Chapter Seventeen

Jefferson Cartwright draped a towel over his body and walked out of the club’s steam room. He went into the needle shower and let the harsh spray beat down on the top of his head, turning his face upward until the tiny blasts of water hurt his skin. He adjusted the faucets so that the water slowly became colder, finally icy.

He had gotten very drunk the night before. Actually he had started drinking early in the afternoon and by midnight was so far gone he decided to stay at his club rather than go home. He had every reason to celebrate. Since his triumphant meeting with Elizabeth Scarlatti he’d spent several days analyzing to the best of his ability the affairs of the Scarwyck Foundation. Now he was prepared to walk among his peers. Elizabeth’s agreement never left his mind. He kept it in his briefcase until he knew enough about Scarwyck so that even his own attorneys would be impressed. He remembered as the water splashed down on his head that he had put the briefcase in a locker at Grand Central Station. Many of his colleagues swore that the Grand Central lockers were safer than vaults. Certainly they were safer than the Scarlatti vaults.

He’d pick up the briefcase after lunch and take the agreement to his lawyers. They’d be astonished and he hoped they’d ask him questions about Scarwyck. He’d rattle off facts and figures so rapidly they’d be in shock. He could hear them now. ‘My God, ole Jeff. We had no idea.’’ Cartwright laughed out loud in the shower. He, Jefferson Cartwright, was the most cavalier of Virginia Cavaliers. These Northern pricks with their high-fallutin’ condescending ways, who couldn’t even satisfy their own wives, had ole Jeff to reckon with now. On their level.’

My God he thought, he could buy and sell half the members in the club. It was a lovely day!

After his shower, Jefferson dressed and, feeling the full measure of his power, jauntily entered the private bar. Most of the members were gathered for lunch and with false graciousness several accepted his offer of a drink. However, their reluctance turned into minor enthusiasm when Jefferson announced casually that he had taken over Scarwyck’s financial chores.

Two or three suddenly found that the boorish Jefferson Cartwright had qualities that they had not noticed before. Indeed, not a bad chap, if you came to think about it—Certainly must have something! Soon the heavy leather chairs surrounding the circular oak table to which Jefferson had repaired were occupied.

As the clock neared two-thirty, the members excused themselves and headed to their offices and their telephones. The communications network was activated and the startling news of Cartwright’s coup with the Scarwyck Foundation was spread.

One particular gentleman did not leave, however. He stayed on with a few diehards and joined the court of Jefferson Cartwright. He was perhaps fifty years old and the essence of that image so sought by aging socialities. Even to the graying moustache so perfectly overgroomed.

The funny thing was that no one at the table was quite sure of his name, but no one wanted to admit it. This was, after all, a club.

The gentleman gracefully propped himself into the chair next to Jefferson the minute it became available. He bantered with the Southerner and insisted upon ordering another round of drinks.

When the drinks arrived, the well-tailored gentleman reached for the martinis and in the middle of an anecdote placed them in front of him for a moment. As he finished his story, he handed one to Jefferson.

Jefferson took the drink and drank fully.

The gentleman excused himself. Two minutes later Jefferson Cartwright fell over on the table. His eyes were not drowsy or even closed as might become a man who had reached the limit of alcoholic capacity. Instead, they were wide open, bulging out of his skull.

Jefferson Cartwright was dead.

And the gentleman never returned.

Downtown in the press room of a New York tabloid an old typesetter punched out the letters of the short news story. It was to appear on page 10.

Banker Succumbs in Fashionable Men’s Club. The typesetter was disinterested. Several machines away another employee pushed the keys

Grand Central: Locker Robbed. The man wondered. Isn’t anything safe anymore?