“Yes. Unless he has a better idea. I’ll be gone for about two and half weeks. Did you write the letter for your daughter-in-law?”
“Yes.” She handed him an envelope.
Across the room on a table near the door, the telephone rang. Elizabeth walked rapidly to the table and answered it.
“Is that Derek?” asked Canfield, when she had hung up.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, please, Madame Scarlatti, let me do most of the talking. But if I ask you a question, you’ll know I want an honest answer.”
“Oh? We don’t have signals?”
“No. He doesn’t want to know anything. Believe that. Actually, we’re a source of embarrassment to each other.”
“Should I offer him a drink, or tea, or isn’t that allowed?”
“I think a drink would be very much appreciated.”
“I’ll call room service and have a bar sent up.”
“That’s fine.”
Elizabeth Scarlatti picked up the phone and ordered a complete selection of wines and liquors. Canfield smiled at the ways of the rich and lit one of his thin cigars.
James Derek was a pleasant-looking man in his early fifties, somewhat rotund, with the air of a prosperous merchant. He was terribly polite but essentially cool. His perpetual smile had a tendency to curve slowly into a strained straight line as he spoke.
“We traced the license of the Rolls at the pier. It belongs to a Marquis Jacques Louis Bertholde. French resident alien. We’ll get information on him.”
“Good. What about the retreats?”
The Britisher took out a paper from his inside coat pocket. “There’re several we might suggest depending upon Madame Scarlatti’s wishes to be in touch with the outside.”
“Do you have any where contact is completely impossible? On both sides?” asked the field accountant.
“That would be Catholic, of course. There’re two or three.”
“Now, see here!” interrupted the imposing old lady.
“What are they?” asked Canfield.
“There’s a Benedictine order and a Carmelite. They’re in the southwest, incidentally. One, the Carmelite, is near Cardiff.”
“There are limits, Mr. Canfield, and I propose to establish them. I will not associate with such people!”
“What is the most fashionable, most sought after retreat in England, Mr. Derek?” asked the field accountant.
“Well, the duchess of Gloucester makes a yearly trek to the Abbey of York. Church of England, of course.”
“Fine. We’ll send out a story to all the wire services that Madame Scarlatti has entered for a month.”
“That’s far more acceptable,” said the old woman.
“I haven’t finished.” He turned to the amused Londoner. “Then book us into the Carmelites. You’ll escort Madame Scarlatti there tomorrow.”
“As you say.”
“Just one minute, gentlemen. I do not consent! I’m sure Mr. Derek will adhere to my wishes.”
“Terribly sorry, madame. My instructions are to take orders from Mr. Canfield.”
“And we have an agreement, Madame Scarlatti, or do you want to tear it up?”
“What can I possibly say to such people? I simply can not stand that voodoo mumbo jumbo coming from Rome!”
“You’ll be spared that discomfort, madame,” said Mr. Derek. “There’s a vow of silence. You’ll not hear from anyone.”
“Contemplate,” added the field accountant “Good for the immortal soul.”
CHAPTER 23
YORK, ENGLAND, August 12, 1926— The famed Abbey of York sustained a damaging explosion and fire at dawn this morning in its west wing, the residential quarters of the religious order. An undisclosed number of sisters and novices were killed in the tragic occurrence. It was believed that the explosion was due to a malfunction in the heating system recently installed by the order.
Canfield read the story in the ship’s newspaper one day before arriving in New York.
They do their homework well, he thought. And although the price was painfully high, it proved two points conclusively: the press releases were read and Madame Scarlatti was marked.
The field accountant reached into his pocket and took out the old woman’s letter to Janet Scarlett. He’d read it many times and thought it effective. He read it once more.
My dear Child:
I am aware that you are not particularly fond of me and I accept the fact as my loss. You have every right to feel as you do—the Scarlattis have not been pleasant people with whom to be associated. However, for whatever reasons and regardless of the pain you have been caused, you are now a Scarlatti and you have borne a Scarlatti into this world. Perhaps you will be the one who will make us better than we are.