“Can’t you understand?… It’s not going any further! It ends here! That is, it will if you can stop any future … activity, as you call it. We figure you can do that … But I’d think you’d want to know why. Since we both know your son is rich—why?”
Elizabeth simply stared at him and Reynolds knew she wouldn’t answer. He’d done what he could, said what he had to say. The rest was up to her.
“Good day, Madame Scarlatti.… I should tell you. I’ll be watching the Scarlatti padrone.”
“The who?”
“Ask your son.”
Reynolds trudged out of the room. People like Elizabeth Scarlatti tired him out. Probably, he thought, because he didn’t believe they were worth it all. The giants never were.
Elizabeth—still by the window—watched the old man close the door behind him. She waited until she saw him descend the front steps and walk west toward Fifth Avenue.
The old man looked up at the figure in the window and their eyes met.
Neither acknowledged.
CHAPTER 9
Chancellor Drew Scarlett paced the thick oriental rug of his office at 525 Fifth Avenue. He kept breathing deeply, pushing his stomach out as he inhaled—the proper way—because the masseur at his club told him it was one method of calming down under pressure.
It wasn’t working.
He would change masseurs.
He stopped in front of the mahogany-paneled wall between the two large windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. On the wall were various framed newspaper articles, all of them about the Scarwyck Foundation. Each prominently mentioned him—some with his name in bold print above the stories.
Whenever he was upset, which was quite often, he looked at these framed records of achievement. It always had a calming effect.
Chancellor Scarlett had assumed the role of husband to a dull wife as a matter of course. The conjugal bed had produced five children. Surprisingly—especially to Elizabeth—he had also become interested in the family enterprises. As if in answer to his celebrated brother’s behavior, Chancellor retreated into the secure world of the quasi-inspired businessman. And he did have ideas.
Because the annual income from the Scarlatti holdings far exceeded the needs of a small nation, Chancellor convinced Elizabeth that the intelligent tax course was to establish a philanthropic foundation. Impressing his mother with irrefutable data—including the potential for antitrust suits—Chancellor won Elizabeth’s consent for the Scarwyck Foundation. Chancellor was installed as president and his mother as chairman of the board. Chancellor might never be a war hero, but his children would recognize his economic and cultural contributions.
The Scarwyck Foundation poured money into war memorials; preservation of Indian reservations; a Dictionary of Great Patriots to be distributed throughout selected prep schools; the Roland Scarlett Field Clubs, a chain of Episcopal youth camps dedicated to the outdoor life and high Christian principles of their democratic—but Episcopalian—patron. And scores of similar endeavors. One couldn’t pick up a newspaper without noticing some new project endowed by Scarwyck.
Looking at the articles shored up Chancellor’s undermined confidence, but the effect was short-lived. He could hear faintly through the office door the ring of his secretary’s telephone and it immediately brought back the memory of his mother’s angry call to him. She’d been trying to find Ulster since yesterday morning.
Chancellor picked up the intercom.
“Try my brother’s home again, Miss Nesbit.”
“Yes, sir.”
He had to find Ulster: His mother was adamant. She insisted on seeing him before the afternoon was over.
Chancellor sat down in his chair and tried to breathe properly again. The masseur had told him it was good exercise while sitting down.
He took a deep breath, pushing his stomach out as far as possible. The middle button of his suit coat broke from the thread and fell on the soft carpet, bouncing first on the chair between his legs.
Damn!
Miss Nesbit rang him on the intercom.
“Yes!”
“The maid at your brother’s house said he was on his way over to see you, Mr. Scarlett.” Miss Nesbit’s voice conveyed her pride in accomplishment.
“You mean he was there all the time?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Miss Nesbit was hurt.
Twenty agonizing minutes later Ulster Stewart Scarlett arrived.
“Good God! Where have you been? Mother’s been trying to reach you since yesterday morning! We’ve called everywhere!”
“I’ve been out at Oyster Bay. Did any of you think of calling there?”
“In February? Of course not!… Or maybe she did, I don’t know.”