“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.
CHAPTER 39
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:
THROUGH THE LATE MARQUIS DE BERTHOLDE THE SCARLATTI INDUSTRIES THROUGH THE UNDERSIGNED ALONE HAVE BEEN INFORMED OF YOUR CONSOLIDATION STOP AS THE SINGLE SPOKESMAN FOR SCARLATTI THE UNDERSIGNED BELIEVES THERE EXIST AREAS OF MUTUAL INTEREST STOP THE ASSETS OF SCARLATTI COULD BE AT YOUR DISPOSAL UNDER PROPER CIRCUMSTANCES STOP THE UNDERSIGNED WILL ARRIVE IN ZURICH TWO WEEKS HENCE ON THE EVENING OF NOVEMBER 3 AT THE HOUR OF NINE O’CLOCK STOP THE CONFERENCE WILL TAKE PLACE AT FALKE HAUS
ELIZABETH WYCKHAM SCARLATTI
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.
CHAPTER 40
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 Eric
h 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.
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.
DUCHESS HAS LEFT LONDON STOP DESTINATION ASCER
TAINED GENEVA STOP RUMORS OF ZURICH CONFERENCE STOP CABLE INSTRUCTIONS PARIS OFFICE
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.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 41
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.