black drapes. He made a terrible scene about it when I objected.' She parted the double doors and moved into the darkness to turn on a table lamp.

Canfield followed her into the extraordinarily ornate living room. It was the size of five squash courts, and the number of settees, sofas, and armchairs was staggering. Fringed lamps were silhouetted atop numerous tables placed