The Scarlatti Inheritance (38 page)

It was then that he had learned the truth of Heinrich Kroeger’s identity. Elizabeth Scarlatti’s son had needed an ally and Jacques Bertholde was that ally. And in return for that precious friendship, Ulster Scarlett had ordered Bertholde’s death. The fanatic had commanded the death of the man who had made everything possible for him.

He, Poole, would avenge that terrible murder. But before he did, he had to confirm what he suspected was the truth. That neither the Nazi leaders nor the men in Zurich knew who Kroeger was. If that was the case, then Kroeger had murdered Bertholde to keep that identity secret.

The revelation might cost the movement millions. The Munich Nazis would know this, if they knew anything.

Erich Rheinhart stood over Poole. “A penny for your thoughts, my dear fellow? Here, a bourbon. You do not speak to me.”

“Oh?… Yes, it’s been a bad trip, Erich. You were right.” Poole bent his neck back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead. Rheinhart returned to his chair.

“You need a rest.… Do you know what I think? I think you’re right. I think some damned fool
did
issue that order.” Poole opened his eyes, startled by Erich Rheinhart’s words. “Ja! In my opinion you are correct. And it must stop!… Strasser fights Hitler and Ludendorff. Ekhart rambles on like a madman. Attacking! Attacking! Kindorf screams in the Ruhr. Jodl betrays the Black Wehrmacht in Bavaria. Graefe makes a mess in the north. Even my own uncle, the illustrious Wilhelm Rheinhart, makes an idiot of himself. He speaks, and I hear the laughter behind my back in America. I tell you we are split in ten factions. Wolves at each other’s throats. We will accomplish nothing! Nothing, if this does not stop!” Erich Rheinhart’s anger was undisguised. He didn’t care. He rose again from his chair. “What is most asinine is the most obvious! We can lose the men in Zurich. If we can not agree among ourselves, how long do you think they will stay with us? I tell you, these men are not interested in who has next week’s power base in
the Reichstag—not for its own sake. They don’t care a Deutschemark for the glories of the new Germany. Or the ambitions of any nation. Their wealth puts them above political boundaries. They are with us for one reason alone—their own power. If we give them a single doubt that we are not what we claim to be, that we are not the emerging order of Germany, they will abandon us. They will leave us with nothing! Even the Germans among them!”

Rheinhart’s fury abated. He tried to smile but instead drained his glass quickly and crossed to the cabinet.

If Poole could only be sure.
“I understand,” he said quietly.

“Ja. I think you do. You’ve worked long and hard with Bertholde. You’ve accomplished a great deal …” He turned around facing Poole. “That’s what I mean. Everything that all of us have worked for can be lost by these internal frictions. The achievements of Funke, Bertholde, von Schnitzler, Thyssen, even Kroeger, will be wiped out if we can not come together. We must unite behind one, possibly two, acceptable leaders …”

That was it! That was the sign. Poole was now sure. Rheinhart had said the name! Kroeger!

“Maybe, Erich, but who?” Would Rheinhart say the name again? It was not possible, for Kroeger was no German. But could he get Rheinhart to use the name, just the name, once more without the slightest betrayal of concern.

“Strasser, perhaps. He’s strong, attractive. Ludendorff naturally has the aura of national fame, but he’s too old now. But mark me, Poole, watch this Hitler! Have you read the transcripts of the Munich trial?”

“No. Should I?”

“Yes! He’s electric! Positively eloquent! And sound.”

“He has a lot of enemies. He’s banned from speaking in almost every
grafshaft
in Germany.”

“The necessary excesses in a march to power. The bans on him are being removed. We’re seeing to that.”

Poole now watched Rheinhart carefully as he spoke.

“Hitler’s a friend of Kroeger, isn’t he?”

“Ach! Wouldn’t you be? Kroeger has millions! It is through Kroeger that Hitler gets his automobiles, his chauffeur, the castle at Berchtesgaden, God knows what else. You don’t think he buys them with his royalties, do
you? Most amusing. Last year Herr Hitler declared an income which could not possibly purchase two tires for his Mercedes.” Rheinhart laughed. “We managed to have the inquiry suspended in Munich, fortunately. Ja, Kroeger is good to Hitler.

Poole was now absolutely sure. The men in Zurich did not know who Heinrich Kroeger was!

“Erich, I must go. Can you have your man drive me back to Washington?”

“But of course, my dear fellow.”

Poole opened the door of his room at the Ambassador Hotel. Upon hearing the sound of the key, the man inside stood up, practically at attention.

“Oh, it’s you, Bush.”

“Cable from London, Mr. Poole. I thought it best that I take the train down rather than using the telephone.” He handed Poole the cable.

Poole opened the envelope and extracted the message. He read it.

Poole pinched his aristocratic lips together, nearly biting into his own flesh in an attempt to suppress his anger.

“Duchess” was the code name of Elizabeth Scarlatti. So she headed for Geneva. A hundred and ten miles from Zurich. This was no pleasure trip. It was not another leg on her journey of mourning.

Whatever Jacques Bertholde had feared—plot or counterplot—it was happening now. Elizabeth Scarlatti and her son “Heinrich Kroeger” were making their moves. Separately or together, who could know.

Poole made his decision.

“Send the following to the Paris office. ‘Eliminate Duchess from the market. Her bid is to be taken off our lists at once. Repeat, eliminate Duchess’.”

Poole dismissed the courier and went to the telephone. He had to make reservations immediately. He had to get to Zurich.

There’d be no conference. He’d stop it. He’d kill the mother, expose the killer son! Kroeger’s death would follow quickly!

It was the least he could do for Bertholde.

The train clanged over the antiquated bridge spanning the Rhone River, into the Geneva station. Elizabeth Scarlatti sat in her compartment looking first down at the river barges, then at the rising banks and into the large railroad yard. Geneva was clean. There was a scrubbed look about it, which helped to hide the fact that scores of nations and a thousand score of business giants used this neutral city to further intensify conflicting interests. As the train neared the city, she thought that someone like herself belonged in Geneva. Or, perhaps, Geneva belonged to someone like herself.

She eyed the luggage piled on the seat facing her. One suitcase contained the clothes she needed, and three smaller bags were jammed with papers. Papers that contained a thousand conclusions, totaling up to a battery of weapons. The data included figures on the complete worth of every man in the Zurich group. Every resource each possessed. Additional information awaited her in Geneva. But that was a different sort of musketry. It was not unlike the
Domesday Book.
For what awaited her in Geneva was the complete breakdown of the Scarlatti interests. The legally assessed value of every asset controlled by the Scarlatti Industries. What made it deadly was her maneuverability. And opposite each block of wealth was a commitment to purchase. These commitments were spelled out, and they could be executed instantaneously by a cable to her attorneys.

And well they should be.

Each block was followed—not by the usual two columns
designating assessed value and sales value—but three columns. This third column was an across-the-board cut, which guaranteed the buyer a minor fortune with each transaction. Each signified a mandate to purchase that could not be refused. It was the highest level of finance, returned through the complexities of banking to the fundamental basis of economic incentive. Profit.

And Elizabeth counted on one last factor. It was the reverse of her instructions but that, too, was calculated.

In her sealed orders sent across the Atlantic was the emphatic stipulation that every contact made—to complete the task teams of administrators had to work twelve-hour shifts night and day—was to be carried out in the utmost secrecy and only with those whose authority extended to great financial commitments. The guaranteed gains absolved all from charges of irresponsibility. Each would emerge a hero to himself or to his economic constituency. But the price was consummate security until the act was done. The rewards matched the price. Millionaires, merchant princes, and bankers in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Palm Beach found themselves quartered in conference rooms with their dignified counterparts from one of New York’s most prestigious law firms. The tones were hushed and the looks knowing. Financial killings were being made. Signatures were affixed.

And, of course, it had to happen.

Unbelievable good fortune leads to ebullience, and ebullience is no mate for secrecy.

Two or three began to talk. Then four or five. Then a dozen. But no more than that.… The
price.

Phone calls were made, almost none from offices, nearly all from the quiet seclusion of libraries or dens. Most were made at night under the soft light of desk lamps with good pre-Volstead whiskey an arm’s length away.

In the highest economic circles, there was a rumor that something most unusual was happening at Scarlatti.

It was just enough. Elizabeth knew it would be just enough. After all, the
price.
… And the rumors reached the men in Zurich.

Matthew Canfield stretched out across the seats in his own compartment, his legs propped over his single suitcase, his feet resting on the cushions facing him. He, too, looked out the window at the approaching city of Geneva. He had just finished one of his thin cigars and the smoke rested in suspended layers above him in the still air of the small room. He contemplated opening a window, but he was too depressed to move.

It had been two weeks to the day since he had granted Elizabeth Scarlatti her reprieve of one month. Fourteen days of chaos made painful by the knowledge of his own uselessness. More than uselessness, more akin to personal futility. He could do nothing, and nothing was expected of him. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted him to “work closely” with her. She didn’t want anyone to work with her—closely or otherwise. She soloed. She soared alone, a crusty, patrician eagle sweeping the infinite meadows of her own particular heaven.

His most demanding chore was the purchase of office supplies such as reams of paper, pencils, notebooks, and endless boxes of paper clips.

Even the publisher Thomas Ogilvie had refused to see him, obviously so instructed by Elizabeth.

Canfield had been dismissed as he was being dismissed by Elizabeth. Even Janet treated him with a degree of aloofness, always apologizing for her manner but by apologizing, acknowledging it. He began to realize what had happened. He was the whore now. He had sold himself, his favors taken and paid for. They had very little use for him now. They knew he could be had again as one knows a whore can be had.

He understood so much more completely what Janet had felt.

Would it be finished with Janet? Could it ever be finished with her? He told himself no. She told him the same. She asked him to be strong enough for both of them, but was she fooling herself and letting him pay for it?

He began to wonder if he was capable of judgment. He had been idle and the rot inside of him frightened him. What had he done? Could he undo it? He was operating in a world he couldn’t come to grips with.

Except Janet. She didn’t belong to that world either. She belonged to him. She had to!

The whistle on the train’s roof screeched twice and the huge metal-against-metal slabs on the wheels began to grind. The train was entering the Geneva station, and Canfield heard Elizabeth’s rapid knocking on the wall between their compartments. The knocking annoyed him. It sounded like an impatient master of the house rapping for a servant.

Which is exactly what it was.

“I can manage this one, you take the other two. Let the redcaps handle the rest.”

Dutifully Canfield instructed the porter, gathered up the two bags, and followed Elizabeth off the train.

Because he had to juggle the two suitcases in the small exit area, he was several feet behind Elizabeth as they stepped off the metal stairway and started down the concrete platform to the center of the station. Because of those two suitcases they were alive one minute later.

At first it was only a speck of dark movement in the corner of his eye. Then it was the gasps of several travelers behind him. Then the screams. And then he saw it.

Bearing down from the right was a massive freight dolly with a huge steel slab across the front used to scoop up heavy crates. The metal plate was about four feet off the ground and had the appearance of a giant, ugly blade.

Canfield jumped forward as the rushing monster came directly at them. He threw his right arm around her waist and pushed-pulled her out of the way of the mammoth steel plate. It crashed into the side of the train less than a foot from both their bodies.

Many in the crowd were hysterical. No one could be sure whether anyone had been injured or killed. Porters came running. The shouts and screams echoed throughout the platform.

Elizabeth, breathless, spoke into Canfield’s ear. “The suitcases! Do you have the suitcases?”

Canfield found to his amazement that he still held one in his left hand. It was pressed between Elizabeth’s back and the train. He had dropped the suitcase in his right hand.

“I’ve got one. I let the other go.”

“Find it!”

“For Christ’s sake!”

“Find it, you fool!”

Canfield pushed at the crowd gathering in front of them. He scanned his eyes downward and saw the leather case. It had been run over by the heavy front wheels of the dolly, crushed but still intact. He shouldered his way against a dozen midriffs and reached down. Simultaneously another arm, with a fat, uncommonly large hand thrust itself toward the crumpled piece of leather. The arm was clothed in a tweed jacket. A woman’s jacket. Canfield pushed harder and touched the case with his fingers and began pulling it forward. Instinctively, amid the panorama of trousers and overcoats, he grabbed the wrist of the fat hand and looked up.