The Scarletti Inheritance

by Ludlum, Robert

  What had happened to Boothroyd? Obviously killed on the Calpurnia. But how? Why? Regardless, he deserved to die! So did his father-in-law. Rawlins’ order to kill Elizabeth Scarlatti was stupid! The timing had been insane! Couldn’t Rawlins understand that she would have left letters behind, documents? She was far more dangerous dead than alive. At least until she’d been reached—as he had reached her, threatened her precious Scarlattis. Now, she could die! Now it wouldn’t matter. And with Bertholde gone, Rawlins gone, and Thornton about to be killed, there’d be no one left who knew who he was. No one! He was Heinrich Kroeger, a leader of the new order!

  They pulled up at L’Auberge des Moineaux, a small restaurant with a buvette and lodgings for the traveler or for those desiring privacy for other reasons. For Scarlett it was the appointed meeting place.

  ‘Take the car down the road and park it,’ he told Kircher. ‘I’ll be in one of the rooms. Have dinner. I’ll call for you later—I haven’t forgotten my promise’ Kircher grinned.

  Ulster Scarlett got out of the car and stretched. He felt better, his skin bothered him less, and the impending conference filled him with a sense of anticipation. This was the kind of work he should always do! Matters of vast consequences. Matters of power.

  He waited until the car was far enough down the street to obscure Kircher’s rear-mirror view of him. He then walked back, away from the door, to the cobblestone path and turned into it. Misfits were never to be told anything that wasn’t essential to their specific usefulness.

  He reached an unlighted door and knocked several times.

  The door opened and a moderately tall man with thick, wavy black hair and prominent, dark eyebrows stood in the center of the frame as if guarding an entrance, not welcoming a guest. He was dressed in a Bavarian-cut gray coat and brown knickers. The face was darkly cherubic, the eyes wide and staring. His name was Rudolf Hess.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Hess motioned Scarlett to enter and close the door. The room was small; there was a table with chairs around it, a sideboard, and two floor lamps, which gave the room its light. Another man who had been looking out the window, obviously to identify the one outside, nodded to Scarlett. He was a tiny, ugly man with bird-like features, even to the hawknose. He walked with a limp.

  ‘Joseph?’ said Scarlett to him. ‘I didn’t expect you here.’

  Joseph Goebbels looked over at Hess. His knowledge of English was poor. Hess translated Scarlett’s words rapidly and Goebbels shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I asked you where you have been!’

  ‘I had trouble in Lisieux. I couldn’t get another plane so I had to drive. It’s been a long day so don’t aggravate me, please.’

  ‘Ach! From Lisieux? A long trip. I’ll order you some food, but you’ll have to be quick. Rheinhart’s been waiting since noon.’

  Scarlett took off his flying jacket and threw it on the sideboard shelf. ‘How is he?’

  Goebbels understood just enough to interrupt. ‘Rheinhart?… Im-pa-tient!’ He mispronounced the word, and Scarlett grinned. Goebbels thought to himself that this giant was a horrible-looking creature. The opinion was mutual.

  ‘Never mind the food. Rheinhart’s been waiting too long—-

  Where is he?’

  ‘In his room. Number two, down the corridor. He went for a walk this afternoon but he keeps thinking someone will recognize him so he came back in ten minutes. I think he’s upset.’

  ‘Go get him—And bring back some whiskey.’ He looked at Goebbels wishing that this unattractive little man would leave. It wasn’t good that Goebbels be there while Hess and he talked with the Prussian aristocrat. Goebbels looked like an insignificant Jewish accountant.

  But Scarlett knew he could do nothing. Hitler was taken with Goebbels.

  Joseph Goebbels seemed to be reading the tall man’s thoughts.

  ‘Ich werde dabei sitzen wahrend Sie sprechen.’ He pulled a chair back to the wall and sat down.

  Hess had gone out the corridor door and the two men were in the room alone. Neither spoke.

  Four minutes later Hess returned. Following him was an aging, overweight German several inches shorter than Hess, dressed in a black double-breasted suit and a high collar. His face was puffed with excess fat, his white hair cropped short. He stood perfectly erect and in spite of his imposing appearance, Scarlett thought there was something soft about him, not associated with his bulk. He strutted into the room. Hess closed the door and locked it.

  ‘Gentlemen. General Rheinhart.’ Hess stood at attention.

  Goebbels rose from the chair and bowed, clicking his heels.

  Rheinhart looked at him unimpressed.

  Scarlett noticed Rheinhart’s expression. He approached the elderly general and held out his hand.

  ‘Herr General.’

  Rheinhart faced Scarlett, and although he concealed it well, his reaction to Scarlett’s appearance was obvious. The two men shook hands perfunctorily.

  ‘Please sit down, Herr General.’ Hess was enormously impressed with their company and did not hide the fact. Rheinhart sat in a chair at the end of the table. Scarlett was momentarily upset. He had wanted to sit in that particular chair for it was the commanding position.

  Hess asked Rheinhart if he preferred whiskey, gin, or wine. The general waved his hand, refusing.

  ‘Nothing for me, either,’ added Ulster Scarlett as he sat in the chair to the left of Rheinhart. Hess ignored the tray and also took his seat. Goebbels retreated with his limp to the chair by the wall.

  Scarlett spoke. ‘I apologize for the delay. Unforgivable but, I’m afraid, unavoidable. There was pressing business with our associates in London.’

  ‘Your name, please?’ Rheinhart interrupted, speaking English with a thick Teutonic accent.

  Scarlett looked briefly at Hess before replying. ‘Kroeger. Herr General. Heinrich Kroeger.’

  Rheinhart did not take his eyes off Scarlett. ‘I do not think that is your name, sir. You are not German.’ His voice was flat.

  ‘My sympathies are German. So much so that Heinrich Kroeger is the name I have chosen to be known by.’

  Hess interrupted. ‘Herr Kroeger has been invaluable to us all. Without him we would never have made the progress we have, sir.’

  ‘Amerikaner—He is the reason we do not speak German?’

  ‘That will be corrected in time,’ Scarlett said. In fact, he spoke nearly flawless German, but still felt at a disadvantage in the language.

  ‘I am not an American, General—’ Scarlett returned Rheinhart’s stare and gave no quarter. ‘I am a citizen of the new order!… I have given as much, if not more than anyone else alive or dead to see it come to pass—Please remember that in our conversation.’

  Rheinhart shrugged. ‘I’m sure you have your reasons, as I have, for being at this table.’

  ‘You may be assured of that.’ Scarlett relaxed and pulled his chair up.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen, to business. If it is possible, I should like to leave Montbeliard tonight.’ Rheinhart reached into his jacket pocket and took out a page of folded stationery. ‘Your party has made certain not inconsequential strides in the Reichstag. After your Munich fiasco, one might even say remarkable progress…’

  Hess broke in enthusiastically. ‘We have only begun! From the ignominy of treacherous defeat, Germany will rise! We will be masters of all Europe!’

  Rheinhart held the folded paper in his hand and watched Hess. He replied quietly, authoritatively. To be masters of but Germany itself would be sufficient for us. To be able to defend our country is all we ask.’

  ‘That will be the least of your guarantees from us, General.’ Scarlett’s voice rose no higher than Rheinhart’s.

  ‘It is the only guarantee we wish. We are not interested in the excesses your Adolf Hitler preaches.’

  At the mention of Hitler’s name, Goebbels sat forward in his chair. He was angered by the fact that he could not comprehend.

  ‘Was gibt’s mit Hitle
r? Was sagen sie über inn?’

  Rheinhart answered Goebbels in his own tongue. ‘Er ist ein sehr storener geriosse.’

  ‘Hitler ist der Weg! Hitler ist die Hoffnung fur Deutschland!’

  ‘Vielleicht fur Sie.11’

  Ulster Scarlett looked over at Goebbels. The little man’s eyes shone with hatred and Scarlett guessed that one day Rheinhart would pay for his words. The general continued as he unfolded the paper.

  The times our nation lives through call for unusual alliances—I have spoken with von Schnitzler and Kindorf.

  Krupp will not discuss the subject as I’m sure you are aware—German industry is no better off than the army. We are both pawns for the Allied Controls Commission. The Versailles restrictions inflate us one minute, puncture us the next. There is no stability. There is nothing we can count on. We have a common objective, gentlemen. The Versailles treaty.’

  ‘It is only one of the objectives. There are others.’ Scarlett was pleased, but his pleasure was short-lived.

  ‘It is the only objective which has brought me to Montbeliard! As German industry must be allowed to breathe, to export unencumbered, so must the German army be allowed to maintain adequate strength! The limitation of one hundred thousand troops with over sixteen hundred miles of borders to protect is ludicrous!… There are promises, always promises—then threats. Nothing to count on. No comprehension. No allowance for necessary growth.’

  ‘We were betrayed! We were viciously betrayed in nineteen eighteen and that betrayal continues! Traitors still exist throughout Germany!’ Hess wanted more than his life to be counted among the friends of Rheinhart and his officers. Rheinhart understood and was not impressed.

  ‘Ja. Ludendorff still holds to that theory. The Meuse-Argonne is not easy for him to live with.’

  Ulster Scarlett smiled his grotesque smile. ‘It is for some of us. General Rheinhart.’

  Rheinhart looked at him. ‘I will not pursue that with you.’

  ‘One day you should. It’s why I’m here—in part.’

  ‘To repeat, Herr Kroeger. You have your reasons; I have mine. I am not interested in yours but you are forced to be interested in mine.’ He looked at Hess and then over at the shadowed figure of Joseph Goebbels by the wall.

  ‘I will be blunt, gentlemen. It is, at best, an ill-kept secret—Across the Polish borders in the lands of the Bolshevik are thousands of frustrated German officers. Men without professions in their own country. They train the Russian field commanders! They discipline the Red peasant army… Why! Some for simple employment. Others justify themselves because a few Russian factories smuggle us cannon, armaments prohibited by the Allied Commission… I do not like this state of affairs, gentlemen. I do not trust the Russians… Weimar is ineffectual. Ebert couldn’t face the truth. Hindenburg is worse! He lives in a monarchial past. The politicians must be made to face the Versailles issue! We must be liberated from within!’

  Rudolf Hess placed both his hands, palms down, on the table.

  ‘You have the word of Adolf Hitler and those of us in this room that the first item on the political agenda of the National Socialist German Workers party is the unconditional repudiation of the Versailles treaty and its restrictions!’

  ‘I assume that. My concern is whether you are capable of effectively uniting the diverse political camps of the Reichstag. I will not deny that you have appeal. Far more than the others… The question we would like answered, as I’m sure would our equals in commerce. Do you have the staying power? Can you last? Will you last?… You were outlawed a few years ago. We cannot afford to be allied with a political comet which burns itself out.’

  Ulster Scarlett rose from his chair and looked down at the aging German general. ‘What would you say if I told you that we have financial resources surpassing those of any political organization in Europe? Possibly the Western hemisphere.’

  ‘I would say that you exaggerate.’

  ‘Or if I told you that we possess territory—land—sufficiently large enough to train thousands upon thousands of elite troops beyond the scrutiny of the Versailles inspection teams.’

  ‘You would have to prove all this to me.’

  ‘I can do just that.’

  Rheinhart rose and faced Heinrich Kroeger.

  ‘If you speak the truth… you will have the support of the imperial German generals.’

  The Scarletti Inheritance

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Janet Saxon Scarlett, eyes still shut, reached under the sheets for the body of her lover. He was not there, so she opened her eyes and raised her head, and the room spun around. Her lids were heavy and her stomach hurt. She was still exhausted, still a bit drunk.

  Matthew Canfield sat at the writing desk in his undershorts. His elbows were on the desk, his chin cupped in his hands. He was staring down at a paper in front of him.

  Janet watched him, aware that he was oblivious to her. She rolled onto her side so that she could observe him.

  He was not an ordinary man, she thought, but on the other hand neither was he particularly outstanding, except that she loved him. What, she wondered, did she find so attractive about him? He was not like the men from her world—even her recently expanded world. Most of the men she knew were quick, polished, overly groomed and only concerned with appearances. But Matthew Canfield could not fit in to this world. His quickness was an intuitive alertness not related to the graces. And in other respects there was a degree of awkwardness, what confidence he had was born of considered judgment, not simply born.

  Others, too, were far more handsome, although he could be placed in the category of ‘good-looking’ in a rough hewn way… That was it, she mused; he gave the appearance both in actions and in looks of secure independence, but his private behavior was different. In private he was extraordinarily gentle, almost weak. She wondered if he was weak. She knew he was deeply upset and she suspected that Elizabeth had given him money to do her bidding. He didn’t really know how to be at ease with money. She’d learned that during their two weeks together in New York. He’d obviously been told to spend without worrying about sums in order to establish their relationship—he’d suggested as much—and they’d both laughed because what they were doing on government funds was, in essence, spelling out the truth. She would have been happy to pay the freight herself. She’d paid for others, and none were as dear to her as Matthew Canfield. No one would ever be so dear to her. He didn’t belong to her world. He preferred a simpler, less cosmopolitan one she thought. But Janet Saxon Scarlett knew she would adjust if it meant keeping him.

  Perhaps, when it was all over, if it was ever to be all over, they would find a way. There had to be a way for this good, rough, gentle young man who was a better man than any she had ever known before. She loved him very much and she found herself concerned for him. That was remarkable for Janet Saxon Scarlett.

  When she had returned the night before at seven o’clock, escorted by Derek’s man Ferguson, she found Canfield alone in Elizabeth’s sitting room. He’d seemed tense edgy, even angry, and she didn’t know why. He’d made feeble excuses for his temper and finally, without warning, he had ushered her out of the suite and out of the hotel.

  They had eaten at a small restaurant in Soho. They both drank heavily, his fear infecting her. Yet he would not tell her what bothered him.

  They’d returned to his room with a bottle of whiskey. Alone, in the quiet, they had made love. Janet knew he was a man holding on to some mythical rope, afraid to let go for fear of plunging downward.

  As she watched him at the writing desk, she also instinctively knew the truth—the unwanted truth—which she had suspected since that terrible moment more than a day ago when he had said to her, ‘Janet I’m afraid we’ve had a visitor.’

  That visitor had been her husband.

  She raised herself on her elbow ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Oh Morning, friend.’

  ‘Matthew, are you afraid of him?’

  Canfield’s s
tomach muscles grew taut.

  She knew.

  But, of course, she knew.

  ‘I don’t think I will be when I find him.’

  ‘That’s always the way, isn’t it. We’re afraid of someone or something we don’t know or can’t find.’ Janet’s eyes began to ache.

  ‘That’s what Elizabeth said.’

  She sat up, pulling the blanket over her shoulders, and leaned back against the headrest. She felt cold, and the ache in her eyes intensified. ‘Did she tell you?’

  ‘Finally. She didn’t want to. I didn’t give her an alternative—She had to.’

  Janet stared straight ahead, at nothing. ‘I knew it,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Of course you are—But you don’t have to be. He can’t touch you.’

  ‘Why are you so sure? I don’t think you were so sure last night.’ She was not aware of it, but her hands began to shake.

  ‘No, I wasn’t… But only because he existed at all… The unholy specter alive and breathing—No matter how much we expected it, it was a shock. But the sun’s up now.’ He reached for his pencil and made a note on the paper.

  Suddenly Janet Scarlett flung herself down across the bed. ‘Oh, God, God, God!’ Her head was buried in the pillow.

  At first Canfield did not recognize the appeal in her voice, for she did not scream or shout out and his concentration was on his notes. Her muffled cry was one of agony, not desperation.

  ‘Jan,’ he began casually. ‘Janet!’ The field accountant threw down his pencil and rushed to the bed. ‘Janet!… Honey, please don’t. Don’t, please. Janet!’ He cradled her in his arms, doing his best to comfort her. And then slowly his attention was drawn to her eyes.

  The tears were streaming down her face uncontrollably, yet she did not cry out but only gasped for breath. What disturbed him were her eyes.

  Instead of blinking from the flow of tears, they remained wide open, as if she were in a trance. A trance of horror.

  He spoke her name over and over again.

  ‘Janet. Janet. Janet. Janet…’

  She did not respond. She seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the fear which controlled her. She began to moan, at first quietly, then louder and louder.