The Scarlatti Inheritance(119)

More precisely, Elizabeth Scarlatti was ready.

She was like a gladiator, prepared to bleed or let blood. She was cold but intense. She was a killer.

And her weapons were paper—infinitely more dangerous than maces or triforks to her adversaries. She was also, as a fine gladiator must be, supremely confident.

It was more than her last grande geste, it was the culmination of a lifetime. Hers and Giovanni’s. She would not fail him.

Canfield had studied and restudied the map; he knew the roads he had to take to reach Falke Haus. They would skirt the center of Zurich and head toward Kloten, turning right at the Schlieren fork and follow the central road toward Bulach. One mile to the left on the Winterthurstrasse would be the gates of Falke Haus.

He had pushed the car up to eighty-five miles an hour, and he had stopped at sixty within the space of fifty feet without causing a dislocation of the seats. The Geneva Geheimpolizist had done his job well. But then he was well paid. Damn near two years’ wages at the going Swiss rate of Civil Service. And the car was licensed with the numbers no one would stop—for any reason—the Zurich police. How he had done it, Canfield didn’t ask. Elizabeth suggested that it might have been the money.

“Is that all?” asked Canfield as he led Elizabeth Scarlatti toward the car. He referred to her single briefcase.

“It’s enough,” said the old woman as she followed him down the path.

“You had a couple of thousand pages, a hundred thousand figures!”

“They’re meaningless now.” Elizabeth held the briefcase on her lap as Canfield shut the car door.

“Suppose they ask you questions?” The field accountant inserted the key in the ignition.

“No doubt they will. And if they do, I’ll answer.” She didn’t wish to talk.

They drove for twenty minutes and the roads were coming out right. Canfield was pleased with himself. He was a satisfied navigator. Suddenly Elizabeth spoke.

“There is one thing I haven’t told you, nor have you seen fit to bring it up. It’s only fair that I mention it now.”

“What?”

“It’s conceivable that neither of us will emerge from this conference alive. Have you considered that?”

Canfield had, of course, considered it. He had assumed the risk, if that was the justifiable word, since the Boothroyd incident. It had escalated to pronounced danger when he realized that Janet was possibly his for life. He became committed when he knew what her husband had done to her.

With the bullet through his shoulder, two inches from death, Matthew Canfield in his own way had become a gladiator in much the same manner as Elizabeth. His anger was paramount now.

“You worry about your problems, I’ll worry about mine, okay?”

“Okay.… May I say that you’ve become quite dear to me.… Oh, stop that little-boy look! Save it for the ladies! I’m hardly one of them! Drive on!”


On Winterthurstrasse, three-tenths of a mile from Falke Haus there is a stretch of straight road paralleled on both sides by towering pine trees. Matthew Canfield pushed the accelerator down and drove the automobile as fast as it would go. It was five minutes to nine and he was determined that his passenger meet her appointment on time.

Suddenly in the far-off illumination of the head lamps, a man was signaling. He waved his hands, crisscrossing above his head, standing in the middle of the road. He was violently making the universal sign, stop—emergency. He did not move from the middle of the road in spite of Canfield’s speed.

“Hold on!” Canfield rushed on, oblivious to the human being in his path.

As he did so, there were bursts of gunfire from both sides of the road. “Get down!” shouted Canfield. He continued to push the gas pedal, ducking as he did so, bobbing his head, watching the straight road as best he could. There was a piercing scream—pitched in a death note—from the far side of the road. One of the ambushers had been caught in the crossfire.

They passed the area, pieces of glass and metal scattered all over the seats.

“You okay?” Canfield had no time for sympathy.

“Yes. I’m all right. How much longer?”

“Not much. If we can make it. They may have gotten a tire.”

“Even if they did, we can still drive?”

“Don’t you worry! I’m not about to stop and ask for a jack!”


The gates of Falke Haus appeared and Canfield turned sharply into the road. It was a descending grade leading gently into a huge circle in front of an enormous flagstone porch with statuary placed every several feet. The front entrance, a large wooden door, was situated twenty feet beyond the center steps. Canfield could not get near it.