The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,79

'Used and then eliminated.'

'He traveled in that crowd, Derek. So does the Marquis de Bertholde.'

James Derek replaced his small notebook in his breast pocket. The explanation obviously was sufficient. The British operative was also very curious. 'I'll have a copy of the dossier for you tomorrow, Canfield - Good evening, ladies.' He went out.

'I congratulate you, young man. Embassy personnel. Really very intelligent of you.'

'I think he was remarkable!' said Janet Scarlett, smiling at him.

'It'll work,' mumbled the field accountant, swallowing the major portion of a Scotch. 'Now, may I suggest we all need some relief. Speaking for myself, I'm tired of thinking - and I wouldn't appreciate a comment on that, Madame Scarlatti. How about dinner at one of those places you upper class always go? I hate dancing but I swear I'll dance with you both until you drop.'

Elizabeth and Janet laughed.

'No, but I thank you,' said Elizabeth. You two go and romp.' She looked at the field accountant fondly. 'An old woman thanks you again, Mr. Canfield.'

'You'll lock the doors and windows?'

'Seven stories off the ground? Of course, if you like.*

'I do,' said Canfield.
Chapter Twenty-seven
'It's heaven!' shrieked Janet over the din of voices at Claridge's. 'Come on, Matthew, don't look so sour!'

'I'm not sour. I just can't hear you.'

'Yes, you are. You didn't like it, Let me enjoy it.'

'I will. I will! Do you want to dance?'

'No. You hate dancing. I just want to watch.'

'No charge. Watch. It's good whiskey.'

'Good what?'

'I said whiskey.'

'No, thanks. See? I can be good. You're two up on me, you know.'

'I may be sixty up on you if this keeps going.'

'What, darling?'

'I said I may be sixty when we get out of here.'

'Oh, stop it. Have fun!'

Canfield looked at the girl opposite him and felt once again a surge of joy. There was no other word but joy. She was a delight that filled him with pleasure, with warmth. Her eyes held the immediacy of commitment that only a lover can know. Yet Canfield tried so hard to dissociate, to isolate, to objectify, and found that he could not do it.

'I love you very much,' he said.

She heard him through the music, the laughter, the undercurrent hum of movement.

'I know.' She looked at him and her eyes had the hint of tears. 'We love each other. Isn't that remarkable?'

'Do you want to dance, now?'

The girl threw back her head ever so slightly. 'Oh, Matthew! My dear, sweet Matthew. No, darling. You don't have to dance.'

'Now, look, I will.'

She clasped his hand. 'We'll dance by ourselves, all by ourselves later.'

Matthew Canfield made up his mind that he would have this woman for the rest of his life.

But he was a professional and his thoughts turned for a moment to the old woman at the Savoy.

Elizabeth Wyckham Scarlatti at that moment got out of her bed and into a dressing gown. She had been reading the Manchester Guardian. Turning its thin pages, she heard two sharp metallic clicks accompanied by a muffled sound of movement from the living room. She was not at first startled by the noise; she had bolted the hallway door and presumed that her daughter-in-law was fumbling with a key unable to enter because of the latch. After all, it was two o'clock in the morning and the girl should have returned by now. She called out. 'Just one minute, my dear. I'm up.'

She had left a table lamp on and the fringe of the shade rippled as she passed it causing a flickering of minute shadows on the wall.

She reached the door and began to unbolt the latch. Remembering the field accountant, she halted momentarily. 'That is you, isn't it, my dear?' There was no reply.

She automatically snapped back the bolt. 'Janet? Mr. Canfield? Is that you?' Silence.

Fear gripped Elizabeth. She had heard the sound; age had not impaired her hearing.

Perhaps she had confused the clicking with the unfamiliar rustling of the thin English newspaper. That was not unreasonable and although she tried to believe it, she could not. Was there someone else in the room? At the thought she felt pain in the pit of her stomach. As she turned to go back into the bedroom, she saw that one of the large french windows was partially opened, no more than one or two inches but enough to cause the silk draperies to sway slightly from the incoming breeze.

In her confusion she tried to recall whether she had closed it before. She thought she had, but it had