smiling except that the face in the automobile window was now in his direct
line of sight. The field accountant saw that it was a good-looking
face-striking would be -the word. Although the face was somewhat obscured
by the wide brim of a hat, Canfield noticed that the features were sharp,
aquiline, clean-cut. What particularly struck the field accountant were the
eyes.
They were very light blue eyes. Yet he was addressed by the Italian
“padrone.” Canfield assumed there were Italians with blue eyes but he had
never met any. it was unusual.
70
“What do we do, Padrone?” asked the short man who had given Canfield the
hundred dollars.
“What else, sport! He’s a visitor to our shores, isn’t he? Be courteous,
Vitone. . . . Take the captain outside and let him . . . make his phone
calls.” Then the man with the light blue eyes lowered his voice. “And kill
himi”
The small Italian nodded his head slightly in the direction of the pier
entrance. The two men on each side of the uniformed officer pushed him
forward, out the large door into the darkness of the night.
“Chisma, le nostri amici said the Soon on the
captain’s right -arm
But the captain resisted. Once outside, in the dim spill of the dooes
fight, Canfield could see that he began violently thrashing his body
against both escorts until the one on the left lost his balance. The
captain then swung into the other man with both fists, shouting at him in
Italian.
The man who had been shoved away regained his balance, and took something
out of his pocket. Canfield couldn’t distinguish its shape.
Then Canfield saw what it was.
A knife.
The man behind the captain plunged it into the officer’s unguarded back.
Matthew Canfield pulled the visor of his customs cap down and began walking
away from the automobiles. He walked slowly, casually.
“Heyl Youl Youl Customsl” It was the blue-eyed man from the back seat.
“Youl Lake Eriel” the short Italian yelled.
Canfield turned. “I didn’t see anything. Not a thing. Nothin’l” He tried to
smile but no smile would come.
The man with the light blue eyes stared at him as Canfield squinted and
pinched his face below the visor of his cap. The short Italian nodded to
the driver of the first car.
The driver got out and came behind the field ac. oountant.
“Porta lui fuori vicin’ a I’acqual Sepsa fuccidel Corteddol” said the short
man.’
The driver pushed Canfield in the small of the back toward the pier
entrance. “Hey, cmonl I didn’t see noth-
71
in7l What d’you want with met … C’mon, for Christ’s sakel”
Matthew Canfield didn’t have to be given an answer. He knew exactly what
they wanted from him. His insignificant life.
The man behind him kept pushing, nudging him onward. Around the building.
Along the deserted side of the pier.
Two rats -scampered several yards in front of Canfield and his executioner.
The growing sounds of arguments could be heard behind the walls of the
cargo are4i. The Hudson River slapped against the huge pylons of the dock.
Canfield stopped. He wasn7t sure why but he couldn’t simply keep walking.
The pain in his stomach was the pain Of fear.
“A left chil … Keep movinT’ said the man, poking a revolver into
Canfield’s ribs.
“Listen to me.” Gone was Canfield’s attempt to roupen his voice. -rm a
government mani You do anything to me, they’ll get youl You wont get any
protection from your friends when they find ouL . .
Keep moviie I”
A shiVs hom sounded from the middle of the nver. Another responded.
Then came a long, screeching, piercing whistle. It came from the
Genoa-SteUa. It was a signal, a desperate signal, which did not let up. The
pitch of its scream was car shattering.
It distracted-as it had to-the man with the gun’beside Canfield.
The field accountant lashed out at the man’s wrist and held it, twisted it
with all his streixgth. T”he man reached up to Canfield’s face and clawed
at the sockets of his eyes while pushing him toward the steel wall of the
building. Canfield gripped the wrist harder, harder, and then with his
other hand clutched at the man’s overcoat and pulled him toward the
wall-the same direction the man was pushing-turning at the last second so
that his executioner slammed into the steel.
The gun flew out of the Sicilian’s hand and Canfield brought his knee
crashing up into the man’s groin.
The Italian screamed a guttural cry of anguish. Canfield threw him downward
and the man lunged, writhing,
72
across the deck to the edge of the pier. curled UP in agony. The field
accountant grabbed his head and slammed it repeatedly against the thick
wood. The skin broke and blood came pouring out of the man!s skull.
It was over in less than a minute.
Matthew CAnfield’s executioner was dead.
The shrieking whistle from the Genoa-Stella kept up its now terrifying
blast. The shouting from within the pier’s loading area had reached a
crescendo.
Canfield thought that the ship’s crew must have openly revolted, must have
demanded orders from their captain, and when they did not come, assumed him
murdered-or at least held captive.
Several gunshots followed one after the other. The staccato sound of a
submachine gun-more screaming, more cries of terror.
The field accountant couldn’t return to the front of the building, and
undoubtedly someone would come out looking for his executioner.
He rolled the body of the dead Sicilian over the edge of the dock and heard
the splash below.
The whistle from the Genoa-Stella stopped. The shouting began to die down.
Someone had assumed control. And at the front end of the pier two men came
in sighL They called out.
“La Tonal Hey, La Tonal La Tona. . .
Matthew Canfield jumped into the filthy waters of the Hudson and started
swimming, as best he could in his heavy customs uniform, toward the middle
of the river.
“You’re a very lucky fellowl” said Benjamin Reynolds. “I know that, sir. And
grateful it’s over.”
“We’re not called on for this sort of thing. I realim You take a week off.
Relax.”
-11hank you, sir.”
“Glover will be here in a few minutes. It’s still a bit early.”
it was. It was six fifteen in -the morning. Canfield hadn’t reached
Washington until four and he was afraid to go to his apartment. He had
phoned Benjamin Reynolds at home and Reynolds had instructed the field
accountant to go to the Group Twenty offices and wait for him.
73
The outer door opened and Reynolds called. “Glover? ‘Mat yott?”
fes, Ben. Jesusl It!s not six thirty yet. . . . A lousy night. My son!s
kids are with us.” The voice was weary, and when Glover reached Reynoldss
door, it was apparent that the man was wearier . . . . .. Hello, C;anfield.
What the hell happened to you?-
Matthew Can&.K field ammtant, told the entin story.
When he had finished, Reynolds spoke to Glover. “Irve phoned Lake Erie
Customs-his personnel files been removed. The. boys in New York cleared out
his room there. it hadn’t been touched. Is there any other backup we should
worry about?”
Glover thought for a moment “Yes. Probably. In case the Lake Erie
employment file’s gone after-and it win be-put out a rumor on the docks
that Canfield
.. Cannon … was a fake name for a hit man… That ii; was caught up with
in Los Angeles or San Diego or someplace, and was shot rii take we of iL”
“Good. … Now, Caofield~ Fm going to show you several photographs. Without
any comments on my part – . -see if you can identify thenL” Benjamin
Reynolds walked to a Me cabinet and opened iL He took out a folder and
returned to his desk. “Here.” He withdrew live photographs–three blowups
from newspapers and two Prison shots.
it took Canfield less than a second once they were arrange& 11rhaes hunt
TbaiVs the one the little wop called padroner
-11 Scarlatti padrone.” Glover said quietly.
‘The identification!s absolutely positive?”
“Sum … And if he’s got blue eyes, iCs Holy WriL”
“You could swear to it in courtr’
“Of course.”
“Hey, Ben, come oni” interrupted Glover, who knew that such an action on
Matthew Canfield, s Part Was a death warrant.
‘Tin only asking.”
Who is he?” said Canfield.
yes. who is be? … what is he? . rm not sure i should even answer the
first but if you found out some other way-and you could, easily-it might
be dangerous.”
74
Reynolds turned the photographs over. A name was printed in heavy black
crayon.
“Ulster Stewart Scarlett-n6 Scarlatti,” the field accountant read out loud.
“He won a medal in the war, didn’t he? A millionaire.” –
“Yes, he did and he is,” answered Reynolds. “This identification’s got to
remain secret. And I mean totally classifiedl Is that understood?”