Chapter Twelve

After two months, with nothing further to write about or to broadcast, the novelty of Ulster Scarlett’s disappearance wore off. For in truth the only additional information uncovered by the combined efforts of the police, the Bureau of Missing Persons, and the federal investigators was of a character nature and led nowhere. It was as if he had literally decomposed, became vapor. Existing one minute, a colorful memory the next.

Ulster’s life, possessions, prejudices, and anxieties were placed under the scrutiny of professionals. And the result of these labors etched an extraordinary portrait of pointlessness. A man who had just about everything a human being could ask for on this earth had apparently lived in a vacuum. A purposeless, aimless vacuum.

Elizabeth Scarlatti puzzled over the voluminous reports supplied her by the authorities. It had become a habit for her, a ritual, a hope. If her son had been killed, it would, of course, be painful; but she could accept the loss of life. And there were a thousand ways… fire, water, earth… to rid the world of a body. But she could not accept this conclusion. It was possible, of course. He had known the underworld, but on such a peripheral basis.

One morning Elizabeth stood by her library window watching the outside world come to grips with another day. The pedestrians always walked so rapidly in the morning. The automobiles were subject to far more backfiring after a night of idleness. Then Elizabeth saw one of her maids out on the front steps. The maid was sweeping the front steps.

As she watched the woman swing the broom back and forth, Elizabeth was reminded of another maid. On another set of steps.

A maid at Ulster’s house. A maid who swept Ulster’s steps one morning and remembered her son giving instructions to a taxi driver.

What were those instructions?

A subway. Ulster had to get to a subway.

Her son had to take a subway one morning and Elizabeth hadn’t understood.

It was only a dim, flickering candle in a very dark forest but it was a light. Elizabeth crossed rapidly to the telephone.

Thirty minutes later, Third Vice-President Jefferson Cartwright stood before Elizabeth Scarlatti. He was still partially out of breath from the nervous pressures of rearranging his schedule in order to attend this command performance.

‘Yes, indeed,’ drawled the Virginian. ‘All the accounts were thoroughly examined the minute Mr. Scarlett’s disappearance was known to us. Wonderful boy. We became very close durin’ his sessions at the bank.’

‘What is the state of his accounts?’

‘Perfectly normal.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.’

Cartwright hesitated for a few seconds—the thoughtful banker. ‘Of course, the final figures aren’t complete but we have no reason at this point to believe he exceeded the annual income of his trust.’

‘What is that income, Mr. Cartwright?’

‘Well, of course, the market fluctuates—happily upward—so it’d be difficult to give you a precise figure.’

‘Just an approximate one.’

‘Let me see now…’ Jefferson Cartwright did not like the direction the conversation was taking. He was suddenly very thankful that he had had the foresight to send those vague memorandums to Chancellor Drew about his brother’s expenditures in Europe. His Southern drawl became thicker. ‘I could call several executives more familiar with Mr. Scarlett’s portfolio—but it was considerable, Madame Scarlatti.’

‘Then I expect you to have at least a rough figure at your command.’ Elizabeth did not like Jefferson Cartwright and the tone of her voice was ominous.

‘Mr. Scarlett’s income from the trust fund designated for personal expenditures as differentiated from the second trust fund designated for investments was in excess of seven hundred and eighty-three thousand dollars.’ Cartwright spoke rapidly, quietly.

‘I’m very pleased that his personal needs rarely exceeded that trifling amount.’ Elizabeth shifted her position in the straight-backed chair so she could give Mr. Cartwright the full benefit of her stare. Jefferson Cartwright rattled on at an accelerated tempo. Phrases spilled over into others, his accent more pronounced than ever.

‘Well, surely, you were aware of Mr. Scarlett’s extravagances. I believe the newspapers reported many. As I say, I personally did my best to caution him, but he was a very headstrong young man. If you recall, just three years ago, Mr. Scarlett purchased a dirigible for nearly half a million dollars. We did our best to dissuade him, of course, but it was simply impossible. He said he had to have a dirigible! If you’ll study your son’s accounts, madame, you’ll find many such rash purchases.’ Cartwright was decidedly on the defensive although he knew perfectly well Elizabeth could hardly hold him responsible.

‘Just how many such… purchases were there?’

At an even faster rate of speed the banker replied, ‘Well, certainly none as extravagant as the dirigible! We were able to prevent similar incidents by explaining to Mr. Scarlett that it was improper to transfer monies from his second trust for such purposes. That he had to… limit his expenses to the income produced by the first trust. In our sessions at the bank we emphasized this aspect time and again. However, last year alone, while he was in Europe with the beautiful Mrs. Scarlett, we were in constant touch with the Continental banks over his personal accounts. To put it mildly, your son was most helpful to the European economy… It also was necessary to make… numerous direct payments on his signature… Certainly Mr. Chancellor Scarlett spoke of the many, many notes I sent him regarding the large sums of money we forwarded your son in Europe.’

Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. ‘No, he told me nothing.’

‘Well, Madame Scarlatti, it was your son’s honeymoon. There was no reason…’

‘Mr. Cartwright,’ the old woman interrupted sharply, ‘do you have an accurate accounting of my son’s bank drafts, here and abroad, for the past year?’

‘Why, of course, madame.’

‘And a listing of the payments made directly by you on his signature?’

‘Certainly.’

‘I shall expect them in my hands no later than tomorrow morning.’

‘But it would take several accountants a full week to compile everything. Mr. Scarlett was hardly the most precise individual when it came to such matters—’

‘Mr Cartwright! I’ve dealt with Waterman Trust for over a quarter of a century. The Scarlatti Industries deal through Waterman Trust exclusively, because I direct that they should. I believe in Waterman Trust because it’s never given me a reason not to. Do I make myself clear?’

‘You do, indeed. Tomorrow mornin’.’ Jefferson Cartwright bowed out of the room as a pardoned slave might take leave of an Arabian sheikh.

‘Oh, Mr. Cartwright.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think I really commended you for keeping my son’s expenses within the boundaries of his income.’

‘I’m sorry…’ Beads of perspiration appeared on Cartwright’s forehead. ‘There was little…’

‘I don’t think you understand me, Mr. Cartwright. I’m quite sincere. I commend you. Good morning.’’

‘Good day, Madame Scarlatti.’

Cartwright and three Waterman bookkeepers stayed throughout the night in an attempt to bring the accounts of Ulster Stewart Scarlett up-to-date. It was a difficult chore.

By two-thirty in the morning Jefferson Cartwright had on his desk a list of banks and exchanges where the Scarlatti heir either had or once had accounts. Opposite each were detailed figures and times of transference. The list seemed endless. The specific deposits might well have averaged yearly incomes for the large majority of middle-class Americans but for Ulster Stewart they were no more than weekly allowances. It would take days to ascertain what was left. The list included:

THE CHEMICAL CORN EXCHANGE, 900 Madison Avenue, New York City.

MAISON DE BANQUE, 22 rue Violette, Paris.

LA BANQUE AMERICAINE, rue Nouveau, Marseilles.

DEUTSCHE-AMERICANISHE BANK, Kurfuerstendamm, Berlin.

BANCO-TURISTA, Calle de la Suenos, Madrid.

MAISON DE MONTE CARLO, rue du Feuillage, Monaco.

WIENER STAEDTISCHE SPARKASSE, Salzburgerstrasse, Vienna.

BANQUE-FRANCAISE-ALGERIE, Harbor of Moons, Cairo, Egypt.

And so it went. Ulster and his bride had seen Europe.

Of course, balancing this list of supposed assets was a second list of deficits in the form of accounts due. These included monies owed by signature to scores of hotels, department stores, shops, restaurants, automobile agencies, steamship lines, railroads, stables, private clubs, gambling establishments. They all had been paid by Waterman.

Jefferson Cartwright perused the detailed reports.

By civilized standards they were a conglomeration of financial nonsense, but the history of Ulster Stewart Scarlett bore out that for him this was perfectly normal. Cartwright reached the same conclusion as had the government accountants when they checked for the Bureau of Investigation soon after Ulster’s disappearance.

Nothing unusual considering Ulster Scarlett’s past life. Naturally, Waterman Trust would send letters of inquiry to the banks here and abroad to ascertain the amount of remaining deposits. It would be a simple matter to have the moneys transferred under power of attorney back to Waterman Trust.

‘Yes, indeed,’ muttered the Southerner to himself. ‘Mighty complete job under the circumstances.’

Jefferson Cartwright was convinced that old Scarlatti would have a very different attitude toward him this morning. He would sleep for a few hours, take a long cold shower, and bring the reports to her himself. Secretly, he hoped that he would look tired, terribly tired. She might be impressed.

‘My dear Mr. Cartwright,’ spat out Elizabeth Scarlatti, ‘it never occurred to you that while you were transferring thousands upon thousands to banks all over Europe, you were simultaneously settling debts which totaled nearly a quarter of a million dollars? It never crossed your mind that by combining these two figures my son accomplished the seemingly impossible! He went through the entire annual income from his trust in less than nine months! Damned near to the penny!’

‘Naturally, Madame Scarlatti, letters are being sent this mornin’ to the banks requestin’ full information. Under our power of attorney, of course. I’m sure sizable amounts will be returned.’

‘I’m not at all sure.’

‘If I may be frank, Madame Scarlatti, what you’re leadin’ up to completely eludes me—’

Elizabeth’s tone became momentarily gentle, reflective. ‘To tell the truth, it eludes me also. Only I’m not leading, I’m being led…’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘During my son’s sessions at Waterman could he have… come upon something… which might cause him to transfer such sums to Europe?’

‘I asked myself the same question. As his adviser I felt it my duty to inquire… Apparently Mr. Scarlett made a number of investments on the Continent.’

‘Investments? In Europe? That seems most unlikely!’

‘He had a wide circle of friends, Madame Scarlatti. Friends who, I’m sure, didn’t lack for projects… And I must say, your son was becomin’ more and more proficient in investment analysis—’

‘He what?’

‘I refer to his studies of the Scarlatti portfolios. Why, he put his shoulder to the wheel and was unrelentin’ on himself. I took great pride in his accomplishment. He was really takin’ our sessions seriously. Tryin’ so hard to understand the factor of diversification… Why, on his honeymoon he took along hundreds of the Scarlatti corporate reports.’

Elizabeth rose from her chair and walked slowly, deliberately toward the window overlooking the street, but her concentration was on the Southerner’s sudden, incredible revelation. As had happened so often in the past, she realized that her instincts—abstract, unclear—were leading her to the truth. It was there; she was near it. But it remained out of her grasp.

‘I assume you mean the statements—the breakdowns—of the Scarlatti Industries’ holdings?’

‘That, too, of course. But much, much more. He analyzed the trusts, both his and Chancellor’s—even your own, Madame Scarlatti. It was his hope to write a complete report with special emphasis on the growth factors. It was a mighty ambitious task and he never wavered…!

‘Far more than ambitious, Mr. Cartwright,’ interrupted Elizabeth. ‘Without training, I’d say impossible.’ She continued to look out on the street.

‘Actually, dear madame, we at the bank understood this. So we convinced him to limit his research to his own holdings. I felt it would be easier to explain and I certainly didn’t wish to dampen his enthusiasm, so I…’

Elizabeth turned from the window and stared at the banker. Her look caused him to stop speaking. She knew the truth was now within her grasp. ‘Please clarify. How did my son… research his holdings?’

‘From the securities in his trust fund. Primarily the bonds in his second trust—the investment fund—they’re far more stable commodities. He cataloged them and then matched them with alternate choices, which might have been made when they were originally purchased. If I may add, he was most impressed with the selections. He told me so.’

‘He… cataloged them? What precisely do you mean?’

‘He listed the securities separately. The amounts each represented and the years and months they were due. From the dates and the amounts he was able to compare with numerous other issues on the board.’

‘How did he do this?’

‘As I mentioned, from the bonds and debentures themselves. From the yearly portfolios.’

‘Where?’

‘The vaults, madame. The Scarlatti vaults.’

My God! thought Elizabeth.

The old woman put her hand—trembling—on the window-sill. She spoke calmly in spite of the fear enveloping her. ‘How long did my son… do his research?’

‘Why, for several months. Since his return from Europe to be exact.’

‘I see. Did anyone assist him? He was so inexperienced, I mean.’

Jefferson Cartwright returned Elizabeth’s look. He was not an utter fool. There was no necessity. Catalogin’ premature securities isn’t difficult. It’s a simple process of listin’ names, figures, and dates… And your son is… was a Scarlatti.’

‘Yes… He was.’ Elizabeth knew the banker was beginning to read her thoughts. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now but the truth.

The vaults.

‘Mr. Cartwright, I’ll be ready in ten minutes. I’ll call for my car and we’ll both return to your office.’

‘As you wish.’

The ride downtown was made in silence. The banker and the matriarch sat next to each other in the back seat, but neither spoke. Each was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Elizabeth’s—the truth.

Cartwright’s—survival. For if what he had begun to suspect was correct, he’d be ruined. Waterman Trust might be ruined. And he was the appointed adviser to Ulster Stewart Scarlett.

The chauffeur opened the door as the Southerner stepped out onto the curb and held his hand for Elizabeth. He noted that she grasped his hand tightly, too tightly, as she climbed—with difficulty—out of the automobile. She stared down at nothing.

The banker led the old woman rapidly through the bank. Past the cages, past the tellers, past the office doors to the rear of the building. They took the elevator down to the huge Waterman cellars. Out of the elevator they turned to the left and approached the east wing.

The walls were gray, the surfaces smooth, and the thick cement encased both sides of the gleaming steel bars. Above the portal was a simple inscription.

EAST WING SCARLATTI

Elizabeth thought—once again—that the effect was tomb-like. Beyond the bars was a narrow hallway lit from the ceiling with bright bulbs encased in wire mesh. Except for the doorways, two on either side, the corridor looked like a passageway to some pharaoh’s final resting place in the center of an awesome pyramid. The door at the end led to the vault of the Scarlatti Industries itself.

Everything.

Giovanni.

The two doors on either side led to cubicles for the wife and the three children. Chancellor’s and Ulster’s were on the left. Elizabeth’s and Roland’s on the right. Elizabeth was next to Giovanni.

Elizabeth had never had Roland’s consolidated. She knew that ultimately the courts would take care of that. It was her one gesture of sentiment to her lost son. It was proper. Roland, too, was part of the empire.

The uniformed guard nodded—funereally—and opened the steel-barred door.

Elizabeth stood in front of the entrance to the first cubicle on the left. The nameplate on the center of the metal door read,

Ulster Stewart Scarlatti.

The guard opened this door and Elizabeth entered the small room. ‘You will relock the door and wait outside.’

‘Naturally.’

She was alone in the cell-like enclosure. She reflected that only once before had she been in Ulster’s cubicle. It had been with Giovanni. Years, histories ago… He had coaxed her downtown to the bank without telling her of his arrangements for the east wing vaults. He had been so proud. He had taken her through the five rooms as a guide might usher tourists through a museum. He had elaborated on the intricacies of the various trusts. She remembered how he slapped the cabinets as if they were prize-winning cattle that would someday provide enormous herds.

He had been right.

The room hadn’t changed. It might have been yesterday.

On one side, built into the wall, were the deposit boxes holding the industrials—the stocks, the certificates of ownership in hundreds of corporations. The wherewithal for day-to-day living. Ulster’s first trust fund. On two other walls stood file cabinets, seven on each side. Each file drawer was marked with a year date—changed each year by the Waterman executors. Each drawer contained hundreds of open-faced securities and each cabinet had six drawers.

Securities to be drawn on for the next eighty-four years.

The second trust. Earmarked for Scarlatti expansion.

Elizabeth studied the cards on the cabinets.

. 1927. 1928. 1929. 1930. 1931.

These were listed on the first cabinet.

She saw that there was a monk’s stool pushed several feet away from the cabinet to the right. Whoever had used it last had been seated between the first and second file. She looked at the index cards on the adjacent cabinet.

- 1933- 1934- 1935- 1936-

She reached down and pulled the stool in front of the first cabinet and sat down. She looked at the bottom file drawer.

She opened it.

The year was divided by the twelve months, each month separated by a small index tab. Before each tab was a thin metal carton with two miniature cleats joined by a single wire submerged in wax. On the face of the wax—branded—were the initials WT. in old English lettering.

The year 1926 was intact. None of the thin metal cartons had been opened. Which meant that Ulster had not complied with the bank’s request for investment instructions. At the end of December the executors would take the responsibility themselves and, no doubt, consult Elizabeth as they had always done in the past with Ulster’s fund.

She pulled out the year 1927.

This, too, was untouched. None of the wax crests had been broken.

Elizabeth was about to close the file on 1927 when she stopped. Her eyes caught sight of a blur in the wax. A tiny, slight blemish that would have gone unnoticed had not a person’s attention been on the crests.

The T. of the W.T. was ragged and slanted downward on the month of August. The same was true for September, October, November, and December.

She pulled out the August carton and shook it. Then she ripped the wire apart and the wax crest cracked and fell away.

The carton was empty.

She replaced it and drew out the remaining months of 1927.

All empty.

She replaced the cartons and opened the file for 1928. Every thin carton had the T. of the wax crest ragged and slanting downward.

All empty.

For how many months had Ulster carried out his extraordinary charade? Going from one harried banker to the next and always, always—at the last—coming down to the vaults. Document by document. Security by security.

Three hours ago she wouldn’t have believed it. It was only because a maid sweeping her front steps had triggered the memory of another maid sweeping steps. A maid who remembered a short command given by her son to a cab-driver.

Ulster Scarlett had taken a subway.

One midmorning he could not take the chance of a taxi ride in traffic. He had been late for his session at the bank.

What better time than midmorning? The initial placing of orders, the chaos of early trading in the market.

Even Ulster Scarlett would be overlooked at midmorning.

She hadn’t understood the subway.

Now she did.

As if performing a painful ritual she checked the remaining months and years of the first cabinet. Through December, 1931.

Empty.

She closed the drawer on 1931 and began at the bottom of the second cabinet. 1932.

Empty.

She had reached the middle of the cabinet—1934—when she heard the sound of the metal door opening. She quickly closed the file and turned around in anger.

Jefferson Cartwright entered and shut the door.

‘I thought I told you to remain outside!’

‘My word, Madame Scarlatti, you look like you’ve seen a dozen ghosts.’

‘Get out!’

Cartwright walked rapidly to the first cabinet and arbitrarily pulled out one of the middle drawers. He saw the broken seals on the metal cartons, lifted one out, and opened it. ‘Seems as if somethin’s missin’.’

‘I’ll have you dismissed!’

‘Maybe—Maybe you will.’ The Southerner pulled out another drawer and satisfied himself that several other cartons whose seals had been broken were empty also.

Elizabeth stood silently, contemptuously, next to the banker. When she spoke, it was with the intensity born of disgust. ‘You have just terminated your employment at Waterman Trust!’

‘Maybe I have. Excuse me, please.’ The Virginian gently moved Elizabeth away from the second cabinet and continued his search. He reached the year 1936 and turned to the old woman. ‘Not much left, is there? I wonder how far it goes, don’t you? Of course, I’ll make a complete breakdown for you as soon as possible. For you and my superiors.’ He closed the drawer on 1936 and smiled.

‘This is confidential family business. You’ll do nothing! You can do nothing!’

‘Oh, come now! These cabinets contained open-faced securities. Bearer bonds negotiable subject to signature… Possession is ownership. They’re the same as money… your disappearin’ son took a whale of a hunk of the New York Exchange! And we haven’t even finished lookin’ around. Shall we open a few more cabinets?’

‘I will not tolerate this!’

‘Then don’t. You go on your way, and I’ll simply report to my superiors that Waterman Trust is in one hell of a pile of manure. Forgettin’ very sizable commissions due the bank and puttin’ aside any thoughts of the companies involved gettin’ nervous over who owns what—there might even be a run on some stocks—I possess knowledge which I should report immediately to the authorities!’

‘You cannot! You must not!’

‘Why not?’ Jefferson Cartwright held out the palms of both hands.

Elizabeth turned away from him and tried to marshal her thoughts. ‘Estimate what’s gone, Mr. Cartwright…’

‘I can estimate as far as we’ve looked. Eleven years, approximately three and a half million a year comes to something like forty million. But we may have only just begun.’

‘I said… prepare an estimate. I trust that I don’t have to tell you that if you say a word to anyone—I shall destroy you. We’ll arrive at mutually agreeable terms.’ She slowly turned and looked at Jefferson Cartwright. ‘You should know, Mr. Cartwright, that through an accident you’re privileged to information that lifts you far above your talents or abilities. When men are so fortunate, they must be cautious.’

Elizabeth Scarlatti spent a sleepless night.

Jefferson Cartwright also spent a sleepless night. But it wasn’t in bed. It was on a monk’s stool with reams of papers at his feet.

The figures mounted as he cautiously checked the file cabinets against the Scarlatti trust reports.

Jefferson Cartwright thought he’d go mad.

Ulster Stewart Scarlett had removed securities worth over $270 million.

He totaled and retotaled the figures.

An amount that would cause a crisis on the exchange.

An international scandal, which could—if known—cripple the Scarlatti Industries—And it would be known when the time came to convert the first missing securities. At the outside, barely a year.

Jefferson Cartwright folded the last of the pages together and stuffed them into his inner jacket pocket. He clamped his arm against his chest, making sure that the pressure between his flesh was stopped by the paper, and left the vaults.

He signaled the front guard with a short whistle. The man had been dozing on a black leather chair near the door.

‘Oh, m’God, Mr. Cartwright! Y’startled me!’

Cartwright walked out onto the street.

He looked at the grayish white light of the sky. It was going to be morning soon. And the light was his signal.

For he—Jefferson Cartwright, fifty-year-old ex-football player from the University of Virginia, who had married first money and then lost it—held in his pocket carte blanche to everything he had ever wanted.

He was back in the stadium and the crowds were roaring.

Touchdown!

Nothing could be denied him now.