The Scarlatti Inheritance(44)

“During my son’s sessions at Waterman could he have … come upon something … which might cause him to transfer such sums to Europe?”

“I asked myself the same question. As his adviser I felt it my duty to inquire.… Apparently Mr. Scarlett made a number of investments on the Continent.”

“Investments? In Europe? That seems most unlikely!”

“He had a wide circle of friends, Madame Scarlatti. Friends who, I’m sure, didn’t lack for projects.… And I must say, your son was becomin’ more and more proficient in investment analysis.…”

“He what?”

“I refer to his studies of the Scarlatti portfolios. Why, he put his shoulder to the wheel and was unrelentin’ on himself. I took great pride in his accomplishment. He was really takin’ our sessions seriously. Tryin’ so hard to understand the factor of diversification.… Why, on his honeymoon he took along hundreds of the Scarlatti corporate reports.”

Elizabeth rose from her chair and walked slowly, deliberately toward the window overlooking the street, but her concentration was on the Southerner’s sudden, incredible revelation. As had happened so often in the past, she realized that her instincts—abstract, unclear—were leading her to the truth. It was there; she was near it. But it remained out of her grasp.

“I assume you mean the statements—the breakdowns —of the Scarlatti Industries’ holdings?”

“That, too, of course. But much, much more. He analyzed the trusts, both his and Chancellor’s—even your own, Madame Scarlatti. It was his hope to write a complete report with special emphasis on the growth factors. It was a mighty ambitious task and he never wavered.…”

“Far more than ambitious, Mr. Cartwright,” interrupted Elizabeth. “Without training, I’d say impossible.” She continued to look out on the street.

“Actually, dear madame, we at the bank understood this. So we convinced him to limit his research to his own holdings. I felt it would be easier to explain and I certainly didn’t wish to dampen his enthusiasm, so I …”

Elizabeth turned from the window and stared at the banker. Her look caused him to stop speaking. She knew the truth was now within her grasp. “Please clarify. How did my son … research his holdings?”

“From the securities in his trust fund. Primarily the bonds in his second trust—the investment fund—they’re far more stable commodities. He cataloged them and then matched them with alternate choices, which might have been made when they were originally purchased. If I may add, he was most impressed with the selections. He told me so.”

“He … cataloged them? What precisely do you mean?”

“He listed the securities separately. The amounts each represented and the years and months they were due. From the dates and the amounts he was able to compare with numerous other issues on the board.”

“How did he do this?”

“As I mentioned, from the bonds and debentures themselves. From the yearly portfolios.”

“Where?”

“The vaults, madame. The Scarlatti vaults.”

My God! thought Elizabeth.

The old woman put her hand—trembling—on the windowsill. She spoke calmly in spite of the fear enveloping her. “How long did my son … do this research?”

“Why, for several months. Since his return from Europe to be exact.”

“I see. Did anyone assist him? He was so inexperienced, I mean.”

Jefferson Cartwright returned Elizabeth’s look. He was not an utter foot. “There was no necessity. Catalogin’ premature securities isn’t difficult. It’s a simple process of listin’ names, figures, and dates.… And your son is … was a Scarlatti.”

“Yes.… He was.” Elizabeth knew the banker was beginning to read her thoughts. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now but the truth.

The vaults.

“Mr. Cartwright, I’ll be ready in ten minutes. I’ll call for my car and we’ll both return to your office.”

“As you wish.”

The ride downtown was made in silence. The banker and the matriarch sat next to each other in the back seat but neither spoke. Each was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Elizabeth’s—the truth.

Cartwright’s—survival. For if what he had begun to suspect was correct, he’d be ruined. Waterman Trust might be ruined. And he was the appointed adviser to Ulster Stewart Scarlett.

The chauffeur opened the door as the Southerner stepped out onto the curb and held his hand for Elizabeth. He noted that she grasped his hand tightly, too tightly, as she climbed—with difficulty—out of the automobile. She stared down at nothing.