Chapter Twenty-six

‘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.

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. ‘What’s 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. He 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. Derek!’ interrupted Elizabeth. ‘An attempt was made on my life aboard the Calpurnia! Yesterday in Wales an automobile tried to run us off the road! In both instances the Marquis de Bertholde can be implicated. I would call these sound reasons!’

‘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 my agency unless there were reasons beyond police matters. When Madame Scarlatti’s son—Mrs. Scarlett’s husband—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 European markets. The British exchange included.’

‘Are you telling me that someone is forming an American 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 personnel! And you think Scarlett was a party to it?’

‘We think he was 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 remarkable!’ said Janet Scarlett, smiling at him.

‘It’ll work,’ mumbled the field accountant, swallowing 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 I thank you,’ said Elizabeth. You two go and romp.’ She looked at the field accountant fondly. ‘An old woman thanks you again, Mr. Canfield.’

‘You’ll lock the doors and windows?’

‘Seven stories off the ground? Of course, if you like.*

‘I do,’ said Canfield.