warning. She immediately dismissed the theory that Cartwright’s
“questionable activities” caused his murder. He was a joke.
What Elizabeth had to be prepared for was the discovery of her agreement
with Cartwright. There could be several explanations, which she would issue
without elaboration. Of course, regardless of what she said, the consensus
would be that age had finally caught up with her. Such an agreement with
such a man as Jefferson Cartwright was proof of eccentri7city to the degree
that raised questions of competence.
This did not concern Elizabeth Scarlatti. She was not subject to the
opinion of others.
What concerned her, and concerned her deeply, was the cause of her profound
fear: the fact that the agreement might not be found.
Back at the captain’s table she dismissed her absence with a short, sincere
statement that one of her trusted executives, of whom she was quite fond,
had died. As she obviously did not wish to dwell on the subject, her dinner
companions uttered their sympathies, and after an appropriate pause in
their conversations, resumed their small talk. The captain of the
Ca1purnia, an overstuffed Englishman with thickly matted eyebrows and
enormous jowls, noted ponderously 1hat the loss of a good executive must be
akin to the tramfer of a well-trained mate.
The young man next to Elizabeth leaned toward her and spoke softly. “Right
out of Gilbert and SuWvan, isn7t he?”
The old woman smiled back in agreeable conspiracy. Beneath the babble of
voices she answered him quietly. “A monarch of the sea. Can’t you picture
him ordering up the cat-o’-nine-tails?”
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“No,” replied the young man. “But I can picture him climbing out of his
bathtub. It’s funnier.”
“You’re a wicked boy. If we hit an iceberg, I shall avoid you.”
“You couldn’t. I’d be in the first lifeboat and certainly someone around
here would reserve a seat for you.” He smiled disarmingly.
Elizabeth laughed. The young man amused her and it was refreshing to be
treated with a degree of goodhumored insoleDce. They chatted pleasantly
about their forthcoming itineraries in Europe. It was fascinating, in an
offhand way, because neither had any intention of telling the other
anything of consequence.
With dinner over, the captain’s troupe of very important passengers made
their way to the game room and paired off for bridge.
“I assume you’re a terrible card player,” Canfield said, smiling at
Elizabeth. “Since I’m rather good, I’ll carry YOU-”
“It’s difficult to refuse such a flattering invitation.”
And then he inquired: “Who died? Anyone I might know?”
“I doubt it, young man.”
“You never can tell. Who was it?”
“Now why in the world would you know an obscure executive in my bank?”
“I gathered he was a pretty important fellow.”
“I imagine some people thought he was.”
“Well, if he was rich enough, I might have sold him a tennis court.”
“Really, Mr. Canfield, you’re the limit” Elizabeth laughed as they reached
the lounge.
During the game Elizabeth noted that although young Canfield had the quiet
flair of a first-rate player, he really wasn’t very good. At one point he
made himself dummy, quite unnecessarily thought Elizabeth, but she put it
down to a form of courtesy. He inquired of the lounge steward if there was
a particular brand of cigars on hand, and when offered substitutes, excused
himself saying that he’d get some from his stateroom..
Elizabeth reme ‘ mbered that back in the dining room
during their coffee the charming Mr. Canfield hadopened
a fresh pack of thin cigars.
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He returned several minutes after the hand was finished and apologized by
explaining that he had helped an elderly gentleman, somewhat overcome by
the sea, back to his cabin.
The opponents muttered complimentary phrases, but Elizabeth said nothing.
She simply stared at the young man and noted with a degree of satisfaction,
as well as alarm, that he avoided her gaze.
The game ended early; the pitch of the Ca1purnia was now quite unsettling.
Canfield escorted Elizabeth Scarlatti to her suite.
“You’ve been charming,” she said. “I now release you to pursue the younger
generation.”
Canfield smiled and handed her the keys. “If you insist. But you condemn me
to boredom. You know that.”
“Times have changed, or perhaps the young men.”
“Perhaps.” It seemed to Elizabeth that he was anxious to leave.
“Well, an old woman thanks you.”
“A not so young man -thanks you. Good night, Madame ScarlattL”
She turned to him. “Are you still interested in who the man was who died?”
“I gathered you didn’t want to tell me. Its not important. Good night.”
“His name was Cartwright. Jefferson Cartwright. Did you know him?” She
watched his eyes closely.
“No, I’m sorry I didn’t.” His look was steady and entirely innocent. “6ood
night.”
“Good night, young man.” She entered her suite and closed the door. She
could hear his footsteps fading away down the outside corridor. He was a
man in a hurry.
Elizabeth removed her mink and walked into the large comfortable bedroom
with its heavy furniture secured to the floor. She turned on a lamp
attached to the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. She tried to
recall more specifically what the Ca1purnia’s captain bad said of the young
man when he had presented his table for her approval.
“And then there’s a chap, very well connected, I might add, named
Canfield.”
Elizabeth paid no more attention to his abbreviated biography than she had
to the others.
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“Hes associated with a sporting goods concern and crosses rather regularly.
Wimbledon, I believe.”
-And then, if Elizabeth’s memory served her well, the captain had added.
“Priority request from the ship line. Probably the son of an old boy.
School tie and that sort of thing. Had to drop Dr. Barstow for him.”
Elizabeth had given her approval without any questions.
So the young man had a friority request for the captain!s table from the
owners of an English steamship company. And a fatuous captain, accustomed
to associating with the social and professional leaders of both continents,
had felt obliged to drop a highly regarded surgeon in his favor.
If for no other reason than to quell an inexhaustible imagination,
Elizabeth picked up the stateroom phone and asked for the wireless room.
“Ca1purnia radio, good evening.” The British accent trailed off the word
evening to a hum.
“This is Elizabeth Scartatti, suite double A, three. May I speak with the
officer in charge, if you please.”
‘This is Deck Offic.er Peters. May I help your,
“Were you the officer who was on duty earlier this eveningr,
“Yes, madame. Your wires to New York went out immediately. They should be
delivered within the hour.”
“Thank you. However, thafs not why rm calling…. rm afraid I’ve missed
someone I was to meet in the radio mom. Has anyone asked for mer, She
listened carefully for even the slightest hesitation. There was none.
‘No, madame, no one’s asked for you.”
‘Well, he might have been somewhat embarrassed. I really feel quite
guilty.”
-rm sorry, Madame Scarlatti. Outside of yourself there’ve been only three
passengers here all evening. first night out, yknow.”
“Since there were only three, would you mind terribly describing them to
me?”
“Oh, not at all. . . . Well, there was an elderly couple from tourist and
a gentleman, a bit squiffed, I’m afraid, who wanted the wireless tour.”
‘The what?”
“The tour, madame. We have three a day for the first
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class. Ten, twelve, and two. Nice chap, really. Just a pint too many.”
“Was he a young man? In his late twenties, perhapsT Dressed in a dinner
jacket?”
“That description would apply, madame.”
“I”hank you, Officer Peters.. It’s an inconsequential matter, but I’d
appreciate your confidence.”
“Of course.”
Elizabeth rose and walked to the sitting room. Her bridge partner might
not be very skilled at cards, but he was a superb actor.
I
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CHAPTER 19
Matthew Canfield hurried down the corridor for the simple reason that his
stomach was upset. Maybe the barand the crowd–on B deck would make him feel
better. He found his way and ordered a brandy.
“Hell of a party, isn’t it?”
A huge, broad-shouldered fullback-type crowded Oanfield against the
adjacent stool.
“Certainly is,” Canfield replied with a. meaningless grin.
“I know youl You’re at the captain’s table. We saw you at dinner.”
“Good food there.”
“Pknow something? I could have been at the captain’s table, but I said shit
on it.”
“Well, that would have made an interesting hors d’oeuvre.”
“No, I mean it” The accent, Canfield determined, was Tiffany-edged Park
Avenue. “Uncle of mine owns a lot Of stock. But I said shit on it”
“You can take my place, if you want to.”
The fullback reeled slightly backward and grasped the bar for support.
“Much too dull for us. Hey, barkeepl Bourbon and gingerl”
The fullback steadied himself and swayed back toward Canfield. His eyes
were glazed and almost without muscular control. His very blond hair was