responsible for our lives.”
She told him.
And Matthew Canfield knew exactly what he would do. It was time to confront
the Marquis de Bertholde.
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CHAPTER 31
Fifty-seven miles southeast of London is -the seaside resort of Ramsgate.
Near the town, on a field set back from the main road, stood a wooden shack
no more than twenty feet by twenty. It had two small windows and in the
early-morning mist a dim light could be seen sbinin through them. About a
hundred yards to the north was a larger buddmg–*nce a bam-five times the
size of the shack. It was now a hangar for two small monoplanes. One of them
was being wheeled out by three men in gray overalls.
inside the shack, the man with the shaved head sat at a table drinking
black coffee and munching bread. The reddish splotch above his right eye
was sore and inflamed and he touched it continually.
He read the message in front of him and looked up at the bearer, a man in
a chauffeues uniform. The conterits of the message infuriated him.
rhe marquis has gone too far. The instructions from Munich were clear The
Rawhnses were na to be killed in the States. They were to be brought to
Zurichl They were to be killed in Zurichr
rbeWs no need for concern. Their deaths, the man and his wife, were
engineered above suspicion. The marquis wanted you to know that It has
appeared as an acC
‘ident 99
L
“To whom? God damn it, to whom? Go shag, all of youl Munich doesn’t want
risksl In Zurich there would have been no riskl” Ulster Scarlett rose
from the chair and walked to the small window overlooking the fiel(L
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His plane was nearly ready. He hoped his fury would subside before takeoff.
He disliked flying when he was angry. He made mistakes in the air when he
was angry. It had been happening more frequently as the Pressures mounted-
God damn Bertholdel Certainly Rawlins had to be killed. In his panic over
Cartwright’s discovery Rawlins had ordered his son-in-law to kill Elizabeth
Scarlatti. A massive errorl Its funny, he reflected. He no longer thought
of the old woman as his mother. Simply Elmbeth Scarlatti. . . . But to have
Rawlins murdered three thousand miles away was insaaityl How could they
know who was asking questions? And how easily might the order be traced
back to Bertholde?
“Regardless of what happened . Labishe started to speak-
“What?” Scarlett turned from the window. He had made up his mind.
‘I’he marquis also wanted you to know that regardless of what happened to
Boothroyd, all associations with him are buried with the Rawlinses.”
“Not quite, Labishe. Not quite.” Scarlett spoke softly but his voice was
hard. ‘-Me Marquis de Bertholde was -ordered . . . commanded by Munich to
have the Rawlinses brought to Switzerland. He disobeyed. That was most
unfortunate.”
“Pardon, monsieur?”
Scarlett reached for his flying jacket, which hung over the back of his
chair. Again be spoke quietly, simply. Two words.
‘Kill him.”
“Monsieurl”
“Kill himl Kill the Marquis de Bertholde and do it todayl”
“Monsieurl I do not believe what I hearl”
“Listen to mel I don’t give explanationsl By the time I reach Munich I want
a cable waiting for me telling me that stupid son of a bitch is deadl …
And, Labishel Do it so there’s no mistake who killed him. Youl We can’t
have any investigations nowl ‘ . . Get back here to the field. We’ll fly
you out of the country.”
“Monsieur! I have been with le marquis for fifteen years! He has been good
to mel … I can not…”
“You what?”
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“Monsieur. . .” The Frenchman sunk to one knee. “DO not ask me. … .”
“I dcet ask. I commandl Munich commandsl”
The foyer on the third floor of BerthOlde et Fils was enormous. In the rear
was an impressive set of white Louis XIV doors that obviously led to the
sanctum Sancm torum of the Marquis do Bertholde. On the right side were six
brown leather armchairs in a semicircle–the sort that might be found in
the study of a wealthy country squire–with a thick rectangular coffee
table placed in front. On the table were neatly stacked Piles Of chic
magazine&–chic socially and chic industrially. On the left side of the
room was a large white desk trimmed in gold. Behind the desk sat a most
attractive brunet with spit curls silhouetted against her forehead. All
this Canfield took in with his second impression. It took him several
moments to get over his first.
Opening the elevator door, he had been visually overpowered by the color
scheme of the walls.
They were magenta red and sweeping from the ceiling moldings were arcs of
black velvet
Good Christl he said to himself. rm in a hallway thirty-five hundred miles
awayl
Seated in the chairs beside one another were two middle-aged gentlemen in
Savile Row clothes reading magazines. Standing off to the right was a man
in a chauffeur’s uniform, his hat off, his hands clasped behind his back.
Canfield approached the desk. The spit-curled secretary greeted him before
he could speak. “Mr. Canfield?”
“Yes. 11
“I’lie marquis would like you to go right in, sir.” The girl spoke as she
rose from the chair and started toward the large white doors. Canfield saw
that the man seated on the left was upset. He uttered a few “Damnsl” and
went back to his magazine.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Canfield.” The fourth marquis of Chatellerault stood
behind his large white desk and extended his hand. “We have not met, of
course, but an emissary from Elizabeth Scarlatti is a welcome guest. Do sit
down.”
Bertholde was almost wnat Canfield expected him to
242
be, except, perhaps, shorter. He was well-groomed, relatively handsome, very
masculine, with a voice resonant enough to fill an opera house. However, in
spite of his exuding virility-bringing to mind the Matterhom and the
Jungfrau-there was somethmg artificial, slightly effete about the man.
Perhaps the clothing. It was almost too fashionable.
“How do you dor’ Canfield smiled, shaking the Frenchman’s hand. ” Is it
Monsieur Bertholde? or Monsieur le Marquis? I’m not sure which I should
use.”
“I could tell you several uiiflattering names given me by your countrymen.”
The marquis laughed. “But please, use the French custom–.so scorned by our
proper Anglicans. Plain Bertholde will do. Marquises are such an outof-date
custom.” The Frenchman smiled ingenuously and waited until Canfield sat in
the chair in front of his desk before returning to his seat. Jacques Louis
Aumont Bertholde, fourth marquis of Chatellerault, was immensely likable
and Canfield recognized the fact
“I appreciate your interrupting your schedule.”
“Schedules are made to be broken. Such a dull existence otherwise, yes?”
.11 won’t waste time, sir. Elizabeth Scarlatti wants to negotiate.”
Jacques Bertholde leaned back in his chair and looked startled. “Negotiate?
. . . I’m afraid I don’t comprehend, monsieur… . Negotiate whatr’
“She knows, Bettholde… She knows as much as she needs to kqow. She wants
to meet you.”
“I’d be delighted-at any :dme-to meet Madame Scarlatti but I can’t imagine
what we have to discuss. Not in a business sense, monsieur, which I presume
to be your … errand.”
“Maybe the key is her son. Ulster Scarlett.”
Bertholde leveled his gaze intently on the field accountant. “It is a key
for which I ‘have no lock, monsieur. I have not had the pleasure. . . . I
know, as most who read newspapers know, that he vanished a number of months
ago. But that is all I know.”
“And you don’t know a thing about Zurich?”
Jacques Bertholde abruptly sat up in his chair. ‘Vuoi? Zurich?”
“We know about Zurich.”
“Is this a joke?”
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-No. Fourteen men in Zurich. Maybe you’ve got the fifteenth…. Elizabeth
ScarlattL”
Canfield could hear Bertholde’s breathing. ‘Where did you get this
information? What do you refer to?”
“Uster Scarlettl Why do you think I’m here?”
“I don’t believe youl I don7t know what you are talking abouti” Bertholde
got out of his chair.
For God’s sakel She’s interested. . . . Not bemuse of himi Because of youl
And the othersl She’s got something to offer, and if I were. you, rd listen
to her.”
“But you are not me, monsieurl Im afraid I must ask you to leave. There is
no business between Madame Scarlatti and the Bertholde companies.”
Canfield did not move. He remained in the chair and spoke quietly. “Then
I’d better put it another way. I think you’ll have to see her. Talk with
her. For your own good. For Zurich’s good.”
“You threaten me?”
“If you don’t, it’s my opinion -that she’ll do something drastic. I don’t
have to tell you she’s a powerful woman. … You’re linked with her son.
And she met with her son last nightt”
Bertholde stood motionless. Canfield couldn’t decide whether the