dashboard.
“Brace yourselves! Both of you!”
Canfield held the Bentley in the center, crossing to the right each time
the car behind him tried to squeeze between him and the solid ground. The
level field was nearer now. Only another hundred yards.
There were, two sharp, heavy crunches as the Bentley lurched spastically
under the second car’s impact. Janet Scarlett screamed. Her mother-in-law
kept silent, clutching the girl’s shoulders from behind, helping to brace
her.
The level pasture was now on the left and Canfield suddenly swerved the car
toward it, going off the road, holding to the dirt border beyond the
pavement.
The pursuing car plunged forward at tremendous speed. Canfield riveted his
eyes on the rapidly receding black-and-white license plate. He shouted, “E,
B . . . I or Ll Sevent Seven or ninel One, one, threel” He repeated the
numbers again softly, quickly. He slowed the Bentley down and came to a.
stop.
Janet’s back was arched against the seat. She held Elizabeth’s arms with
both her hands. The old woman sat forward, her cheek pressed against her
daughter-in-law’s head.
Elizabeth spoke.
“The letters you called out. were E, B, I or L, the numbers, seven or nine,
one, one, three.”
“I couldn’t tell the make of the car.”
Elizabeth spoke again as she took her arms from Janet’s shoulders.
“It was a Mercedes-Benz.”
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CHAPTER 26
“The automobile in question is a Mercedes-Benz coup& Nineteen twenty-five
model. The license is EBI nine, one, one, three. The vehicle is registered
in the name of Jacques Louis Bertholde. Once again, the Marquis de
Bertholde.” James Derek stood by Canfield in front of Elizabeth and Janet
who sat on the sofa. He read from his notebook and wondered if these curious
Americans realized who the marquis was. Bertholde, too, often stayed at the
Savoy and was probably as rich as Elizabeth Scarlatti.
“The same man who met Boothroyd’s wife at the pier?” asked Canfield.
“Yes. Or I should say, no. We assume it was Bertholde at the pier from your
description. It couldn’t have been yesterday. We’ve established that he was
in London. However, the automobile is registered to him.”
“What do you think, Mr. Derek?” Elizabeth smoothed her dress and avoided
looking at the Englishman. There was something about the man that disturbed
her.
“I don’t know what to think. . . . However, I feel I should tell you that
the Marquis de Bertholde is a resident alien of considerable influence and
position. . . .”
“He is the owner of Bertholde et Fils, as I recall.” Elizabeth rose from
the sofa and gave her empty sherry glass to Canfield. It was not that she
wished more wine. She was just too wrought up to sit still. “Bertholde et
Fils is an old established firm.”
The field accountant went to the drinks table and poured Elizabeth’s
sherry.
207
“Then you’ve met the marquis, Madame Scarlatti? Perhaps you know him?”
Elizabeth didn’t like Derek’s insinuation. “No, I do not know the marquis.
I may have met his father. I’m not sure. The Bertholdes go back many
years.”
Canfield handed Elizabeth her glass aware that the old woman and the
British operative were playing a mental tennis game. He broke in. “Whafs
his business?”
“Plural. Businesses. Near East oil, mining and drilling in Africa,
imports-Australia and South America.
“Why is he a resident alien?”
“I can answer that,” said Elizabeth, returning to the couch. “The physical
plants-his offices-are, no doubt. within Empire territories or
protectorates.”
“Quite correct, madame,” said Derek. “Since the majority of his interests
lie within the borders of British possessions, he deals continuously with
Whitehall. lie does so, most favorably.”
“Is there a government dossier on Bertholde?”
“As a resident alien, of course there is.”
“Can you get it for me?”
“I’d have to have a very sound reason. You know that.”
“Mr. Derekl” interrupted Elizabeth. “An attempt was made on my life aboard
the Ca1purnia! Yesterday in Wales an automobile tried to run us off the
roadl In both instances the Marquis de Bertholde can 1)6 implicated. I
would call these sound reasonst”
“I’m afraid I must disagree. What you describe are police matters. Anything
I know to the contrary is privileged information and I respect it as such.
Certainly no charges are being made in either case. It’s a gray area, I
grant you, but Canfield knows what I’m talking about.”
The field accountant looked at Elizabeth and she knew the time had come to
use his ploy. He had explained that eventually they would have to. He had
called it-,,part of the truth.” The reason was simple. British Intelligence
was not going to be used as someone’s personal police force. There had to
be other justifications. Justifications that Washington would confirm.
Canfield looked at the Englishman and spoke softly.
“The United States government wouldn’t involve any agency unless there were
reasons beyond police matters. When Madame Scarlatti’s son-Mrs. Scarletfs
husband-
208
was in Europe last year, large sums of money, in the form of negotiable
securities on a number of American corporations, were forwarded to him. We
think they were sold undercover on the Eurovean markets. The British
exchange included.”
“Are you telling me that someone is forming an Amencan monopoly over here?”
“The State Department thinks that the manipulation was handled by our own
embassy personnel. They’re right here in London now.”
“Your own embassy personnell And you think Scarlett was a party to it?”
“We think he wits used.” Elizabeth’s voice pierced the air. “Used and then
eliminated.”
“He traveled in that crowd, Derek. So does the Marquis de Bertholde.”
James Derek replaced his small notebook in his breast pocket. The
explanation obviously was sufficient. The British operative was also very
curious. “I’ll have a copy of the dossier for you tomorrow, Canfield. Good
evening, ladies.” He went out.
“I congratulate you, young man. Embassy personnel. Really very intelligent
of you.”
“I think he was remarkablel” said Janet Scarlett, smiling at him
“It’ll work,” mumbled the field accountant, swallowmg the major portion of
a Scotch. “Now, may I suggest we all need some relief. Speaking for myself,
I’m tired of thinking-and I wouldn’t appreciate a comment on that, Madame
Scarlatti. How about dinner at one of those places you upper class always
go? I hate dancing but I swear I’ll dance with you both until you drop.”
Elizabeth and Janet laughed.
“No, but -1 thank you,” said Elizabeth. “You two go and romp.” She lookeil
at the field accountant fondly. “An old woman thanks you again, Mr.
Canfield.”
“You’ll lock the doors and windowsT’
“Seven stories off the ground? Of course, if you like.”
“I do,” said Canfield.
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CHAPTER 27
“It’s heavenl” shrieked Janet over the din of voices at Claridge’s. “Come
on, Matthew, don’t look so sourl”
“I’m not sour. I just can’t hear you.”
“Yes, you are. You didn’t like it. Let me enjoy iL”
“I will. I will! Do you want to dance?”
“No. You hate dancing. I just want to watch.”
“No charge. Watch. Ifs good whiskey.”
“Good what?”
“I said whiskey.”
“No, thanks. See? I can be good. You’re two up on me, you know.”
“I may be sixty up on you if this keeps going.”
11ftat, darling?”
“I said I may be sixty when we get out of here.”
“Oh, stop it. Have funt”
Canfield looked at the girl opposite him and felt once again a surge of
joy. There was no other word but joy. She was a delight that filled him
with pleasure, with warmth. Her eyes held the immediacy of commitment that
only a lover can know. Yet Canfield tried so hard to disassociate, to
isolate, to objectify, and found that he could not do it.
“I love you very much,” he said.
She heard him through the music, the laughter, the undercurrent hum of
movement.
“I know.” She looked at him and her eyes had the hint of tears. “We love
each other. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“Do you want to dance, nowr’
The girl threw back her head ever so slightly. “Oh,
210
Matthewl My dear, sweet Matthew. No, darling. You don’t have to dance.”
‘Now, look, I will.”
She clasped his hand. “We’ll dance by ourselves, all by ourselves later.”
Matthew Canfield made up his mind that he would have this woman for the
rest of his life.
But he was a professional and his thoughts turned for a moment to the old
woman at the Savoy.
Elizabeth Wyckham Scarlatti at that moment got out of her bed and into a
dressing gown. She had been reading the Manchester Guardian. Turning its
thin pages, she heard two sharp metallic clicks accompanied by a mufBed
sound of movement from the living room. She was not at first startled by
the noise; she had bolted the hallway door and presumed that her
daughter-in-law was fumbling with a key unable to enter because of the
latch. After all, it was two o’clock in the morning and the &I should have