Frenchman’s look of disbelief was over the revelation of Scarlett!s visit
or his–the field accountanes-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 onl I found the rigl The Alpine rigl I found it at the bottom of
a closet in your conference suite at the Savoyl”
“You whatr’
“You heard me! Now, let’s stop kidding each otherl”
“You broke into my firm’s private quarters?”
“I didl 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, I.andor, Thyssen, von Schnitzler, Kindorf . . . . And, oh
yesl Mr. Masterson and Mr. Leacockl Current partners of yours, I believel
There are several others, but I’m sure you know their names better than I
do I”
‘T.noughl Enough, monsieurl” The Marquis de Bertholde sat down again,
slowly, deliberately. He stared at CanfiekL “I will clear my office and we
will talk further.
244
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 ifinisli the afternoon’s businen
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 dwrs. Betore his hand touched
the bran knob, the door on his left opened swiftly, with great fmce-
“So sorry, monsieur,” the man in uniform said.
“Voici les clefs, Labishe,”
“Merci, Monsieur le Marquisl Je regrette…. Fai 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
entmnce 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 extended his left hand through his coat sleeve,
turned his wrist, and looked at the watch. A perfectly normal 0=11717ence
under the circumstances. What startled the field acoountant 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. Tie small stripes were
deep red and black. It was a replica of the cuff link that had identified
the hulking, masked Charles Boothro~d 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.
245
“I was trying to read the time on your watch. Mine’s been running fast.”
“Four twenty.”
“I’lianks.-O
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.”
‘Veil and good for you, Arthurl But I’m late for a meetingl I told Jacques
it was a hectic day, but he insisted I come over.”
d1k can be insistent.”‘
“He can be bloody rude, tool”
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.
The uniformed man went to the secretary and leaned over her desk,
whispering. She reacted to his information vnth resigned annoyance. He
shrugged his shoulders and walked quickly to a door to the right of the
elevator. Canfield saw through the slowly closing door the flight of stairs
he had presumed to be there.
The secretary placed some papers into a manila folder and looked over at
the three men. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, the Marquis de Bertbolde can not see
anyone further this afternoon. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Now see here, young ladyl” The impatient gentleman was on his feet. ‘This
is preposterousl I’ve been here for three-quarters of an hour at the
explicit request of the Marquisl … Request be damnedl At his
instructionsl”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ll convey your displeasure.”
“You’ll do more than thatl You’ll convey to Monsieur Bertholde that I am
waiting right here until he sees mel” He sat down pompously.
The man named Arthur rose and walked toward the elevator.
“For heaven’s sake, man, youtll not improve French manners. People have
been trying for centuries. Come along, Basil. We’ll stop at the Dorchester
and start the evening.,,
“Can’t do it, Arthur. I’m staying right where I am.”
– 246
“Have it your way. Be in touch.”
Canfield remained in his seat next to the unpatient BasiL He knew only that
he would not leave until Bertholde came out. Basil was his best weapon.
“Ring the marquis again, please, miss,” said Basil.
She did so.
A number of times. And there was no response.
The field accountant was alarmed. He rose. from his chair and walked to the
large double doors and knocked. There was no answer. He tried opening both
doors; they were locked.
Basil unfolded his arms and got out of his chair. The spit-curled secretary
stood up behind her white desk. She automatically picked up the phone and
started pressing the buzzer, finally holding her finger down upon it.
“Unlock the door,” commanded the field accountant.
“Oh, I don’t know. . .”
“I dot Get me a keyl”
The girl started to open the top drawer of her desk and then looked up at
the American. “Perhaps we should wait . . . …
“Damn itl Give me the keyl”
“Yes, sirl” She picked up a ring of keys and selecting one, separated it
from the others, and gave the key to Canfield. He rapidly unlocked the
doors and flung them open-
There in front of them was the Frenchman sprawled across the top of his
white desk, blood trickling from his mouth; his tongue was Wended and
swollen; his eyes bulged from their sockets; his neck was inflated and lac-
erated just below the chin line. He had been expertly garroted.
The girl kept screaming but did not oollapse-a fact that Canfield wasn’t
sure was fortunate. Basil began to shake and repeated “Oh, my God!” over
and over again. The field accountant approached the desk and lifted the
dead man’s wrist by the coat sleeve. He let it go and the hand fell back.
The girrs screams grew louder and two middle-aged executives burst through
the staircase doorway into the outer room. Through the double doors the
scene was clear to both men. One ran back to the stairway, shouting at the
top of his voice, while the other slowly, fearfully walked into Bertholde’s
room.
247
“Le bon Dieul”
Within a minute, a stream of employees had run down and up the staircase,
log-jammin themselves in the doorway. As each group squeezed through,
subsequent screa
and oaths followed. Within two minutes twenty five people were shouting
instructions to nonexistent subordbiatm
Canfield sbook the spit-curled secretary in an attempt to stop her
screaming. He kept telling her to phone the police, but she could not
accept the order. Canfield did not want to make the call himself because it
would have required separate concentration. He wished to keep his full
attention on everyone in sight, especially Basil, if that was possible.
A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-baired man in a double-breasted
pin-stripe suit came rushing through the crowd up to the secretary and
Canfield. “Miss Richardsl Miss Richardsl What in Gods name happened?”
“We opened his door and found him like thist Thats what happened,” shouted
the field accountant over the growing din of excited voices.
And then Canfield looked closely at the questioner. Where had he seen him
before? Or had he? The man was like so many in the Scarlatti world. Even to
the per~ fectly waxed moustache.
“Have you phoned the poucer’ asked the gentleman.
Canfield saw Basil pushing his way -through the hysterical mob gathered by
the office doors. “No, the police haven’t been called,” yelled the American
as he watched Basil making headway through the crowd. “Call theml . . . It
might be a good idea to close these doors.” He started after Basil as if to