The Scarlatti Inheritance(92)
“I don’t ask. I command! Munich commands!”
The foyer on the third floor of Bertholde et Fils was enormous. In the rear was an impressive set of white Louis XIV doors that obviously led to the sanctum sanctorum of the Marquis de Bertholde. On the right side were six brown leather armchairs in a semicircle—the sort that might be found in the study of a wealthy country squire—with a thick rectangular coffee table placed in front. On the table were neatly stacked piles of chic magazines—chic socially and chic industrially. On the left side of the room was a large white desk trimmed in gold. Behind the desk sat a most attractive brunet with spit curls silhouetted against her forehead. All this Canfield took in with his second impression. It took him several moments to get over his first.
Opening the elevator door, he had been visually overpowered by the color scheme of the walls.
They were magenta red and sweeping from the ceiling moldings were arcs of black velvet.
Good Christ! he said to himself. I’m in a hallway thirty-five hundred miles away!
Seated in the chairs beside one another were two middle-aged gentlemen in Savile Row clothes reading magazines. Standing off to the right was a man in a chauffeur’s uniform, his hat off, his hands clasped behind his back.
Canfield approached the desk. The spit-curled secretary greeted him before he could speak. “Mr. Canfield?”
“Yes.”
“The marquis would like you to go right in, sir.” The girl spoke as she rose from the chair and started toward the large white doors. Canfield saw that the man seated on the left was upset. He uttered a few “Damns!” and went back to his magazine.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Canfield.” The fourth marquis of Chatellerault stood behind his large white desk and extended his hand. “We have not met, of course, but an emissary from Elizabeth Scarlatti is a welcome guest. Do sit down.”
Bertholde was almost what Canfield expected him to be, except, perhaps, shorter. He was well-groomed, relatively handsome, very masculine, with a voice resonant enough to fill an opera house. However, in spite of his exuding virility—bringing to mind the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau—there was something artificial, slightly effete about the man. Perhaps the clothing. It was almost too fashionable.
“How do you do?” Canfield smiled, shaking the Frenchman’s hand. “Is it Monsieur Bertholde? Or Monsieur le Marquis? I’m not sure which I should use.”
“I could tell you several unflattering names given me by your countrymen.” The marquis laughed. “But please, use the French custom—so scorned by our proper Anglicans. Plain Bertholde will do. Marquises are such an out-of-date custom.” The Frenchman smiled ingenuously and waited until Canfield sat in the chair in front of his desk before returning to his seat. Jacques Louis Aumont Bertholde, fourth marquis of Chatellerault, was immensely likable and Canfield recognized the fact.
“I appreciate your interrupting your schedule.”
“Schedules are made to be broken. Such a dull existence otherwise, yes?”
“I won’t waste time, sir. Elizabeth Scarlatti wants to negotiate.”
Jacques Bertholde leaned back in his chair and looked startled. “Negotiate?… I’m afraid I don’t comprehend, monsieur.… Negotiate what?”
“She knows, Bertholde.… She knows as much as she needs to know. She wants to meet you.”
“I’d be delighted—at any time—to meet Madame Scarlatti but I can’t imagine what we have to discuss. Not in a business sense, monsieur, which I presume to be your … errand.”
“Maybe the key is her son. Ulster Scarlett.”
Bertholde leveled his gaze intently on the field accountant. “It is a key for which I have no lock, monsieur. I have not had the pleasure.… I know, as most who read newspapers know, that he vanished a number of months ago. But that is all I know.”
“And you don’t know a thing about Zurich?”
Jacques Bertholde abruptly sat up in his chair. “Quoi? Zurich?”
“We know about Zurich.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No. Fourteen men in Zurich. Maybe you’ve got the fifteenth.… Elizabeth Scarlatti.”
Canfield could hear Bertholde’s breathing. “Where did you get this information? What do you refer to?”
“Ulster Scarlett! Why do you think I’m here?”
“I don’t believe you! I don’t know what you are talking about!” Bertholde got out of his chair.
“For God’s sake! She’s interested.… Not because of him! Because of you! And the others! She’s got something to offer, and if I were you, I’d listen to her.”