The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,66

I must phone for the proper authorities!'

Canfield didn't quite know how to make the old woman understand. He was not the heroic type, and the thought of formal protection was inviting. But would it be protection? And even if it were, this hulk at his feet was the only connection, or possible connection, he or anyone in Group Twenty had with the missing Ulster Scarlett. Canfield realized that if the ship's authorities were called in, the intruder would simply be sacrificed as a thief. It was possible that the man was a thief, but Canfield doubted that strongly.

Sitting at the accountant's feet, the masked Charles Boothroyd came to the identical conclusion regarding his future. The prospect of failure coupled with jail began to trigger an uncontrollable desperation.

Canfield spoke quietly to the old woman. 'I'd like to point out that this man did not break in. He unlocked the door, which presumes he was given a key.'

'That's right! I was! You don't want to do anything stupid, do you, buddy? Let's make a deal. I'll pay you fifty times what you make selling baseball mitts! How about it?'

Canfield looked sharply down at the man. This was a new and disturbing note. Was his cover known? The sudden ache in Canfield's stomach came with the realization that there might well be two sacrificial goats in the stateroom. 'Take that God damn cloth off your head!'

'Mr. Canfield, thousands of passengers have traveled this ship. A key wouldn't be that difficult. I must insist...'

The giant intruder's right hand lashed out at Canfield's foot. Canfield fired into the man's shoulder as he was pulled forward. It was a small-caliber revolver and the shot was not loud.

The masked stranger's hand spastically released Canfield's ankle as he clutched his shoulder where the bullet was lodged. Canfield rose quickly and kicked the man with all his strength in the general area of the head. The toe of his patent-leather shoe caught the man on the side of the neck and ripped the skin beneath the stocking mask. Still the man lunged toward Canfield, hurling himself in a football cross-block at Canfield's midsection. Canfield fired again; this time the bullet entered the man's huge flank. Canfield pressed himself against the stateroom wall as the man fell against his shins, writhing in agony. The bone and muscle tissue in the path of the bullet had been shattered.

Canfield reached down to pull off the silk face covering, now drenched with blood, when the giant, on his knees, suddenly lashed out with his left arm pinning the field accountant back against the wall. Canfield pistol-whipped the man about the head, simultaneously trying to remove the steel-like forearm. As he pulled upward on the man's wrist, the black sweater ripped revealing the sleeve of a white shirt. On the cuff was a large cuff link diagonally striped in red and black.

Briefly, Canfield stopped his assault, trying to assimilate his new knowledge. The creature, bloodied, wounded, was grunting in pain and desperation. But Canfield knew him and he was extraordinarily confused. While trying to steady his right hand, he aimed his revolver carefully at the man's kneecap. It was not easy; the strong arm was pressing into his upper groin with the power of a large piston. As he was about to fire, the intruder lurched upward, arching his back and heaving his frame against the smaller man. Canfield pulled the trigger, more as a reaction than intent. The bullet pierced the upper area of the stomach. Charles Boothroyd fell again.

Matthew Canfield looked over at the old woman who was reaching for the bedside phone. He jumped over the man and forcibly took the instrument from her. He replaced the ear cup in its cradle. 'Please! I know what I'm doing!'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. Please! Believe me!'

'Good God! Look out!'

Canfield whirled, narrowly missing having his spine crushed by the lurching, wounded Boothroyd, who had entwined his fingers into a single hammerlike weapon.

The man toppled on the end of the bed and rolled off. Canfield pulled the old woman away and leveled his pistol at the assailant.

'I don't know how you do it, but if you don't stop, the next shot goes right into your forehead. That's a marksman's promise, buddy!'

Canfield reflected that he was the only member of the training group to fail the small-arms target course twice in succession.

Lying on the floor, his vision impaired by the pain as well as the bloody silk covering his face, Charles Boothroyd knew there was next to