the man’s huge flank. Canfield pressed himself against the stateroom wall as
the man fell against his shins, writhing in agony. The bone and muscle
tissue in the path of the bullet had been shattered.
Canfield reached down to pull off the silk face covering, now drenched with
blood, when the giant, on his knees, suddenly lashed out with his left arm
pinning the field accountant back against the wall. Canfield pistolwhipped
the man about the head, simultaneously trying to remove the steellike
forearm. As he pulled upward on the man’s wrist, the black sweater ripped
revealing the sleeve of a white shirt. On the cuff was a large cuff link
diagonally striped in red and black.
Briefly, Canfield stopped his assault, trying to assimilate his new
knowledge. The creature, bloodied, wounded, was grunting in pain and
desperation. But Canfield knew him and he was extraordinarily confused.
While trying to steady his right hand, he aimed his revolver carefully at
the man’s kneecap. It was not easy; the strong arm was pressing into his
upper groin with the power of a large piston. As he was about to fire, the
intruder lurched upward, arching his back and heaving his frame against the
smaller man. Canfield pulled the trigger, more as a reaction than intent.
The bullet pierced the upper area of the stomach.
Charles Boothroyd fell again.
Matthew Canfield looked over at the old woman who was reaching for the
bedside phone. He jumped over the man and forcibly took the instrument from
her. He replaced the ear cup in its cradle. “Pleasel I know what rm doingl”
“Are you sure?”
‘-fes. Pleasel Believe mel”
“Good Godl Look outl”
Canfield whirled, narrowly missing having his spine
172
crushed by the lurching, wounded Boothroyd, who had entwined his fingers
into a single harnmerlike weapon.
The man toppled on the end of the bed and rolled off. Canfield pulled the
old woman away and leveled his pistol at the assailant.
“I don’t know how you do it, but if you don’t stop, the next shot goes
right into your forehead. That’s a marksman’s promise, buddyl”
Canfield reflected that he was the only member of the training group to
fail the small-arms target course twice in succession.
Lying on the floor, his vision impaired by the pain as well as the bloody
silk covering his face, Charles Boothroyd knew there was next to nothing
left. His breathing was erratic; blood was spilling into his windpipe.
There was only one hope-to get to his cabin and reach his wife. She’d know
what to do. She’d pay the ship’s doctor a fortune to make him well. And
somehow they would understand. No man could take this kind of punishment
and be questioned.
With enormous effort he began to rise. He muttered incoherently as he
steadied himself on the mattress.
“Don’t try to stand, friend. Just answer a question,” said Canfield.
“What … What? Quit. . .
“Where’s Scarlett?” Canfield felt he was working against time. The man
would coflapse any second.
“Don’t know . .
“Is he alive?”
“Who . . .”
“You know damn well who! Scarlett! Her sont”
With his last resource of strength, Boo-throyd accomplished the seemingly
impossible. Clutching the mattress, he staggered backward as if about to
collapse. His movements pufled the heavy pad partially off the bed, loosen-
ing the hold of the blankets, and as Canfield stepped forward, Boothroyd
suddenly lifted the mattress free of the bed and flung it at the field
accountant. As the mattress rose in the air, Boothroyd rushed against it
with his full weight. Canfield fired wildly into the ceiling as he and the
old woman wedt down under the impact. Boothroyd gave a last push, crushing
the two against the wall and the floor, letting his push spring him back
onto his feet.
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He turned, hardly able to see, and weaved out of the room. Once he reached
the other stateroom he pulled off the stocking, opened the door, and rushed
out.
Elizabeth Scarlatti moaned in pain, groping for her ankle. Canfield pushed
against the mattress, and as it fell off, he tried to help the old woman to
her feet.
“I think my ankle or some part of my foot is broken.”
Canfield wanted only to go af ter Boothroyd but he couldn’t leave the old
woman like this. Too, if he did leave her, she’d be right back on the phone
and at this juncture, that would never do. “I’ll carry you to the bed.”
“For God’s sake put the mattress back first. I’m brittlel”
Canfield was torn between taking off his belt, binding the old woman’s
hands and running after Boothroyd, and carrying out her instructions. The
former would be foolish-she’d scream bloody murder; he replaced the mat-
tress and gently lifted her onto the bed.
“How does it feel?”
“Ghastly.” She winced as he placed the pillows behind her.
“I guess I’d better call the ship’s doctor.” However, Canfield made no
motion toward the phone. He tried to find the words to convince her to let
him have his way.
“There’s plenty of time for that. You want to go after that man, don’t
you?”
Canfield looked at her harshly. “Yes.”
“Why? Do you think he has something to do with my son?”
“Every second I spend explaining lessens the possibility of our ever
finding out.”
“How do I know you’ll be dealing in my interest? You didn’t want me to
phone for help when we certainly needed it. You nearly got us both killed,
as a matter of fact. I think I deserve some explanation.”
“There isn’t time now. Please, trust me.”
“Why should I?”
Canfield’s eye caught sight of the rope dropped by Boothroyd. “Among other
reasons too lengthy to go into, if I hadn’t been here, you would have been
killed.” He pointed at the thin cord on the floor. “If you think that rope
was meant to tie your hands with, remind me to explain the advantages of
garroting with an elasticized cord as opposed to a piece of clothesline.
Your wrists
174
could wriggle out of this.” He picked the cord up and thrust it in front of
her. “NGt your throat!”
She looked at him closely. “Who are you? Whom do you work for?”
Canfield remembered the purpose of his visit-to tell part of the truth. He
had decided to say he was employed by a private firm interested in Ulster
Scarlett-a magazine or some sort of publication. Under the present
circumstances, that was obviously foolish. Boothroyd was no thief; he was
a killer on assignment Elizabeth Scarlatti was marked for assassination.
She was no part of a conspiracy. Canfield needed all the resources avail-
able to him. “I’m a representative of the United States government.”
“Oh, my Godl That ass, Senator Brownleel I had no ideal”
“Neither does he, I assure you. Without knowing it, he got us started, but
that’s as far as he goes.”
“And now I presume all Washington is playing detective and not informing
me!”
“If ten people in all Washington know about it, J’d be surprised. How’s
your ankler
“It will survive, as I shall under the circumstances.”
“If I call the doctor, will you make up some story about falling? Just to
give me time. That’s all I ask.”
“I’ll do you one better, Mr. Canfield. I’ll let you go now. We can call a
doctor later if it’s necessary.” She opened the drawer in the bedside table
and handed him the stateroom key.
Canfield started toward the door.
“Under one condition.” The old woman raised her voice sufficiently to stop
him.
“What’s that?”
‘That you give due consideration to a proposition I have to make to you.”
Canfield turned and faced her quizzically. “What kind of proposition?”
“That you go to work for me.”
“I’ll be back soon,” said the field accountant as he ran through the door.
175
CHAPTER 21
Three-quarters of an hour later Canfield let himself quietly back into
Elizabeth Scarlatti’s stateroom. The moment the old woman heard the key in
the latch she cried out apprehensively.
“Who is it?”
“Canfield.” He walked in.
“Did you find him?”
“I did. May I sit down?”
“Please.”
“What happened? For heaven’s sake, Mr. Canfieldl What happened? Who is he?”
“His name was Boothroyd. He worked for a New York brokerage house. He
obviously was hired, or assigned to kill you. He’s dead and his earthly
remains are behind us-I judge about three miles.”
“Good Godl” The old woman sat down.
“Shall we start at the beginning?”
‘-foung man, do you know what you’ve done? Therell be searches, inquiries!
The ship will be in an uproarl”
Oh, someone will be in an uproar, I grant you. But I doubt that there will
be more than a routine, and I suspect, subdued inquiry. With a grieving,
confused widow confined to her quarters.”
“What do you mean?”
Canfield told her how he had located the body Dear Boothroyd’s own