The Scarlatti Inheritance(65)

The intruder passed through the bedroom door and stood at the foot of the bed barely three feet in front of Canfield. He seemed to be appraising the old woman while removing a thin rope from his trousers pocket.

He started toward the left side of the bed, hunching his body forward.

Canfield sprang forward, bringing his pistol down on the man’s head as hard as he could. The downward impact of the blow caused an immediate break in the skin and a spurt of blood spread through the silk head covering. The intruder fell forward, breaking his fall with his hands, and whirled around to face Canfield. The man was stunned but only for seconds.

“You!” It was not an exclamation, but a damning recognition. “You son of a bitch!”

Canfield’s memory mistly raced back, abstracting times and events, and yet he hadn’t the remotest idea who this massive creature was. That he should know him was obvious; that he didn’t possibly dangerous.

Madame Scarlatti crouched against the headboard of her bed observing the scene in fear but without panic. Instead she was angry because it was a situation she could not possibly control. “I’ll phone for the ship’s police,” she said quietly.

“No!” Canfield’s command was harsh. “Don’t touch that phone! Please!”

“You must be insane, young man!”

“You want to make a deal, buddy?”

The voice, too, was vaguely familiar. The field accountant trained his pistol on the man’s head.

“No deal. Just take off your Halloween mask.”

The man slowly raised both arms.

“No, buddy! One hand. Sit on the other. With the palm up!”

“Smart guy.” The intruder lowered one arm.

“Mr. Canfield, I really must insist! This man broke into my cabin. God knows he was probably going to rob or kill me. Not you. I must phone for the proper authorities!”

Canfield didn’t quite know how to make the old woman understand. He was not the heroic type, and the thought of formal protection was inviting. But would it be protection? And even if it were, this hulk at his feet was the only connection, or possible connection, he or anyone in Group Twenty had with the missing Ulster Scarlett. Canfield realized that if the ship’s authorities were called in, the intruder would simply be sacrificed as a thief. It was possible that the man was a thief, but Canfield doubted that strongly.

Sitting at the accountant’s feet, the masked Charles Boothroyd came to the identical conclusion regarding his future. The prospect of failure coupled with jail began to trigger an uncontrollable desperation.

Canfield spoke quietly to the old woman. “I’d like to point out that this man did not break in. He unlocked the door, which presumes he was given a key.”

“That’s right! I was! You don’t want to do anything stupid, do you, buddy? Let’s make a deal. I’ll pay you fifty times what you make selling baseball mitts! How about it?”

Canfield looked sharply down at the man. This was a new and disturbing note. Was his cover known? The sudden ache in Canfield’s stomach came with the realization that there might well be two sacrificial goats in the stateroom.

“Take that God damn cloth off your head!”

“Mr. Canfield, thousands of passengers have traveled this ship. A key wouldn’t be that difficult. I must insist …”

The giant intruder’s right hand lashed out at Canfield’s foot. Canfield fired into the man’s shoulder as he was pulled forward. It was a small-caliber revolver and the shot was not loud.

The masked stranger’s hand spastically released Canfield’s ankle as he clutched his shoulder where the bullet was lodged. Canfield rose quickly and kicked the man with all his strength in the general area of the head. The toe of his patent-leather shoe caught the man on the side of the neck and ripped the skin beneath the stocking mask. Still the man lunged toward Canfield, hurling himself in a football cross-block at Canfield’s midsection. Canfield fired again; this time the bullet entered the man’s huge flank. Canfield pressed himself against the stateroom wall as the man fell against his shins, writhing in agony. The bone and muscle tissue in the path of the bullet had been shattered.

Canfield reached down to pull off the silk face covering, now drenched with blood, when the giant, on his knees, suddenly lashed out with his left arm pinning the field accountant back against the wall. Canfield pistol-whipped the man about the head, simultaneously trying to remove the steellike forearm. As he pulled upward on the man’s wrist, the black sweater ripped revealing the sleeve of a white shirt. On the cuff was a large cuff link diagonally striped in red and black.

Briefly, Canfield stopped his assault, trying to assimilate his new knowledge. The creature, bloodied, wounded, was grunting in pain and desperation. But Canfield knew him and he was extraordinarily confused. While trying to steady his right hand, he aimed his revolver carefully at the man’s kneecap. It was not easy; the strong arm was pressing into his upper groin with the power of a large piston. As he was about to fire, the intruder lurched upward, arching his back and heaving his frame against the smaller man. Canfield pulled the trigger, more as a reaction than intent. The bullet pierced the upper area of the stomach.