The Scarlatti Inheritance(100)

The field accountant fell silent for a moment and looked at Elizabeth. “Have you considered the fact that you might be killed?”

“I have.”

“You’d risk that … Sell out Scarlatti Industries. Destroy everything you’ve built. Is it worth that to you? Do you hate him that much?”

“Yes. As one hates a disease. Magnified because I’m responsible for its flourishing.”

Canfield put his glass down, tempted to pour himself another drink. “That’s going a little far.”

“I didn’t say I invented the disease. I said that I’m responsible for spreading it. Not simply because I provided the money but infinitely more important, because I implanted an idea. An idea which has become warped in the process of maturing.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re no saint, but you don’t think like that.” He pointed toward the papers on the couch.

The old woman’s weary eyes closed.

“There’s a little of … that in each of us. It’s all part of the idea.… The twisted idea. My husband and I devoted years to the building of an industrial empire. Since his death, I’ve fought in the marketplace—doubling, redoubling, adding, building—always acquiring.… It’s been a stimulating, all-consuming game.… I’ve played it well. And sometime during all those years, my son learned what many observers failed to learn—that it was never the acquisition of profits or material gain that mattered—they were merely the by-products. It was the acquisition of power.… I wanted that power because I sincerely believed that I was equipped for the responsibility. The more convinced I became, it had to follow that others were not equipped.… The quest for power becomes a personal crusade, I think. The more success one has, the more personal it becomes. Whether he understood it or not, that’s what my son saw happening.… There may be similarities of purpose, even of motive. But a great gulf divides us—my son and me.”

“I’ll give you the four weeks. Jesus Christ only knows why. But you still haven’t made it clear to me why you want to risk all this. Throw away everything.”

“I’ve tried to.… You’re slow at times. If I offend, it’s because I think you do understand. You’re deliberately asking me to spell out an unpleasant reality.” She carried her notes to the table by her bedroom door. As the light had grown dim, she turned on the lamp, causing the fringe on the shade to shimmy. She seemed fascinated by the movement. “I imagine that all of us—the Bible calls us the rich and mighty—wish to leave this world somewhat different from the way it was before us. As the years go by, this vague, ill-defined instinct becomes really quite important. How many of us have toyed with the phrases of our own obituaries?” She turned from the lamp and looked at the field accountant. “Considering everything we now know, would you care to speculate on my not-too-distant obituary?”

“No deal. That’s another question.”

“It’s a snap, you know.… The wealth is taken for granted. Every agonizing decision, every nerve-racking gamble—they become simple, expected accomplishments. Accomplishments more to be scorned than admired because I’m both a woman and a highly competitive speculator. An unattractive combination.… One son lost in the Great War. Another rapidly emerging as a pompous incompetent, sought after for every wrong reason, discarded and laughed at whenever feasible. And now this. A madman leading or at least a part of a growing band of psychopathic malcontents.… This is what I bequeath. What Scarlatti bequeaths, Mr. Canfield.… Not a very enviable sum, is it?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Consequently, I’ll stop at nothing to prevent this final madness …” She picked up her notes and went into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her, leaving Canfield in the large sitting room by himself. He thought for a moment that the old woman was on the verge of tears.





CHAPTER 35


The monoplane’s flight over the channel had been uneventful—the wind calm, the visibility excellent. It was fortunate for Scarlett that such was the case, for the stinging irritation of his unhealed surgery coupled with the pitch of his fury would have made a difficult trip a disastrous one. He was hardly capable of keeping his mind on the compass bearings and when he first saw the Normandy coast, it looked unfamiliar to him. Yet he had made these very same sightings a dozen times.

He was met at the small airfield outside of Lisieux by the Paris contingent, consisting of two Germans and a French Gascon, whose guttural dialect nearly matched that of his associates.