The Scarlatti Inheritance (37 page)

He would tell them the truth.

He would say the name of the one man in Germany sought by all who drove for power. The one man who refused to talk, refused to be involved, refused to meet with any faction.

The only man in Germany who lived behind a wall of total secrecy. Complete political isolation.

The most feared and revered man in all Europe.

“I’ll be with Krupp. Essen will know where to reach us.”

Elizabeth Scarlatti sat up in her bed. A card table had been placed at her side, and papers were strewn all over the immediate vicinity—the bed, the table, the entire walking area of the room. Some were in neat piles, others scattered. Some were clipped together and labeled by index cards; others discarded, ready for the trash basket.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she had left her room only once. That was to let in Janet and Matthew. She noted that they looked terrible; exhausted, ill, perhaps. She knew what had happened. The pressure had become too much for the government man. He had to break out, get relief. Now that he had, he would be better prepared for her proposal.

Elizabeth gave a final look at the pages she held in her hand.

So this was it! The picture was now clear, the background filled in.

She had said that the men of Zurich might have created an extraordinary strategy. She knew now that they had.

Had it not been so grotesquely evil she might have agreed with her son. She might have been proud of his part in it. Under the circumstances, she could only be terrified.

She wondered if Matthew Canfield would understand. No matter. It was now time for Zurich.

She got up from the bed, taking the pages with her, and went to the door.

Janet was at the desk writing letters. Canfield sat in a chair nervously reading a newspaper. Both were startled when Elizabeth walked into the room.

“Do you have any knowledge of the Versailles treaty?” she asked him. “The restrictions, the reparations payments?”

“As much as the average guy, I guess.”

“Are you aware of the Dawes Plan? That wholly imperfect document?”

“I thought it made the reparations livable with.”

“Only temporarily. It was grasped at by the politicians who needed temporary solutions. Economically it’s a disaster. Nowhere does it give a final figure. If, at any time, a final figure is given, German industry—who pays the bill—might collapse.”

“What’s your point?”

“Bear with me a minute. I want you to understand.… Do you realize who executes the Versailles treaty? Do you know whose voice is strongest in the decisions under the Dawes Plan? Who ultimately controls the internal economics of Germany?”

Canfield put the newspaper down on the floor. “Yes. Some committee.”

“The Allied Controls Commission.”

“What are you driving at?” Canfield got out of his chair.

“Just what you’re beginning to suspect. Three of the Zurich contingent are members of the Allied Controls Commission. The Versailles treaty is being executed by these men. Working together, the men of Zurich can literally manipulate the German economy. Leading industrialists from the major powers to the north, the west, and the southwest. Completed by the most powerful financiers within Germany itself. A wolf pack. They’ll make sure that the forces at work in Germany remain on a collision course. When the explosion takes place—as surely it must—they’ll be there to pick up the pieces. To complete this … master plan, they need only a political base of operation. Believe me when I tell you they’ve found it. With Adolf Hitler and his Nazis.… With my son, Ulster Stewart Scarlett.”

“My God!” Canfield spoke quietly, staring at Elizabeth.
He had not fully understood the details of her recital, but he recognized the implications.

“It’s time for Switzerland, Mr. Canfield.”

He would ask his questions on the way.

The cablegrams were all in English and except for the names and addresses of the designees, the words were identical. Each was sent to the company or corporation in which the person specified held the highest position. Time zones were respected, each cable was to arrive at its destination at twelve noon, on Monday, and each was to be hand-delivered to the individual addressee upon a signed receipt of acceptance.

Elizabeth Scarlatt wanted those illustrious corporations identified in writing. She wanted those receiving her cables to know that this was, above all, business.

Each cable read as follows:

There were thirteen reactions, all separate, in many different languages, but each with a single ingredient common to all.

Fear.

There was a fourteenth reaction, and it took place in the suite of rooms reserved for Heinrich Kroeger at Madrid’s Hotel Emperador. The reaction was fury.

“I won’t have it! It can’t take place! They’re all dead! Dead! Dead! Dead! She was warned! They’re dead! Every God damned one of them! Dead. My orders go out tonight! Now!”

Charles Pennington, sent by Ludendorff to act as Kroeger’s bodyguard, stood across the room looking out the balcony at the reddish, fan-shaped rays of the Spanish sun.

“Glorious! Simply glorious!… Don’t be an ass.” He didn’t like to look at Heinrich Kroeger. In repose that tissued, patched face was bad enough. Angered, it was repulsive. It was now crimson with rage.

“Don’t you tell me …”

“Oh, stop it!” Pennington saw that Kroeger continued to crush in his fist the telegram from Howard Thornton, which spelled out the Scarlatti conference in Zurich. “What bloody difference does it make to you? To any of us?” Pennington had opened the envelope and read the message because, as he told Kroeger, he had no idea when Kroeger would return from his meeting with the papal attaché. It might have been urgent. What he did not tell Kroeger was that Ludendorff had instructed him to screen all letters, phone calls—whatever—received by this animal. It was a pleasure.

“We don’t want anyone else involved. We can’t have anyone else! We can’t! Zurich will panic! They’ll run out on us!”

“They’ve all got the cables. If Zurich’s going to run, you won’t stop them now. Besides, this Scarlatti’s the cat’s whiskers if it’s the same one I’m thinking of. She has millions.… Damned fortunate for us she wants to come in. I didn’t think much of Bertholde—probably less than you did, smelly French Jew—but if he pulled this off, I doff my hat. Anyway, I repeat, what’s it to you?”

Heinrich Kroeger glared at the stylish, effeminate Englishman who pulled at his cuffs, making sure they fell just below his jacket sleeve. The red and black cuff links were surrounded by the soft linen of his light blue shirt. Kroeger knew this appearance was deceptive. Like the social Boothroyd, Pennington was a killer who took emotional
sustenance from his work. He also was held in high esteem by Hitler, even more so by Joseph Goebbels. Nevertheless, Kroeger had made up his mind. He could not risk it!

“This meeting won’t take place! She’ll be killed. I’ll have her killed.”

“Then I’ll have to remind you that such a decision must be multilateral. You can not make it yourself.… And I don’t think you’ll find anyone else consenting.”

“You’re not here to tell me what to do!”

“Oh, but I am.… My instructions come from Ludendorff. And, of course, he knows about your message from Thornton. I wired him several hours ago.” Pennington casually looked at his wristwatch. “I’m going out for dinner.… Frankly, I’d prefer eating alone but if you insist upon joining me, I’ll tolerate your company.”

“You little prick! I could break your God damn neck!”

Pennington bristled. He knew that Kroeger was unarmed, his revolver lay on the bureau in his bedroom, and the temptation was there. He could kill him, use the telegram as proof, and say that Kroeger had disobeyed. But then there were the Spanish authorities and a hasty retreat. And Kroeger did have a job to do. Strange that it involved Howard Thornton so completely.

“That’s possible, of course. But then we could, no doubt, do each other in any number of ways, couldn’t we?” Pennington withdrew a thin pistol from his chest holster. “For instance, I might fire a single bullet directly into your mouth right now.… But I wouldn’t do it in spite of your provocation because the order is larger than either of us. I’d have to answer for my action—no doubt be executed for it. You’ll be shot if you take matters into your own hands.”

“You don’t know this Scarlatti, Pennington. I do!”

How could she have known about Bertholde? What could she have learned from him?

“Of course, you’re old friends!” The Englishman put away his pistol and laughed.

How! How? She wouldn’t dare challenge him! The only thing she valued was the Scarlatti name, its heritage, its future. She knew beyond a doubt that he would stamp it out! How! Why?

“That woman can’t be trusted! She can’t be trusted!”

Charles Pennington pulled down his blazer so the
shoulders fell correctly, the jacket cloth concealing the slight bulge of his holster. He walked to the door in calm anticipation of
chorizo.
“Really, Heinrich?… Can
any
of us?”

The Englishman closed the door leaving only a faint aroma of Yardley’s.

Heinrich Kroeger uncrumpled the telegram in his palm.

Thornton was panic-stricken. Each of the remaining thirteen in Zurich had received identical cablegrams from Elizabeth Scarlatti. But none save Thornton knew who he was.

Kroeger had to move quickly. Pennington hadn’t lied. He would be shot if he ordered Elizabeth Scarlatti’s death. That did not, however, preclude such an order after Zurich. Indeed, after Zurich it would be mandatory.

But first the Thornton land. He had instructed Thornton for his own safety to let it go. The frightened Thornton had not argued, and the idiot attaché was playing right into his hands. For the glory of Jesus and another blow against atheistic communism.

The money and title would be transferred within a week. Thornton was sending his attorney from San Francisco to conclude the negotiations by signature.

As soon as the land was his, Heinrich Kroeger would issue a warrant for death that no one could deny.

And when that misfit life was snuffed out, Heinrich Kroeger was free. He would be a true light of the new order. None would know that Ulster Scarlett existed.

Except one.

He would confront her at Zurich.

He would kill her at Zurich.

The embassy limousine climbed the small hill to the front of the Georgian house in Fairfax, Virginia. It was the elegant residence of Erich Rheinhart, attaché of the Weimar Republic, nephew of the sole imperial general who had thrown his support to the German radical movement given the name of Nazi, by philosophy, a full-fledged Nazi himself.

The well-tailored man with the waxed moustache got out of the back seat and stepped onto the driveway. He looked up at the ornate facade.

“A lovely home.”

“I’m pleased, Poole,” said Rheinhart, smiling at the man from Bertholde et Fils.

The two men walked into the house and Erich Rheinhart led his guest to a book-lined study off the living room. He indicated a chair for Poole and went to a cabinet, taking out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

“To business. You come three thousand miles at a loathsome time of year for ocean travel. You tell me I am the object of your visit. I’m flattered, of course, but what can …”

“Who ordered Bertholde’s death?” Poole said harshly.

Erich Rheinhart was astonished. He hunched his padded shoulders, placed his glass on the small table, and extended his hands, palms up. He spoke slowly, in consternation.

“My dear man, why do you think it concerns me? I mean—in all candor—you are either deluded as to my influence or you need a long rest.”

“Labishe wouldn’t have killed him without having been ordered to do it. Some one of enormous authority had to issue that order.”

“Well, to begin with I have no such authority, and secondly I would have no reason. I was fond of that Frenchman.”

“You hardly knew him.”

Rheinhart laughed. “Very well.… All the less reason …”

“I didn’t say you personally. I’m asking who did and
why.
” Poole was betraying his normal calm. He had good reason. This arrogant Prussian held the key if Poole was right, and he wasn’t going to let him go until he found put. He would have to press nearer the truth, yet not disclose it.

“Did Bertholde know something the rest of you didn’t want him to know?”

“Now, you’re preposterous.”

“Did he?”

“Jacques Bertholde was our London contact! He enjoyed a unique position in England that approached diplomatic immunity. His influence was felt in a dozen countries among scores of the industrial elite. His death is a great loss to us! How dare you imply that any of us was responsible!”

“I find it interesting that you haven’t answered my question.” Poole was exasperated. “Did he know something the men in Munich might consider dangerous?”

“If he did, I have no idea what it might be!”

But Poole knew.
Perhaps he was the only one who did know.
If he could only be sure.

“I’d like another drink, please. Forgive my temper.” He smiled.

Rheinhart laughed. “You’re impossible. Give me your glass.… You’re satisfied?” The German crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured. “You travel three thousand miles for nothing. It’s been a bad trip for you.”

Poole shrugged. He was used to the trips—some good, some bad. Bertholde and his odd friend, the misshapen Heinrich Kroeger, had ordered him over barely six months ago. His orders had been simple then. Pick up the girl, find out what she had learned from old Scarlatti. He’d failed. The Canfield man had stopped him. The solicitous lackey, the salesman-cum-escort had prevented
it. But he hadn’t failed his other orders. He’d followed the banker named Cartwright. He’d killed him and broken into the railroad station locker and gotten the banker’s agreement with Elizabeth Scarlatti.