As she watched the woman swing the broom back and forth, Elizabeth was reminded of another maid. On another set of steps.
A maid at Ulster’s house. A maid who swept Ulster’s steps one morning and remembered her son giving instructions to a taxi driver.
What were those instructions?
A subway. Ulster had to get to a subway.
Her son had to take a subway one morning and Elizabeth hadn’t understood.
It was only a dim, flickering candle in a very dark forest but it was a light. Elizabeth crossed rapidly to the telephone.
Thirty minutes later, Third Vice-President Jefferson Cartwright stood before Elizabeth Scarlatti. He was still partially out of breath from the nervous pressures of rearranging his schedule in order to attend this command performance.
“Yes, indeed,” drawled the Virginian. “All the accounts were thoroughly examined the minute Mr. Scarlett’s disappearance was known to us. Wonderful boy. We became very close durin’ his sessions at the bank.”
“What is the state of his accounts?”
“Perfectly normal.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”
Cartwright hesitated for a few seconds—the thoughtful banker. “Of course, the final figures aren’t complete but we have no reason at this point to believe he exceeded the annual income of his trust.”
“What is that income, Mr. Cartwright?”
“Well, of course, the market fluctuates—happily upward—so it’d be difficult to give you a precise figure.”
“Just an approximate one.”
“Let me see now …” Jefferson Cartwright did not like the direction the conversation was taking. He was suddenly very thankful that he had had the foresight to send those vague memorandums to Chancellor Drew about his brother’s expenditures in Europe. His Southern drawl became thicker. “I could call several executives more familiar with Mr. Scarlett’s portfolio—but it was considerable, Madame Scarlatti.”
“Then I expect you to have at least a rough figure at your command.” Elizabeth did not like Jefferson Cartwright and the tone of her voice was ominous.
“Mr. Scarlett’s income from the trust fund designated for personal expenditures as differentiated from the second trust fund designated for investments was in excess of seven hundred and eighty-three thousand dollars.” Cartwright spoke rapidly, quietly.
“I’m very pleased that his personal needs rarely exceeded that trifling amount.” Elizabeth shifted her position in the straight-backed chair so she could give Mr. Cartwright the full benefit of her stare. Jefferson Cartwright rattled on at an accelerated tempo. Phrases spilled over into others, his accent more pronounced than ever.
“Well, surely, you were aware of Mr. Scarlett’s extravagances. I believe the newspapers reported many. As I say, I personally did my best to caution him, but he was a very headstrong young man. If you recall, just three years ago, Mr. Scarlett purchased a dirigible for nearly a half million dollars. We did our best to dissuade him, of course, but it was simply impossible. He said he had to have a dirigible! If you’ll study your son’s accounts, madame, you’ll find many such rash purchases.” Cartwright was decidedly on the defensive although he knew perfectly well Elizabeth could hardly hold him responsible.
“Just how many such … puchases were there?”
At an even faster rate of speed the banker replied, “Well, certainly none as extravagant as the dirigible! We were able to prevent similar incidents by explaining to Mr. Scarlett that it was improper to transfer monies from his second trust for such purposes. That he had to … limit his expenses to the income produced by the first trust. In our sessions at the bank we emphasized this aspect time and again. However, last year alone, while he was in Europe with the beautiful Mrs. Scarlett, we were in constant touch with the Continental banks over his personal accounts. To put it mildly, your son was most helpful to the European economy.… It also was necessary to make … numerous direct payments on his signature.… Certainly Mr. Chancellor Scarlett spoke of the many, many notes I sent him regarding the large sums of money we forwarded your son in Europe.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “No, he told me nothing.”
“Well, Madame Scarlatti, it was your son’s honeymoon. There was no reason …”
“Mr. Cartwright,” the old woman interrupted sharply, “do you have an accurate accounting of my son’s bank drafts, here and abroad, for the past year?”
“Why, of course, madame.”
“And a listing of the payments made directly by you on his signature?”