The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,65

He picked up the rope and snapped the lines in a lasso loop. The crackle of the fibers was sweet music to him. He placed his wife's silk stocking in his pocket and silently left his cabin. Because he was on A deck, starboard side, he had only to walk around the bow promenade to reach his destination. He ascertained the pitch and the roll of the ship in the rough seas and quickly determined the precise moment of side roll for a human body to reach the water below with the minimum of structural interference. Boothroyd was nothing if not a thorough professional. They would all soon learn his worth.

Canfield came out of Elizabeth Scarlatti's toilet feeling very much relieved. She stared at him from an easy chair several feet on the far side of the bed, pointing the revolver directly at him.

'If I sit down, will you put that damn thing away?'

'Probably not. But sit down and we'll talk about it.'

Canfield sat on the bed and swung his legs over so that he faced her. The old woman cocked the hammer of her pistol.

'You spoke of something at the door, Mr. Canfield, which is the only reason this pistol hasn't been fired. Would you care to carry on?'

'Yes. The first thing I can think of saying is that I'm not...'

Canfield froze.

The lock in the outer room was being opened. The field accountant held up his hand to the old woman and she immediately, instinctively, handed him the pistol.

Swiftly Canfield took her hand and gently but firmly placed her on the bed. The look in his eyes instructed her and she obeyed.

She stretched out on the bed with only the table lamp illuminating her while Canfield backed into the shadows behind the open bedroom door. He signaled her to close her eyes, a command he did not really expect her to carry out, but she did. Elizabeth let her head fall to the left while the newspaper lay several inches from her right hand. She looked as though she had fallen asleep while reading.

The stateroom door was rapidly opened and closed.

Canfield pressed his back against the wall and gripped the small pistol tightly in his hand. Through the overlapping steel lip of the door's inside border was a two-inch space that let Canfield look out. It struck him that the open space gave the intruder the same advantage, only Canfield was in shadow and, he hoped, unexpected.

And then the visitor was revealed and Canfield found himself involuntarily swallowing, partially from amazement, partially from fear.

The man was huge, several inches taller than Canfield, with immense chest and shoulders. He wore a black sweater, black gloves, and over his entire head was a translucent filmy cloth, silk, perhaps, which gave the giant an eerie, inhuman appearance and completely blurred his face.

The intruder passed through the bedroom door and stood at the foot of the bed barely three feet in front of Canfield. He seemed to be appraising the old woman while removing a thin rope from his trousers pocket.

He started toward the left side of the bed, hunching his body forward.

Canfield sprang forward, bringing his pistol down on the man's head as hard as he could. The downward impact of the blow caused an immediate break in the skin and a spurt of blood spread through the silk head covering. The intruder fell forward, breaking his fall with his hands, and whirled around to face Canfield. The man was stunned but only for seconds.

'You!' It was not an exclamation, but a damning recognition. 'You son of a bitch!'

Canfield's memory mistly raced back, abstracting times and events, and yet he hadn't the remotest idea who this massive creature was. That he should know him was obvious; that he didn't possibly dangerous.

Madame Scarlatti crouched against the headboard of her bed observing the scene in fear but without panic. Instead she was angry because it was a situation she could not possibly control. 'I'll phone for the ship's police,' she said quietly.

'No!' Canfield's command was harsh. 'Don't touch that phone! Please!'

'You must be insane, young man!'

'You want to make a deal, buddy?'

The voice, too, was vaguely familiar. The field accountant trained his pistol on the man's head.

'No deal. Just take off your Halloween mask.'

The man slowly raised both arms.

'No, buddy! One hand. Sit on the other. With the palm up!'

'Mr. Canfield, I really must insist! This man broke into my cabin. God knows he was probably going to rob or kill me. Not you.