The Scarlatti Inheritance(93)
“But you are not me, monsieur! I’m afraid I must ask you to leave. There is no business between Madame Scarlatti and the Bertholde companies.”
Canfield did not move. He remained in the chair and spoke quietly. “Then I’d better put it another way. I think you’ll have to see her. Talk with her.… For your own good. For Zurich’s good.”
“You threaten me?”
“If you don’t, it’s my opinion that she’ll do something drastic. I don’t have to tell you she’s a powerful woman.… You’re linked with her son.… And she met with her son last night!”
Bertholde stood motionless. Canfield couldn’t decide whether the Frenchman’s look of disbelief was over the revelation of Scarlett’s visit or his—the field accountant’s—knowledge of it.
After a few moments Bertholde replied, “I know nothing of what you speak. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, come on! I found the rig! The Alpine rig! I found it at the bottom of a closet in your conference suite at the Savoy!”
“You what?”
“You heard me! Now, let’s stop kidding each other!”
“You broke into my firm’s private quarters?”
“I did! And that’s just the beginning. We’ve got a list. You might know some of the names on it.… Daudet and D’Almeida, fellow countrymen, I think.… Olaffsen, Landor, Thyssen, von Schnitzler, Kindorf.… And, oh yes! Mr. Masterson and Mr. Leacock! Current partners of yours, I believe! There are several others, but I’m sure you know their names better than I do!”
“Enough! Enough, monsieur!” The Marquis de Bertholde sat down again, slowly, deliberately. He stared at Canfield. “I will clear my office and we will talk further. People have been waiting. It does not look good. Wait outside. I will dispense with them quickly.”
The field accountant got out of the chair as Bertholde picked up the telephone and pressed the button for his secretary.
“Monsieur Canfield will remain. I wish to finish the afternoon’s business as rapidly as possible. With each person interrupt me in five minutes if I have not concluded by then. What? Labishe? Very well, send him in. I’ll give them to him.” The Frenchman reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys.
Canfield crossed to the large white double doors. Before his hand touched the brass knob, the door on his left opened swiftly, with great force.
“So sorry, monsieur,” the man in uniform said.
“Voici les clefs, Labishe.”
“Merci, Monsieur le Marquis! Je regrette.… J’ai un billet …”
The chauffeur closed the door and Canfield smiled at the secretary.
He wandered over to the semicircle of chairs, and as the two gentlemen looked up, he nodded pleasantly. He sat down on the end chair nearest the entrance to Bertholde’s office and picked up the London Illustrated News. He noted that the man nearest him was fidgeting, irritable, quite impatient. He was turning the pages of Punch, but he was not reading. The other man was engrossed in an article in the Quarterly Review.
Suddenly, Canfield was diverted by an insignificant action on the part of the impatient man. The man extended his left hand through his coat sleeve, turned his wrist, and looked at the watch. A perfectly normal occurrence under the circumstances. What startled the field accountant was the sight of the man’s cuff link. It was made of cloth and it was square with two stripes running diagonally from corner to corner. The small stripes were deep red and black. It was a replica of the cuff link that had identified the hulking, masked Charles Boothroyd in Elizabeth Scarlatti’s stateroom on board the Calpurnia. The colors were the same as the paper on the marquis’ walls and the black velvet drapes arcing from the ceiling.
The impatient man noticed Canfield’s stare. He abruptly withdrew his hand into his jacket and placed his arm at his side.
“I was trying to read the time on your watch. Mine’s been running fast.”
“Four twenty.”
“Thanks.”
The impatient gentleman folded his arms and leaned back, looking exasperated. The other man spoke.
“Basil, you’ll have a stroke if you don’t relax.”
“Well and good for you, Arthur! But I’m late for a meeting! I told Jacques it was a hectic day, but he insisted I come over.”
“He can be insistent.”
“He can be bloody rude, too!”
There followed five minutes of silence except for the rustling of papers at the secretary’s desk.
The large left panel of the white double doors opened and the chauffeur emerged. He closed the door, and Canfield noticed that once it was shut, the chauffeur twisted the knob to make sure it was secure. It was a curious motion.