The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,56

conveniently by the seating places. The arrangement of the furniture was unrelated except for a semicircle of divans facing an enormous fireplace. In the dim light of the single lamp, Canfield's eyes were immediately drawn to a panoply of dull reflections above the mantel. They were photographs. Dozens of photographs of varying sizes placed in thin black frames. They were arranged as a floral spray, the focal point being a scroll encased in gold borders at the center of the mantel.

The girl noticed Canfield's stare but did not acknowledge it. There're drinks and ice over there,' she said, pointing to a dry bar. 'Just help yourself. Will you pardon me for a minute? I'll change my stockings.' She disappeared into the main hall.

Canfield crossed to the glass-topped wheel cart and poured two small tumblers of Scotch. He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his trousers, doused it in ice water, and wrapped it around his slightly bleeding hand. Then he turned on another lamp to illuminate the display above the mantel. For the briefest of moments, he was shocked.

It was incredible. Over the mantel was a photographic presentation of Ulster Stewart Scarlett's army career. From officer's candidate school to embarkation; from his arrival in France to his assignment to the trenches. In some frames there were maps with heavy red and blue lines indicating positions.

In a score of pictures Ulster was the energetic center of attraction.

He had seen photographs of Scarlett before, but they were generally snapshots taken at society parties or single shots of the socialite in his various athletic endeavors - polo, tennis, sailing - and he had looked precisely the way Brooks Brothers expected their clients to look. However, here he was among soldiers, and it annoyed Canfield to see that he was nearly a half a head taller than the largest soldier near him. And there were soldiers everywhere, of every rank and every degree of military bearing. Awkward citizen corporals having their weapons inspected, weary sergeants lining up wearier men, experienced-looking field officers listening intently - all were doing what they were doing for the benefit of the vigorous, lean lieutenant who somehow commanded their attention. In many pictures the young officer had his arms slung around half-smiling companions as if assuring them that happy days would soon be here again.

Judging by the expressions of those around him, Scarlett was not notably successful. However, his own countenance radiated optimism itself. Cool, and intensely self-satisfied as well, thought Canfield. The centerpiece was, indeed, a scroll. It was the Silver Star citation for gallantry at the Meuse-Argonne. To judge from the exhibition, Ulster Scarlett was the best-adjusted hero ever to have the good fortune to go to war. The disturbing aspect was the spectacle itself. It was grotesquely out of place. It belonged in the study of some celebrated warrior whose campaigns spanned half a century, not here on Fifty-fourth Street in the ornate living room of a pleasure-seeker.

'Interesting, aren't they?' Janet had reentered the room.

'Impressive, to say the least. He's quite a guy.'

'You have no argument there. If anyone forgot, he just had to walk into this room to be reminded.'

'I gather that this... this pictorial history of how the war was won wasn't your idea.' He handed Janet her drink, which, he noted, she firmly clasped and brought immediately to her lips.

'It most certainly was not.' She nearly finished the short, straight Scotch. 'Sit down, won't you?'

Canfield quickly downed most of his own drink. 'First let me freshen these.' He took her glass. She sat on the large sofa facing the mantel while he crossed to the bar.

'I never thought your husband was subject to this kind of' - he paused and nodded to the fireplace - 'hangover.'

'That's an accurate analogy. Aftermath of a big binge. You're a philosopher.'

'Don't mean to be. Just never thought of him as the type.' He brought over the two drinks, handed one to her, and remained standing.

'Didn't you read his accounts of what happened? I thought the newspapers did a splendid job of making it perfectly clear who was really responsible for the Kaiser's defeat.' She drank again.

'Oh, hell, that's the publishing boys. They have to sell papers. I read them but I didn't take them seriously. Never thought he did either.'

'You talk as if you knew my husband.'

Canfield purposely looked startled and took his glass away from his lips. 'Didn't you know?'

'What?'

'Well, of course, I knew him. I knew him quite well. I just took it for granted that